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They rode back up the hill. “We must find something for the boy—Ewan,” he said finally. “Make a note. Find out where he is living, and whether he can read and write, and if he would like to be apprenticed somewhere. That sort of thing. He is making trouble because he is grief-stricken, and alone, and idle. We cannot have it. And Griffiths, I expect that report on plans for a village school next week.”

“Yes, your grace.”

West scrubbed his hand over his face and winced as he tried to find a comfortable position for his leg on the footstool. The ugly circular bruise that surrounded his swollen knee didn't seem to be spreading any further, while the one on his shin was now turning green, which meant that it was healing. But sometimes when he put his full weight on the leg—particularly when he was tired, as he was now—it threatened to give way under him.

He drew the book that he’d been reading off the table next to his chair. It was a geological study of the Shropshire hills, explaining the mineral properties of all the different layers of rock that might be found, and where they might be found, and which ones were most likely to occur in conjunction with each other. He’d also acquired a book on comparative coal mining methods, so that he could quiz the mine engineers from Yorkshire.

The study overlooked a broad terrace and a lawn that stretched toward the low ridge that marked the top of the hill. Beyond, the land dropped away to reveal a sprawling vista that stretched into Wales. It was a room of such ducal magnificence that it was embarrassing. The windows were framed in blue brocade curtains held back by elaborate gold silk ropes and tassels. West had had the most ostentatious of the cloisonne globes, Grecian urns, marble busts, gilt statuettes, and china figurines boxed up and carried off to storage, and had filled the shelves instead with ledgers and other useful books. But he still felt uncomfortable, as though he were merely camped in the room temporarily. The ornate gilt ormolu and porcelain clock on the mantel was, he thought, particularly hideous. It was also a constant reminder that the old duke had spared no expense for himself, while only a few miles away his tenants lived under leaking roofs.

He found himself beginning to smile, imagining what Pomona would say about that clock. Then he remembered that she might never see it. Before the disaster of their elopement, he’d felt as though it was the two of them against the world. And he’d ruined that, because he hadn't listened when she'd warned him that her parents would betray them if they went back to London.

And ever since fate had thrown them back together, he'd continued to make decisions about her life without taking her thoughts into account—and sometimes without even asking her first. He ought to have told her what her parents had done. He ought to have admitted that she'd been right all along.

If he had another chance with her… But no. He’d said that same thing to himself months ago. And then fate—in the unlikely form of Townley—had granted him that chance. And all he’d done with it was hurt her all over again. So no, he couldn’t write to her now to tell her about the mine collapse and the deaths of the boys, and the mystery of the missing letters. It would sound as though he were begging for sympathy, and inventing excuses for himself.

He took a deep breath. He didn't deserve to wallow in self-pity. And of course, there was nothing that he could do to bring Ewan Pitman's brother back. But he could send Mr. Eaton to look at the boy's injured leg. And then he would see about paying a family to take him in, and finding someone to teach him his letters until the village school that he was organizing could open, and...

It was time to light candles. He swung his sore leg off the footstool, limped to the desk, and got back to work.

Chapter Twenty-One

Pomona sighed and turned the page—not of a novel, but of a large book of fabric samples for the drawing room. She was sitting on the floor because there was no furniture.

Though most of the major repair work was complete, the number of decisions still required every day in the refurbishment of a house the size of March House was staggering. As she studied the choices before her, trying to decide between stripes of varying widths and colors with names like straw, jonquil, primrose and evening primrose, she wasn’t even certain how to tell them apart.

She turned a page and saw a pattern that she thought would do for the settees. She was about to make a note—Monsieur Mazarine was busy with an assistant in the dining room—when a footman appeared. “A caller, your grace. He says that he is an acquaintance of the duke, and must speak with you. He said that it is a matter of great urgency.”

“Thank you, Frederick.” She rose and took the card that he proffered. Sir Anthony Childs? She had no idea who he could be. “Very well.”

She followed the footman to the entrance hall, where a well-dressed middle-aged man was standing on the canvas drop cloths that still covered part of the floor, gazing upward. New pale blue paint and creamy plasterwork were now illuminated by the uncovered skylight above. Though it was still unfinished and the walls were bare, Monsieur Mazarine and his workers had indeed conjured airy elegance from what had been a dismal cave of an entrance.

“Your grace.” Her caller bowed deeply. “I apologize. We have not been introduced, of course. I can see that you are very busy here. I am Anthony Childs—an, er… political colleague of his grace, the duke.”

“I am afraid that the duke is at Castle March. He is not expected back for…” What could she tell him? “Several months.”

“I see.” He hesitated a moment. “Is there anywhere that we might speak more privately?”

“Let us step into the drawing room.”

Light was pouring through the uncovered windows onto the bare floor. In the dining room beyond, Monsieur Mazarine was forcefully waving his hands, directing workers who were hanging a curtain rod above one of the windows to move it slightly to the left. With a sigh, she shut the connecting doors.

“What great changes you have wrought here, Lady March." Sir Anthony glanced around the room.

She wasn't certain how to respond to this. "Thank you."

He rocked on his heels. "I shall come straight to the point. I regret that... well. Are you aware of recent events in Manchester?”

Manchester. Pomona felt stupid. She’d scarcely opened a newspaper in a week. “I believe that I read that the government was sending troops north to keep order?”

“So they said.” He lowered his voice. “Your grace, what I am about to tell you will not appear in the London newspapers until tomorrow at the earliest. I am confident that I may rely upon your discretion.”

She repressed a stirring of alarm. “Of course.”

“There has been an incident. Two days ago, a large number of citizens—many of them women—gathered in a public field to hear political speeches by some well-known reformers. Some of the soldiers had been drinking, and..." He broke off. "Well, it is not known precisely what began it. By one report, the crowd had been chanting the American revolutionary slogan—'Liberty or death.' The soldiers rode into the crowd. With swords drawn, and bayonets fixed."

She heard the words. But she couldn’t seem to make sense of them. There was a silence. “You cannot mean... Surely you do not mean that they attacked people?”

"Attacked? They murdered them. At least two dozen women, children and unarmed men. It was by every account a disgusting… a sickening…” He broke off, shook his head, and was silent for some moments. “Lady March, what I heard has shaken even me. For English soldiers to attack English citizens... Well. The prime minister fears that when the news reaches London, there will be a popular revolt. He has ordered more troops north. And the reason that I have come here, hoping to find the duke at home, is that”—