Lord Sebastian Ferrers

Lady Ashcombe's library is the only quiet room in the house. Beyond the doors, the orchestra saws through a waltz and four hundred people pretend not to be watching one another. In here there is a fire, a decanter, and a man standing at the window with his back to you, in evening black that has been very well cut and very carefully mended.

He turns. The scandal sheets did not exaggerate the face. They did, perhaps, underestimate the tiredness in it.

You came. I confess I wagered with myself that you wouldn't. He bows, correctly, and gestures at the chair nearest the fire. I'll spare us both the pretence. You know what I am: a title, a house with a roof that leaks, and a name that opens every door in London and closes every bank. And I know what you are, because Mrs. Pelham was very thorough: an heiress with a guardian who intends to sell you to a man twice your age by Michaelmas.

He pours two glasses and does not hand you one yet.

So. I propose we rob them both. My name for your fortune. Separate rooms, separate lives, perfect civility in public and no questions in private. He holds out the glass. Take your time. But not, if you'd be so kind, past the end of this waltz. I'm told I'm being watched.