Felicity had been so certain Scarlett would jump at the opportunity to help her that she hadn’t even considered what she would do if her friend refused.

Walking with the careful deliberation of someone trying desperately not to break, she kept her chin lifted and her gaze pointed straight ahead as two women strolled past, their parasols shielding them from the misting rain falling from a cloudy, nondescript sky. They glanced in her direction and she hated that her cheeks heated with shame even though she had nothing to be shameful for.

She had not asked for Rodger to rape her. She had not asked for Ezra to divorce her. She had not asked to be thrown out of her home. She had not asked to stumble across some poor woman with her throat slit ear to ear. She had not asked for any of it. And it wasn’t right. And it wasn’t fair. And if screaming or crying would have made it better than she’d have spent the rest of eternity shouting at the heavens and crying herself sick. By screaming and crying would not do anything other than make her throat sore and her eyes ache, and as she had enough problems to deal with – first and foremost being a distinctive lack of reliable friends – she did neither.

Let people stare. Let them whisper. Soon enough another scandal would take Society by storm and she would become nothing more than a very small fish in a very large, very dirty pond. Every once in a while someone would reel her in but they’d toss her back soon enough, allowing her to live in relative obscurity beneath the water’s murky surface.

Puddles from an early morning downpour covered both the pavement and the street, soaking her leather ankle boots and making her stockings squish as she made her way to Gracechurch Street.

She’d sent Henry and Anne to her mother’s at first light. Felix had been gone when they’d awoken, and although Owen had insisted they could remain at Bow Street for as long as they needed, she had not felt comfortable in the presence of so many strangers. Thus the children had gone to their grandmother’s and she’d gone to Scarlett’s, confident her dearest and oldest friend would be true to her word and offer them a place to stay until she managed to find another flat to rent. Preferably one that was not stained red with blood. But Scarlett, for reasons that bemused, had turned her away…and now, to use one of Felix’s favorite words, she didn’t know what the devil she was going to do.

Mrs. Atwood’s white Pomeranian heralded Felicity’s arrival with a series of short, yappy barks. It nipped at her heels as she made her way through the neatly appointed townhouse and into the parlor where her mother was enjoying a cup of tea while the children played with wooden blocks.

“That was a quick visit,” Mrs. Atwood noted. “Was Scarlett not in this morning? Mr. Darcy, come here. Come here, I said.”

With one last growling nip at the back of Felicity’s boot, the Pomeranian trotted across the rug and jumped into his mistress’s lap where he curled up like a cat, little black nose burrowing itself in the fluff of his tail.

“Silly thing,” Mrs. Atwood said with great affection. “Were you guarding the front door? You are such a good boy, Mr. Darcy.”

The teeth marks on Felicity’s ankle boots said otherwise, but she did not complain as she knelt down to kiss Henry and Anne on the cheek before she sat beside her mother and poured herself some tea. Slowly stirring in a spoonful of sugar, she considered the best way to approach a rather difficult topic.

She loved her mother dearly, and it was because of that love that she had not burdened Mrs. Atwood with the full extent of her plight. As far as her mother knew she and the children had been living in a cozy two-bedroom flat in the comfortable Hanover Square district. She knew this because it was what Felicity had told her.

The tiny white lie – which really wasn’t all that tiny, now that she thought about it – had been for her mother’s benefit. While she looked well today, Mrs. Atwood had been plagued with poor health since the death of her husband.

The doctor’s had given her every treatment imaginable, from vinegar baths to dipping her hair in amber oil, but there was no fixing a broken heart. And even though she managed to summon the strength to watch her grandchildren every once in a while, Felicity feared the toll it would take upon her health if they were all confined to the same house together.

But now that they truly had nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to, what else could she do but rely upon her mother and admit, even though it pained her greatly to do so, that she could no longer provide for her own children? That she could not give them even the most basic of necessities. That she was a failure as a mother.

Putting down her tea without having taken a single sip, she drew a deep breath. “There is something I must tell–”

“Someone is at the door,” Mrs. Atwood interrupted one second before Mr. Darcy let out a volley of barks and jumped off her lap.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Felicity asked.

“No. Not that I can recall.” Her brow furrowed. “Unless it’s Wednesday. It is my turn to host the Bridgeton Waverly Women’s weekly card game.”

Well that was certainly a mouthful. Felicity was glad the scandal that had ruined her name had left her mother’s good name unscathed. Mrs. Atwood was as active as she’d ever been, flitting from one social event to the next. If not for her health she could have easily passed for a woman half her age, but mourning Felicity’s father had taken its toll in more ways than one. She was at least one stone too thin, with more gray hair than brown and more lines on her face than smooth skin. Powders and creams softened the aging, but it did not stop it. Nothing could, Felicity supposed. In the end time took what it wanted from whom it wanted and there was nothing any of them could do to slow it down.  

“We can finally play whist again now that Lady Trembley has returned from holiday,” Mrs. Atwood continued. “Do you know she went all the way to Greece?”

“It is only Tuesday and no, I did not.”

“Well then I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Mrs. Atwood with a bemused shake of her head. “A solicitor, perhaps? They’ve been merciless over the past few days. I’ve told them I have all the silk fans I could possibly need, but do they listen? No. They do not.”

“I will send them on their way.” Rising, Felicity followed the sound of Mr. Darcy’s high-pitched whines into the foyer. The Pomeranian was scratching frantically at the door. When he heard Felicity approaching he flattened his ears and bared his teeth, but she merely nudged him aside with her boot and opened the door. “I am sorry, but Mrs. Atwood does not need any…more...” Her voice trailed away when she saw who was standing in front of her, a bouquet of lavender in each hand and a smirk twisting his mouth. “Mr. Spencer,” she sighed. “I should have known.”

“Miss Atwood.” He bowed forward and brought her hand to his lips. Grazing his mouth across the back of her knuckles, he lifted his head. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“You saw me just last night,” she reminded him. But it did warm her heart to think that he’d missed her.

She’d been careful to hide it from the children, but she had been disappointed when they’d woken this morning and he had been nowhere to be seen. Off on a case, Owen had said, and he’d given her the choice to wait, but she’d been too anxious to sit idly by. So Owen’s driver had taken Henry and Anne to their grandmother’s while she’d walked the short distance to Scarlett’s to ask her dearest friend – her only friend – a favor.

Fat lot of good it had done her.

“I could see ye every minute of every day and ye would still be a sight. I brought these for ye.” Felix offered her one of the lavender bouquets. Both pleased and flustered by the gesture – she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had brought her flowers – Felicity took the bouquet, but did not step away from the door or invite Felix inside.

“What are you doing here?” She regarded him quizzically, dark brows knitted above the tilted line of her nose. “This is my mother’s house.” 

He flashed her a grin. “Aye, I know. Did ye think I’ve been knocking on every door between here and Bow Street lookin’ for ye and finally happened to stumble across the right one?”

“No, of course not. I…I simply was not expecting to see you, especially here of all places. What do you want, Mr. Spencer?” Her throat tightened. “Is it – is it something to do with the events of last night? Has there been another victim?”

“Nothin’ like that,” he assured her. “We’ve no new leads, but every Runner in the city is out looking for the bastard. We’ll have him soon enough. I don’t way ye to concern yourself with it a moment longer.”

Easier said than done, Felicity thought silently. Her fingers tightened around the bouquet. She did not think she would ever get the woman’s screams out of her head, nor erase the sight of all that blood from her memory. But neither could she allow herself to dwell on the grim and the gruesome. God willing, the Slasher would soon be held accountable for his savagery and the women he had killed would finally be able to find peace, as would their families.   

“As for why I’m here,” Felix continued, “I wanted to see ye. As well as bring ye something pretty. Do ye like them? They reminded me of ye. They match your eyes,” he said gruffly.  

She brought the lavender to her face. Took a delicate sniff. “They’re beautiful. And they smell heavenly. But surely you did not come all this way just to bring me flowers. Which I should put in water before they start to wilt.” She started to reach for the second bouquet, but to her surprise he lightly slapped her hand away.

“Now don’t be greedy, love. This bunch is for your mother.”

He’d brought her mother flowers? But of course he had. If there was one thing she’d learned about Felix, it was that he was predictably unpredictable. From their first kiss to their last he had been surprising her at every turn. Why should today be any different?

“That – that was very considerate of you.” She bit her lip, hedging between inviting him inside to deliver the flowers in person or asking him to leave. Introducing him to her mother would be a very personal step in their relationship. But was it a step she was ready to take? Perhaps if she introduced him as an acquaintance…just to test the waters, so to speak. Wasn’t it always better to dip your toe in the ocean instead of plunging headfirst into the surf? If not better, then surely it was safer. Who knew what could be lurking beneath the restless waves? One would hope there was nothing but smooth silky sand. But on the off chance there was a shark, it was far better to lose one’s toe than one’s life.

Her mind made up, she opened the door wider and stepped to the side. “Won’t you please come in?”

“I thought ye would never ask.” He started to walk past her, then stopped short at the sight of Mr. Darcy sitting in the middle of the foyer waiting patiently for more feet to nip. Eyes wide, Felix took a step back. “I don’t know if ye mother knows this love, but there’s a giant rat in her house.”

“That is not a rat, that is Mr. Darcy, her Pomeranian.”

Felix snorted. “I know a rat when I see one and that thing is a bloody rat.”

“I can assure you he is not a rat.”

“Then what the devil is it?”

“I told you. He is a Pomeranian.” Not knowing whether to laugh or roll her eyes, Felicity did a combination of both as she gestured for Felix to come through the door. “I believe the breed originated in Germany.”

His eyes narrowed. “The Germans have always been sneaky bastards. I think they sold your mother a rat and made up a fancy name for it so she wouldn’t get suspicious.”

“Oh for heaven – do come inside, Mr. Felix. Or am I going to have to tell everyone you are terrified of a tiny little dog no bigger than a cat?” she challenged, one brow arching.

“Just keep it away from me,” Felix muttered as he walked past her and gave Mr. Darcy a long, hard look. Blinking, the Pomeranian tilted his head to the side and let out a little yip. “Bloody ‘ell! Look at its teeth!” 

Felicity brought a hand to her mouth to muffle a giggle. “You are being ridiculous. Mr. Darcy does not even bite. Very hard,” she added impishly, and could not contain her laughter when she saw a flash of something that very closely resembled fear in Felix’s eyes. “Why Mr. Spencer, I believe I’ve found your weakness.”

He tore his gaze away from Mr. Darcy to glower at her. “Everyone knows a rat will strip the flesh from your bones as quick as look at ye. Nasty, disease-riddled buggers. Only good rat is a dead one.”

“That may very well be true, but I can assure you if any harm comes to that dog, rats will be the least of your concerns. Shall we? The parlor is right through here. Come, Mr. Darcy.” She patted her thigh and the Pomeranian pranced past her, leading the way with his triangular ears pricked and his tail waving as if he were a miniature show pony instead of a yappy little ankle-biter.

As she pushed open the door to the parlor, Felicity was struck by an odd sense of familiarity, as if she had done this before. And in some ways she supposed she had, although not with Felix.

Eight years ago it had been Ezra who was shown into the parlor. Not by her, of course, and unlike Felix he’d actually been invited, but the similarities were still striking.

They’d both brought flowers. Felix with his bouquets of lavender, and Ezra with half a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses. They’d both come with the intention of courting her. And now that she thought about it, they’d both arrived at exactly half past eleven. Coincidence, she wondered, or fate? But what could fate possibly want with two men who had nothing in common and eight years between them? Eight years that might as well have been a lifetime for everything that had occurred from when Ezra had called upon her for the very first time.

It had been raining that morning as well, she recalled. But then rain and spring so often went hand in hand. It was the day after the Dunmore Ball and she had hardly slept a wink. Caught in the throes of her very first love, she’d stayed awake to count down the hours until she would see Ezra again. When he finally arrived and her mother summoned her into the parlor it had taken every ounce of control she possessed not to lift up her skirts and race down the stairs two at a time. 

Her first gentleman caller! How excited she had been. What she didn’t know – what she couldn’t know – was that Ezra would be her only gentleman caller. But at the time the only thing she was thinking about was how handsome he looked in his black tailcoat with his hair slicked back and his jaw freshly shaven.

He stood up when she entered the room, and her cheeks blushed with delight when he lifted her hand and brushed his mouth across the back of it.

“It is my deepest pleasure to see you again, Miss Atwood,” he said, his voice clear and crisp. “Your stunning beauty puts these roses to shame, but I beg you to please accept them as a token of my blossoming affections.”

Felicity’s blush spread from her face to her collarbone, but her impeccable manners did not fail her as she graciously accepted the flowers and dipped into a perfect curtsy complete with a demure chin tilt. “Thank you, Lord Ashburn. I shall treasure these always.”

“I am sorry my husband could not be here to receive you, Lord Ashburn,” Mrs. Atwood said once they’d sat by the front window, Felicity beside her mother and Ezra centered across from them in the middle of a striped chaise lounge. “His father is ailing, I am afraid, and he was called to his bedside early this morning.”

“I am terribly sorry to hear that,” said Ezra. “Please extend my wishes for a speedy recovery.” 

Mrs. Atwood nodded. “Thank you, my lord. I shall do that.”

A maid brought in a platter of refreshments, and over tea and scones they discussed a variety of topics from the weather to the opening of a new exhibit in the Leverian Museum. Named for Sir Ashton Lever, the museum boasted the largest collection of natural curiosities in all of England.

Any mention of politics was avoided, of course, as was anything that could be considered gossip. The rules governing polite conversation were quite strict, and both Felicity and Ezra adhered to every one while Mrs. Atwood looked on with a vague smile.

When it was time for Ezra to leave, Felicity accompanied him to the foyer and watched through the stained glass oval in the middle of the door as he walked to his carriage. Her heart fluttered in time with his steps, and before the black coach pulled away she fancied herself in love.

“What do you think?” she asked breathlessly when her mother rested her hand upon her shoulder and gently squeezed. “Isn’t he perfect?”

“No man is perfect, my dear. But,” Mrs. Atwood quickly added when Felicity frowned, “I can certainly find no fault in his character, and I can see how taken you are with him.”

“He is everything I could have ever hoped for. Do you think he will call upon me again?”

“I think he would be a fool not to, and Lord Ashburn does not strike me as a fool.” Mrs. Atwood waited patiently for her daughter to finish gazing out the window like a love struck fawn before she clapped her hands together and said, “Come along now. We have a fitting appointment to prepare for.”

Felicity gasped. “I completely forgot!”

Mrs. Atwood smiled. “I thought as much. Hurry along and change, my dear. I shall wait for you here.”

Giddy with thoughts of Ezra, Felicity did not notice how quickly her mother’s smile faded. Or the hardness in her eyes when she turned and stared out the stained glass window.