“Perhaps you can explain.”

“Because I know your race,” Fairfield growled. “You’re weak and you’ll take ten wives and if you die, you’ll force my niece to burn herself on your funeral pyre.”

“Yes,” Anjan snapped back. “Because it would be so much better to let her have no husband at all, to burn her with pokers while she’s still alive, and to subject her to electric shock. You’ve no call to lecture me on that front, Mr. Fairfield. I, at least, have never hurt her.”

Fairfield swallowed. “That’s different. She was—is—ill. And…and…”

“And you made it worse. Did you know that I have only seen your niece cry once? It was when I told her that her guardian should treat her as a precious treasure.”

“But—”

“While we are discussing the matter, I suppose a few points of clarification are in order. Hindus believe in monogamy; I do not know a Hindu who has more than one wife. When my brother passed away, his wife mourned him, but she is still alive.” Anjan felt his hands shake with anger. “I don’t claim that my race, as you call it, is perfect, but I try.” He glared at the man. “I’ve seen Emily’s scars, and that’s more than you can say.”

Fairfield shrunk away from the anger in Anjan’s voice. “I meant well,” he whispered.

Anjan leaned forward across the desk until he was an inch away from the other man. “Mean better.”

Fairfield slouched in his seat. “I…” He looked around. “You…you’ve seen her scars?”

Anjan nodded.

“But they’re…”

Anjan nodded.

“She would have had to…remove a bit of clothing to show you them.” He looked perturbed, and Anjan decided not to mention that he hadn’t seen all of Emily’s scars. “You say that when Emily ran away, she went to you?”

“She did.”

“Then she’s…ruined. She has to marry.” He licked his lips.

There was no point clarifying the exact state of Emily’s ruination.

Mr. Fairfield didn’t say anything for a long while. His lips moved, as if he was arguing with himself…but at least he appeared to be arguing back. Finally, he straightened. “You’re Indian,” he finally said. “Doesn’t that mean that you have…special healing abilities? I think I remember hearing about them. Special…” He made a gesture. “Things. With stuff.”

Anjan had his degree in law from Cambridge—the exact same degree that Mr. Fairfield had earned. He wanted to laugh. He ought to have corrected the man.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I do things with stuff. How ever did you know?”

“Maybe this is for the best,” Fairfield said. “You might know of a whole range of cures that I have not been able to access. This might be the best thing for her after all.”

Anjan didn’t nod. He didn’t smile. “I’d be happy to try anything that seems like a good idea,” he said, and Fairfield looked pleased with himself.

“Good, good. But—just to make sure—we’re putting it in the settlements. No burning her alive.”

“Well,” Anjan said generously, “you do have to look out for your niece.”

The end came upon her so swiftly that Jane didn’t even realize she was looking at it until the moment had already passed.

The end came first in happiness—when Oliver’s inquiries were swiftly answered in the affirmative. There was a barrister named Anjan Bhattacharya. Addresses were discovered; messages exchanged via swift courier, and two hours later, Jane found herself at her sister’s hotel, flying into Emily’s arms.

Emily was nearly incoherent. She had just received a scrap of paper—a telegram—from Titus of all people.

“I can’t believe it,” Emily said. “I have no idea what Anjan said to him, but he agreed. I’m getting married! He won’t be my guardian anymore. It’s over.”

It was over. Jane laughed with her sister—and agreed to be her maid of honor—and hugged her and listened to her describe the difficulties of needing two marriage ceremonies.

She heard more about Anjan, too.

“You’ll have to meet him when he returns. You’ll like him, I promise. Oh, Jane, I’m so happy.”

There were details to be hashed through after that—details of settlements for Emily, her trousseau… These were happy details. Jane floated back to the hotel room she shared with Oliver.

He now had a second pile of paper in front of him. He kissed her, though, long and slow. “I’m glad that’s all settled,” he said, when she explained everything.

But he didn’t sound glad. And he didn’t meet her eyes when he said he had to get back to his work. It was all settled…and he’d only talked about this affair lasting until Emily was found and made safe.

Jane retreated to the dressing room to change her gown for dinner. The hotel maid had undone the laces of Jane’s gown when the knock came.

She heard the door open.

“Mr. Cromwell?”

Jane recognized the voice of one of the hotel staff, and hid a smile at the assumed name.

“Yes.”

“There’s a woman here to see you.”

“A woman?” Oliver asked. “I’m not expecting a…” He trailed off.

Jane was stripped to her corset. Even if she had been dressed, she could not have walked out into that room. To announce her presence in his room at a time like this… She might not care much for her reputation on her behalf, but his reputation still had some value.

There was a pause, the sound of footsteps. And then…

“Mother?” he said. There was another pause. When he spoke again, his voice had altered from swift and business-like to anguished. “Oh my God, Mother. What’s wrong?”

Jane motioned to the servant and sent her away through the smaller servants’ door. No maid needed to overhear this. Jane shouldn’t either, but she had no place to retreat to.

“I’m just glad I found you in time,” the woman—Oliver’s mother—said. “The duke said—well, never mind. I can’t really think—Oliver, listen to me, I can’t get a straight sentence out of my mouth. It’s just…”

“Take a deep breath. Take your time. Tell me.”

The other woman’s voice broke. “It’s Freddy.”