"I was very young," Sir Wesley said, as if reaching for an excuse.

"You are past your majority now, though," Stephen said. "She needs a friend, Young. She needs someone of her own who will love her unconditionally."

"Miss Haytor – " Young began. He had the decency not to complete the thought.

"Yes," Stephen said. "Miss Haytor is her friend. She is not family, though. Neither is she a man."

Young moved restlessly in his seat, but he would not look at Stephen opposite him.

"The young lady who was with you in the park," Stephen said. "I do not have an acquaintance with her, I'm afraid."

"Miss Norwood," Young said.

"Do you still have hopes of marrying her?" Stephen asked.

"She was indisposed when I arrived to escort her to a garden party yesterday afternoon," Young said with a twisted smile. "She was expected to be indisposed for some days to come. I saw her at Vauxhall last evening, though, looking in perfect health. She was with her parents and Viscount Brigham."

"Then I would say," Stephen said, "that you had a fortunate escape.

There will be those members of the /ton/ who will respect you far more if you stand staunchly by your sister than if you pretend you do not even know her. And of course there will be those who will not. Which group would you rather impress?"

He got to his feet to leave.

"What is your interest in Cassie?" Young asked him, keeping his seat.

"Is she your mistress?"

"Lady Paget," Stephen said, "is in dire need of a friend. I am her friend. And although I know from her own lips that she had motive more than sufficient to kill the bastard who was her husband, something tells me she did not do it. I know nothing about the circumstances of his death beyond the fact that he was shot with a pistol, /not/ hacked to pieces with an axe. But I will tell you this, Young. Even if at some time I discover beyond all doubt that it /is/ true, that she /did/ shoot him, I will still be Lady Paget's friend. He /was/ a bastard. Did you know that she had two miscarriages and one stillbirth, none of them necessary?"

Young looked directly at him then, the color draining from his face.

Stephen did not wait for him to say anything. He took up his hat and cane from just inside the door and let himself out of the dingy parlor and out of the rooming house.

Well, how was /that/ for interfering in lives that were really none of his business?

He found his steps leading him toward Portman Street and Cassandra's house. He had no idea why. Perhaps he needed to confess what he had just done. She would, he suspected, be furious with him, and she had every right to be. But was he sorry? He was not. He would do it again given the chance.

And did he /really/ believe Cassandra was innocent of murder? And even of the lesser crime of killing in self-defense? Was it just wishful thinking on his part?

She was not at home. It was almost a relief.

"She has gone out with Miss Haytor, my lord," the maid told him.

"/Ah/," he said. "Some time ago?"

"No, my lord," she said. "Just this minute."

But there was no sign of her in either direction along the street. She would not be back soon, then.

"Mary," he said, "may I have a word with you?" /Now/ what the devil was he up to?

"With me?" Her eyes grew saucer-wide, and she touched a hand to her bosom.

"Can you spare me a few minutes?" he asked her. "I will not keep you long."

She stood back from the door to admit him, and he gestured toward the kitchen. She scurried ahead of him.

He noticed in passing that there was a distinctive gilt-edged card propped against a vase on the hall table, with Lady Paget's name written on it in an elegant hand. It was an invitation to Lady Compton-Haig's ball the following evening. He had a duplicate addressed to him on the desk in his study.

It was beginning to happen for her, then? She was beginning to be accepted into society?

The child was sitting on the floor beneath the kitchen table, the dog stretched out at her feet. He raised his eye to Stephen and thumped his tail lazily on the floor but did not otherwise move. The child was singing softly to her doll, which was wrapped in its white blanket. She was rocking it.

Mary turned to face Stephen, and it occurred to him that she really was rather pretty in a thin, pale sort of way. She had fine eyes, and the color his presence had put in her cheeks became her.

"Mary," he said, and realized he could not ask what he most wanted to know. She probably did not have the answer, anyway. He felt suddenly foolish. "What happened to the dog?"

She looked down and twisted her apron.

"Someone," she said, "a-a /stranger/, was trying to beat Lady Paget out in the stables, and Roger tried to defend her. He did too – she was not near so badly beat up as she usually – As might have been expected. But Lord – But the strange man caught hold of a whip and whipped the dog so vicious that he lost the sight of his eye and lost the tip of his ear, and his leg was crushed so bad that part of it had to be cut off."

"Crushed with a whip?" Stephen asked.

"With a – a shovel, I think," Mary said.

"And did this stranger – or Lord Paget – get hurt too?" Stephen asked.

She darted him a glance before returning her attention to her apron.

"He got bit something fierce, my lord," she said. "In his arms and legs and on the side of his face. He took to his bed for a whole week before he could get up and go about his business. Lord Paget, I mean. When he went rushing to her rescue, that was. I don't know what happened to the strange man. He must of escaped."

Stephen wondered if she would think back and wince at the gaping holes in her story.

"The head groom wanted to put Roger down," Mary said. "He said it was the kindest thing to do. But Lady Paget had the crushed part of his leg took off and then carried him to her own room, and she kept him there until he was better, though none of us but her thought it would happen.

Lord Paget never said he was to be put down though we was all expecting it. Roger must not of recognized him when he came to the rescue and attacked him too."

Stephen set a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

"It is all right, Mary," he said. "I know. Lady Paget told me herself.

Not about Roger, but about the rest of it. She did /not/ tell me about Lord Paget's death, but I will not try to squeeze that story out of you."

Yet it was what he had come inside to ask, he realized.

"I am sorry if I have caused you distress," he added.

"She didn't do it," she whispered, her eyes like saucers again, her cheeks suddenly pale.

He squeezed a little harder before releasing her.

"I know," he said.

"I worship her," she said stoutly. "Did I do wrong coming here with her?

I cook and clean for her and do everything I can, but did I bring shame on her by coming? And did I add a burden on her because she has to feed me and Belinda? I know she feels obliged to pay me. I know she don't have no money – or didn't until – " She stopped abruptly and bit her lip.

"You did right, Mary," he said. "Lady Paget needs someone to look after her, and it appears to me as if you do that very well indeed. And she needs friends. She needs love."

"/I/ love her," she said. "But I am the one who caused her all the trouble in the end. It was all my fault."

She threw her apron over her face, and Belinda stopped rocking her doll and looked up.

"No, this has been my fault," he said. "I ought not to have come in to pester you with questions. How is Beth today, Belinda? Is she sleeping?"

"She is being naughty," she said. "She wants to play."

"Does she?" he said. "Perhaps you ought to play with her for a little while, then, or tell her a story. Stories often put babies to sleep."

"I'll tell her one, then," she said. "I know one. She has just eaten, and if I play with her she may be sick."

"I can see," he said, "that you are a very good and wise mother. She is fortunate."

He turned his attention back to Mary, who was smoothing her apron down over her skirt again.

"I have kept you long enough from your work – or perhaps from your leisure hour," he said. "And I am sorry about the questions I asked. I am not usually so inquisitive about other people's business."

"Do you care for her?" she asked.

"Yes." He raised his eyebrows. "I am afraid I do."

"Then I forgive you," she said, and blushed hotly. "Will you be offended," he asked her, "if I leave you money to take Belinda to Gunter's for an ice when you have free time one afternoon? No child should go through life without that experience. No adult either."

"I got money," she said.

"I know." He smiled. "But it would give me pleasure to treat Belinda – and you."

"Very well, then," she said. "Thank you, my lord."

He took his leave after setting down some coins on the table – just enough for two ices – and hurried from the house. He made his way homeward even though there was still plenty of the afternoon left. He was in no mood for any of his usual pursuits. He did not even consider going to the races after all, though he would not have missed very much.

He tried to think of all the young ladies with whom he usually liked to dance and converse, even flirt in a mild sort of way.

He could scarcely bring one face to mind.

If memory served him correctly, he had not yet reserved even one set with anyone for tomorrow's ball. /She/ had been to blame for what had happened at the end, Mary had just said. For Paget's death, he had taken her to mean. And she had been quite adamant that Cassandra had not done it.