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Richard had known what to do. The moment the pursuit had died away he had disappeared into the maze of London streets until he found a gamin willing to carry a message, and told the boy to bring a reply immediately, even if it were merely a single word in the negative. 

Then, after washing the blood from in face with the water of a local pump, he had lurked and loitered, jumping at every passing and call of the Watch, waiting for his godfather to send that fatal word, to cut him off and leave him entirely friendless in the world.

More than anyone else, Mr Rainworth had been Richard’s guide in life, manner, and habit. It was he who had taught Richard the ways of the financial world, his influence which had recommended Richard for every role, employment, and promotion he had received in his life. Almost paternal, he had guided Richard through his penury, never distributing anything as simple, or condescending as a hand-out – but generous in advice, drawing Richard’s eye to opportunities, manners, habits, that would guarantee his preferment. 

But such kindness had not come without authority.

Richard’s own genial, expansive father had never inspired within him the fear that Mr Rainworth engendered – but by the same measure, neither had his praise meant quite so much. As a boy, Richard had been taken twice a year to Mr Rainworth’s house in Town, and, standing on the carpet of his godfather’s study, had reported in halting, childish terms his progress in mathematics, Latin, and Greek. He had spoken of his successes – academic, sporting – and waited for the grave assessment, the inevitable criticism, and, if he were fortunate, the bestowal of a tip. 

As the years had passed, as Richard’s childish awkwardness passed, as his schoolmasters had trusted him with authority, or later, as he had made his way in his career, the interviews lost some of their dread. 

Now, though, he might have been nine years old again, fearing the judgement of those cold, level eyes. 

He was a wreck, bloodied and disordered, fresh from a duel with a man of better class – the very man Mr Rainworth had so often warned him against. Richard washed his face once more, scraped the mud out from under his nails.

Not enough.

He was so far from what he should be that he would not have blamed his godfather for cutting him off entirely.

Instead, at length, the gamin returned and handed him a missive full of precise instructions and sensible guidance. 

The main thrust of which were that he was to journey north, to the village of S---, and  wait in the yard of the Red Lion there on the morning of the 28th of September. 

Therefore, Richard set off on foot, leaving London, following mile-stones where he might and the sun when he might not. He avoided the busy highways where Bow Street Runners might lurk, where people might ask questions about his draggled appearance or – shame of shames – offer him alms in his penury. 

To live, he had pilfered like a schoolboy: raw eggs, bread from windowsills. He slipped through open garden doors and filled his pockets with radishes, carrots, herbs. He was hungry constantly, craving the savour of meat, the weight of bread in his stomach. Sometimes, at night, he would pass the camps of travellers and the scent of their rabbit stew – food he would once have scorned – drove him wild with need.

The journey was long, rambling, and he was afraid to take too direct a route, afraid to spend too long in a single place. At first he marked the days in his mind, keeping them as a constant in his head until  - terrified of losing track - he noted them down upon in his pocketbook, with a scrap of pencil lead.

So, the weeks passed. So, he marked every sunset. So, he hungered.
And so he hated.