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Alone, Richard moistened his lips with wine. The chair was deep and comfortable. The fire warm. Richard’s eyes threatened to close, sleep pushing down at him, promising release from the tumult of his mind, from hunger and sorrow.

But who knew what nightmares lay in wait, which enemies might discover him if he outstayed the stated hour. Instead, he slapped his own cheeks, sipped water, and made himself look at the clipping which his godfather had left beside the chair.

The cheap paper was damp and rough between his fingers. It announced, in the usual high-blown terms, that Miss Serafina Tooting, daughter of Mr Albert Tooting, and Mrs Eloise Tooting (neé Lyons) was to be married to Lord Edward Valance, ninth Earl of Forthenby, and that she would do so before the month was out.

It was true, then. Teddy had seduced the one pure thing left in the world. Serafina, his Serafina, had betrayed him for that. 

Richard’s hand closed to a fist, crumpling the paper.

No.

She would not have done – how could he think it of her? She was not one to be won by such worthless, trivial things as Valance could offer. Something had swayed her, and if it was not love, or avarice, then it must have been some coercion, some threat, some underhand villainy.

He thought of Teddy, the night they had parted in Oxford, the pressure of that hand on his own, the grief and loss on that face, "Another drink, old man?"

Surely his Teddy would not be capable of such a thing? 

No.

How could Richard forget that 'his Teddy' was a lie, a fiction which Richard had used to deceive himself, to justify his own fall from grace. This was Valance, a man for whom no act was too base. Valance, who had no honour, no principles, nothing but glib charm and obscene wealth. 

Yet, if that was true, he also had no firmness, no spine, no ability to impose his will. Did he not recall the way Valance had knelt, lips trembling, choking out words that were wet with tears as he reached, reached for Richard’s prick.

Again, no.

None of that had been sincere. Nothing they had done together had never been more than Valance’s way of twisting the world to his own ends. Deceit made up the very fabric of his being. Who else could have summoned the Watch? Who else sanctioned the weight of the blow upon Richard’s back, the impact of the hard ground on Richard’s face, the taste of blood in his mouth? And how could he forget how calm, how steady, Valance had been in the face of it? Was he still a fool to be misled by Valance’s pretended rage, his mocking foolishness, his sham of triviality? 

There had been nothing foolish about how easily Valance held that gun, about the levelness of his aim, the steadiness of his hand. Nothing trivial about his ease in command, the masterful tone he had taken when speaking to his man, to Stevens and to Jackson.

He thought of his Serafina, weeping, as she told him of Valance’s advances.

How could he still be so taken in by the man?

Richard wished to tear the paper in to a thousand pieces, to cast it in to the fire and watch it blaze its way up the chimney. Instead, he uncrumpled it, folding it carefully so that the announcement was obscured. 

There was no need to be dramatic or rash. 

If he wished for revenge, he would need to be careful. He had delayed here too long. He must leave soon. 

Swift, without enjoyment or tasting a bite, Richard ate the remaining bread and meat, drank the glass of claret and the water. Then he stood and took the packet of papers from the mantle. Inside it was a pass-port made out in a name which was not his own, documents to get him passage on one of two ships, and a pair of letters of recommendation. He glanced through them. They appeared to be putting him forward for the role of some kind of clerk, describing him as a reliable man with a head for numbers. They made him out to be the son of a prosperous farmer, who had been giving a few years of education, and had proved himself trustworthy at a local branch of a certain banking house. The writer, it seemed, took an especial interest in his future, and wished to give him a chance to prove himself. 
Neither letter was signed by Rainworth himself.

In addition, there was a small number of banknotes, some gold, and a valise, which contained a razor, and two changes of clothes. 

With reluctant fingers, Richard lifted these from them case. They were suited to the character the letters created but, respectable as they might be, these were not gentleman’s clothes. 

Slow, Richard stripped himself of his soft linen shirt with its studs and cufflinks, his stock, his silk stockings. It did not matter to him that these things were soiled and ruined by the road. To remove them was to divest himself of everything which he had spent the last ten years working to regain. 

Which, no doubt, was Mr Rainworth’s intention.

The shirt was coarse against his chest, the collar prickling his neck, and all the fabric was musty and rough. He saw the practicality, of course. Everyone was looking for a gentleman, fleeing justice in a gentleman’s garb. Although this was hardly a farmer’s smock, it would offer him a modicum of camouflage upon the streets.

He transferred his watch to the pocket of the drab waistcoat, but placed the chain in the bag.

It might be worth his while to cultivate a beard. 

Beneath the clothing there were some more useful items – a water canteen, a penknife, a pocketbook and pencil. He nodded at the foresight. Trying to be worthy of it, he placed the documents into the pockets of his new outfit, and only the small change into his purse. He hid the rest of the money in various, less obvious places. With it, he concealed his cufflinks, his old clothes, and the scrap of newsprint with the details of the wedding upon it. Then, Richard hefted the bag on to his shoulder, ready to depart. 

As he did, a gleam of something silver caught his eye. 

There, forgotten, or left deliberately, was Valance’s gun, one half of the matched pair he had called his Forthenby Ladies. 

It was the gun which had doomed him, the single thing that would link him to that sordid affair, the thing which might betray him once again. 

It sat there, harmless and, to a naïve eye, beautiful.

Once, Valance had confided that he gave his pistols female names because nothing else was so pleasing to him. He had said the words with deliberate provocation, with every offense intended, and Richard had extracted penance for them. 

But to look upon the smooth, dark wood, the bright gleam, he could see how easy it would be to become besotted with such things. But they were not like women. No. Slim, beautiful, and treacherous, they were more like Valance himself. A weapon designed with no purpose beyond the dealing infamy and death.

With a thrill of disgust, Richard wanted to leave it here, to have no more of Valance and his depravity, to return to London and snatch Serafina in his arms, to take them both post-haste to Gretna Green and a swift marriage.

To do either of those things would doom him. 

The Forthenby arms tooled upon the gun would bring the whole business in to the open. Showing his face in London would be enough to hang him. 

No. What he should do was take the pistol and to bury it deep in the woods. Then he should go to the blacksmith and get a horse, ride to Portsmouth, and board a ship that would bear him over the sea to a new life in another country. 

Instead, Richard picked up the gun and slipped it under the cover of his coat. He would take that horse, but his destination was not Peshwar or Barbados. He would ride west from here, away from London and the past and all good sense. 

Toward Forthenby.