the fire, so vivid that it made her heart wrench even sitting here in this room with Alice. He had spoken not one word to her. Just set her down and walked away.
‘You’re pale as a ghost.’ Alice frowned in concern and took one of Venetia’s clenched hands in her own. ‘And cold as ice. It’s the shock setting in from last night. I came to tell you that an officer from Bow Street has called to speak to you about the fire. But I’ll tell him to come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better.’ Alice made to rise.
‘Please wait,’ Venetia said quietly and stayed her friend with a light touch to her arm. Her throat tightened. She knew Robert would act if she did not. And she knew what that would mean.
‘I’ll wait,’ Alice said calmly and sat back down by her side.
Everyone would know her secret. Everyone would know what she really was. She remembered the look in Linwood’s eyes as he had admitted setting the fire and the hatred in his voice when he spoke of Rotherham. And that he had known she was working to entrap him. Oh, God... There was not really any decision to be made.
Robert had been right—Linwood was guilty. Everyone who had warned her had been right—he was dangerous. And yet still she hesitated.
‘Venetia...’ Alice said softly. ‘The day’s almost done.’
Her heart turned over. The last grains of sand slipped through the hourglass. Time had run out for Venetia.
* * *
Linwood was in White’s, sitting with Razeby the next day, when the Bow Street officers came through the door. He knew before they even looked his way that they had come for him.
‘At last,’ he murmured softly and felt relief that it was finally over. There would be no more searching, no more questions or investigation.
‘Lord Linwood, you are under arrest, charged with the murder of his Grace, the Duke of Rotherham.’
He finished the last of his brandy from his glass, then got to his feet.
‘I say, you cannot just come in here and—’ Razeby started to protest.
‘Leave it, Razeby,’ Linwood said quietly. ‘These gentlemen are here with a job to do.’ He made no resistance as they placed the cuffs around his wrists.
‘Linwood?’ Razeby whispered and there was a look of shock in his eyes. The whole of the club was on its feet, watching while they led him out to the gaol cart. The buzz of voices gave way to an utter silence.
There was already something of a crowd waiting out on the pavement as they opened the black doors of the cart, placing him inside on the bare wooden bench like some common criminal. The straw that lined the floor was damp and dirty. The door slammed shut, the key scraping loud within it. There was the jangle of keys.
‘Francis!’ He heard the echo of shock in the familiar voice.
He turned his head to look through the bars of the tiny window and saw his father’s face there, grey and horrified.
‘Son?’ his father whispered.
And when he looked into his father’s eyes that were so like his own, he saw understanding.
* * *
Venetia got through the next days like an automaton. Life was going on around her. There was someone called Venetia Fox living in that house with Alice, but it was not her. Venetia Fox was safe, both the charade she presented to the world, and the real woman beneath it, or so she told herself again and again, except that it did not seem to make her feel any better. There was a sick feeling in her stomach that would not go away and a coldness in her bones that nothing seemed to warm. She lay in the bed each night and could not sleep. She ate and the food turned to sawdust on her tongue. The pile of books and fashion journals Alice brought lay in a neat pile untouched on the table. She sat at night and stared into the flames of the fire and could not stop thinking of Linwood.
Alice took her to Madame Boisseron’s and coaxed her to order a wardrobe of clothes to replace the ones lost in the fire, but the finest of silks were as sackcloth on her skin. She agreed to whatever designs Alice and the dress designer suggested. And when Madame Boisseron held a new green silk to her face and they placed her before the peering mirror, she could not bear to look at herself.
All the days seemed