For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. And we men would work for them and serve them in loyal fealty. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend. “I wonder,” she said, “how much you care. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. The visitors, when they entered, looked thoroughly intimidated and Everett concealed a grim smile. Proof that the scoundrel had risen from the dead—for he was dead to his father! He glared at the female whose appearance in England had revived those painful memories—churning unbearably since Brewis Charvill had brought him the news and put him in the worst of tempers—and the fury spilled out. It would be the culmination of her plan. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. There is no future for me here. A nine days’ wonder is soon forgotten.
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