Isabella smoothed down the silk skirts of Arabella's dress. She had never worn anything so fine before in her life, but, even though the dress was just a little loose, she felt like it was strangling her. On the carriage seat opposite, Edwina sat looking very composed and perhaps just a little pleased with herself.

"He will know," Isabella repeated, for the hundredth time since their carriage had set off from the Garvey's Hertfordshire home. "He will know as soon as he sees me."

"Nonsense. I have told you, he'll have no idea. Just don't look scared. Arabella never looks scared."

Isabella bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling. They were in the outskirts of London now, and could not be far from Mr Locke's house, though the carriage had slowed to a crawl in the crowded streets. Isabella had never seen so many people before in her life. Every one of them, no matter how finely dressed or handsome, looked somehow dirty. Perhaps it was because the dust of the streets was coming up under the carriage wheels. Even with the glass up, Isabella could smell horse manure and sewerage seeping into the air of the carriage. She envied Edwina's lavender nosegay.

When they reached Bloomsbury Square, where Mr Locke lived, Isabella was relieved to find it seemed slightly cleaner than the rest of London. An imposing facade of grand, pale buildings, all very much alike, looked out over a flat fenced lawn. Mr Locke's house was a dour-looking yellow brick building towards one corner of the square. Their groom banged the knocker, and when a butler opened the door, Edwina elbowed Isabella in the waist.

As she had been coached, Isabella swept, or tried to, up the whitewashed front steps and through the open door.

"My sister is just visiting, White," Isabella said to the butler. "The carriage will wait for her."

"Welcome home, madame," White said, bowing.

Isabella opened her mouth to say hello and then shut it. Of course Arabella would not say hello to a butler. Isabella did not think even ordinary people said hello to their butlers.

Edwina stalked off down the hall, and Isabella scurried after her. A carpeted staircase occupied one side of the hall, on the other was a wooden door.

"Locke's study," Edwina said in a low voice. "You'll never need to go in there."

Further down the hall, under an archway, was a set of painted double doors. "Dining room," Edwina muttered as she passed it. Beyond that was the last door of the downstairs hall, which Edwina opened. It led to a narrow room lent cheer by yellow wallpaper and a fire burning in the grate. It was rather cluttered too, with two settees and several matching chairs by the fire, and a work table and a desk by the windows.

"Arabella's sitting room," Edwina said. "She usually spends most of the day in here, but when people call — even me — she prefers to receive them upstairs in the drawing room. Don't forget that, if someone calls."

"Can't I just say I'm not at home?"

"I suppose, for now," Edwina said vaguely. "Come on, you'd better see the upstairs too."

They went back into the hall and up the stairs. On the floor above was the drawing room, stretching the width of the house and looking out over the square. Edwina didn't give Isabella more than a glimpse of it before hustling her onwards to the room behind, which was Arabella's bedroom, a vision in royal blue and gold.

"Locke's bedroom is on the floor above," Edwina explained, sitting down on Arabella's bed. "So don't go up there. Now, he'll be back later this afternoon, and he'll want you to be at dinner with him this evening, but after that, come to my house, and tell me how he was."

"What will I say to him?" Isabella asked.

"As little as possible, I think will be best. Arabella rarely talks to him at all. If he asks how you found the London season, you must say, 'Dull,' and if he asks why, you need only say that the people were stupid — Arabella thinks everybody is stupid. But he probably will not ask why. He perhaps will not ask anything at all."

"And you'll send an excuse for me tomorrow?" Isabella said. "Perhaps one night I can manage it, if he really does not see much of me, but no more."

"Once you have the money to pay mother's debt, I'll make sure to get you out of here."

"It feels very wrong to ask him for that money, Edwina. This all feels wrong, but that feels worst of all."

"It would be in Arabella's character to ask for it. Besides, if you do not, we will be as good as ruined. Remember that."

Isabella smoothed down Arabella's dress again and looked around the bedroom. Despite the thick-piled carpet beneath her feet, and the softness and delicacy of the furnishings, the room felt suddenly like a cage. She did not think she could ask Mr Locke for money, and then come back to this room and sleep in it.

"Well never mind," Edwina said after a while. "We can talk about this later tonight. Now, I have to leave. Walter will be missing me." Edwina gave a crooked smile. "I must say, it is the one thing I have that Arabella does not — a husband, who misses me."

Edwina got up, and Isabella went to the door, but Edwina waved her back.

"Arabella never sees me off," she said. "Arabella always has the servants see people off — remember that."

Edwina left, shutting the door behind her. For a moment, Isabella stood in the centre of her new cage, feeling very lost and confused. Without Edwina there to guide her, she did not know what to do. At length it occurred to her that she ought to familiarize herself with her new surroundings, so that she did not betray herself by any display of ignorance or surprise. She set to methodically exploring Arabella's bedroom. The wardrobe and the chest revealed that Arabella had excellent maids, but on opening the drawers of the dressing table, Isabella discovered evidence that Arabella truly had inherited their mother's untidiness. That was another thing she would have to remember, Isabella thought, wiping a greasy lotion stain from her fingers; she mustn't pick up after herself while she was here.

With the contents of Arabella's bedroom catalogued, Isabella slipped back into the hall again. Another door off to the right revealed the luxury of a tiled bathroom. There was little to explore there, so Isabella went back to the drawing room. Whatever Arabella's faults, she had excellent taste. The pale lemon and sage colours made the room feel spring-like and airy, but despite the prettiness of the furnishings and the sun streaming through the windows, the room felt somehow cold. After a while, Isabella realized why: there was no evidence, from the perfectly ordered cushions on the settee to the new decks of cards stacked in the drawers of the card table, that anybody really lived here. It could just as easily have been a room in a hotel or club as a lady's drawing room.

Feeling uncomfortable, Isabella descended the stairs and went back into Arabella's narrow sitting room. Here, she felt more at home. The pigeon-holes of the writing desk were cluttered with papers, and there was a wax stain on the sewing table. It was evidence of life. Isabella sank down into one of the chairs by the window, away from the fire. Arabella had always liked a warm room, and it was stuffy in here. Well, she would have to put up with it for a little while at least. It might seem peculiar if she ordered the fire to be put out.

She sat there for some time, listening to the activity of the house around her. There were on occasion footsteps from above, or the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchens below. More strange to her were the noises of the city — horses whinnying, carriages rattling, or street sellers shouting their wares. Even at the back of the house, away from the street, it was not quiet.

Because of the noise, Isabella did not at first notice the knocker banging on the front door. By the time she realized what it was, servants' footsteps were already pattering towards it. Isabella crept to the sitting room door and cracked it open, peering through just in time to see the butler open the front door.

Isabella's first instinct had told her that the man waiting on the doorstep was Mr Locke, but as her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that it was no man at all but a woman. A friend of Arabella's? But White had his hand firmly on the door handle, as though about to close it.

"I'd like to speak to the lady of the house," said the woman on the doorstep.

"I will see if she is at home."

"I can see she's at home. She's skulking in the doorway behind you." The woman's voice rose. "Mrs Locke, how are you enjoying that dress? Not getting threadbare?"

Isabella looked down at her dress in confusion. It was a very pretty dress, quite new, and it must have caused Arabella some pain to have to leave it behind her when she ran off with Mr Haythorn.

"I mean it has been nearly a year since I made it for you," the woman continued, insinuating herself against the door frame as the butler tried to shut the door. "I'd be happy to make another one, you know... once you have paid for the first."

Comprehension dawned upon Isabella. She blushed, remembered Arabella would not, and stepped back into the shadow of the sitting room.

"Now don't you run away, Mrs Locke," the woman said, warding White off with the point of her umbrella as he tried to shoo her back off the doorstep. "I want to know when I'm going to receive my due."

"I'm not running away." Isabella tried to think of what Arabella would say. She would no doubt have a clever way of getting rid of this woman. It would definitely not be in Arabella's character to pay a debt merely because it was demanded of her.

It was, however, in Isabella's.

"I'll pay you today," she said.

A look of surprise crossed the woman's face, then she slipped past the butler's arm and positioned herself very firmly against the grandfather clock.

"I'll wait here," she said.

"Mrs Mercier—" White began.

"I'll wait," she repeated.

It occurred to Isabella now that she had no idea where Arabella kept her money. She did not even know how much the bill was. She stepped back into Arabella's sitting room and opened the top drawer of the desk. Within was a clutter of papers, ribbons, ink bottles, and wax sticks. Isabella sighed and shoved the drawer shut again.

There was a footstep behind her and she turned to see White in the doorway.

"Should I get rid of Mrs Mercier, madame?" he asked. "I can call upon the footman to assist me."

"No, no." Isabella anxiously smoothed back the locks of hair falling over her brow, remembered that was not how Arabella wore her hair, and rumpled them loose again. "Where does— where does one ever find anything in this house? My money. Find it for me and I'll get rid of her."

That seemed like a suitably Arabella thing to say. At any rate, White nodded and turned aside. Isabella went back into the hall where Mrs Mercier gave her a superior smile.

"I had sent you so many letters about the bill that I had begun to think you couldn't read," she said.

"I'm sorry," Isabella said, before she could stop herself.

Mrs Mercier blinked. "Are you quite well, Mrs Locke?"

"Quite well."

Uncertainty flitted across Mrs Mercier's face. "I do enjoy your custom, you know, but business is business."

"Oh, I understand."

Mrs Mercier fell into a flummoxed silence. The grandfather clock ticked loudly. Isabella clasped her hands behind her back and tried to look like she wasn't embarrassed.

White came back downstairs and handed Isabella an enamelled jewellery box. She opened it on the hallway table and started to root through the glinting coins within. It could not have been all of Arabella's money, for it was mostly shillings and half-crowns. Perhaps it was what she kept for giving vails to servants, or donations for the poor.

"How much was it again?" Isabella asked. "Four guineas?"

"Fifteen!" Mrs Mercier said indignantly. "And what will I look like, carrying all those coins down the street? No customer has ever paid me in pennies before."

"If you'll wait for Mr Locke to return, I'll pay you in notes," Isabella offered.

"No, I'll take it now," Mrs Mercier said hastily. "If there is fifteen guineas in there."

There was, though it left the box almost empty, and Mrs Mercier's reticule threatened to break with the weight of the coins within. She gave Isabella a sharp nod.

"I thank you for your custom, and I would be more than happy to create a dress for you again," she said.

Isabella could not commit to that on Arabella's behalf. "Perhaps you will one day," she said.

Mrs Mercier looked panic-stricken. White opened the front door wide and looked pointedly at her.

"Your bill has been paid, madame, and I think it is time for you to leave."

She did, with one last, confused, worried glance at Isabella. When the door was shut behind her, White looked at Isabella.

"I apologise for letting her in, madame."

"It's not your fault," Isabella said.

White's composed expression faltered into confusion. Isabella bit her lip.

"I mean," she stumbled, "that you cannot help being stupid. If you could, you would be more than a butler. But do not do it again, White. I might be disappointed a second time."

"Very well, madame," he said, and clicked his heels and left.

Isabella retreated upstairs to the drawing room, where she paced up and down trying to cool her heated cheeks. She was never deliberately cruel to anybody, and to have said what she had said to White filled her with a particularly painful sort of shame. But Arabella could never be patient with other people's mistakes, and would never have so readily accepted such an apology from a servant. It would have been better, Isabella realized, to have said nothing at all, to have raised her nose and left the room in silence. That was something Arabella might do, and it was not so cruel. No, from now on, Isabella would take refuge in silence.

As she decided it, the door knocker rang out again. A moment later, there came the sound of footsteps and movement from the hall below. The gravelly tones of a man's voice floated up the stairwell and through the drawing room door. This had to be Mr Locke. Her heart pounding, Isabella went to the mirror and checked her reflection once more. Somehow, without her noticing, the locks of hair that Arabella always wore around her face had been brushed up and back again. She hastily disarranged them once more. There. Now she looked like Arabella — all except for the anxious expression in her eyes. She blinked and then frowned, but she could not get rid of it. Mr Locke would know, she thought. He must know, surely. Arabella was his wife. It didn't matter how similar they looked, he would sense a difference as soon as she spoke. As soon as he met her eyes.

"Narcissus drowned that way, don't you know?"

The voice spoke low from behind her. Isabella jumped and turned. A man stood only a few feet away, his hands in the pockets of his coat, his head tilted to one side as he scrutinized her. She, in her surprise, scrutinized him back. He was tall and broad, with dark hair brushed back from a pock-scarred face, and low, rather glowering black brows. Beneath them, his eyes seemed to glitter, eyes of a peculiarly pale blue, made paler still by the blackness of the lashes that surrounded them. Isabella's heart skipped a beat.

It was a good thing she had decided to seek refuge in silence, for she could think of nothing to say. Frozen with fear, she stared at Mr Locke. He was meeting her eyes; he would know.

"Welcome home," Mr Locke said, in a soft, ironic tone. "Or even, Hello, dear, how nice to see you. What a lie that would be."

Isabella, confused and frightened, could think of nothing to do now but leave, and tried to do so as Arabella would — slowly, with her chin held high.

"I'd accept a comment on the weather," Mr Locke called out as she passed through the doorway. "Yes, it does look like rain, doesn't it?"

Isabella ignored him and started down the stairs. She had to force herself to keep her hand on the bannister and not over her heart.

There were rapid footsteps behind her, and then a warm, strong hand grasped her wrist and she found herself twisted around to meet the pale blue eyes barely six inches from her own. Isabella's heart beat so fast that she thought she might faint — only that would certainly give it away, for Arabella never fainted.

"Just one word," Mr Locke said. "Just one word is all I ask. Let it be an ugly one if you choose, but for God's sake, Arabella, don't just ignore me."

He did not know. He did not even suspect. Isabella's heart slowed.

"Please, my darling wife." The sarcasm in Mr Locke's tone was biting. "One word."

Isabella forced herself to speak. "Narcissus didn't drown."

The blue eyes widened. Then Mr Locke laughed and released her wrist.

"And so I get three! An embarrassment of riches! Oh, fortunate day!"

Confused and frightened, Isabella hurried away down the stairs before he could delay her again.

__

A/N: Finally we meet our hero. Who is not, in fact, very hero-like.