A week after the dinner at the Follets' house, James went to London with his father and Mr Follet to sign a betrothal contract. It was the first time James had been to London since the night he had been set upon and attacked. As their coach slowed through the crowded city streets, the discontent that had overshadowed James since his engagement darkened into resentment. This was where he belonged, amidst the crowds and excitement and happening, not in the staidness and respectability of Richmond. And Miss Follet certainly did not belong here — no, she was of the Richmond style, as over-pruned and orderly as the box hedges amongst which she had said to him, "James — may I call you James? I think we should marry."

He had no power to refuse. His father had seen to that. Even as he signed the contract in the dingy solicitor's office in Chancery Lane, James thought to himself that it might as well have been his father's hand and his father's signature. Angry, offended, and sorry for himself, as soon as they stepped outside into the dirty London air, James took off down the street without even knowing where he was going, except that it was not back to Richmond, not back to Miss Follet.

"What are you doing, James?" Mr Redwood called.

James turned back. "I'm... going to my club. Give me a bob for a drink?"

He did not expect his father to say yes, and so was not disappointed when Mr Redwood only scowled and hobbled to the carriage. Mr Follet, however, laughed and tossed a glittering object towards James who caught it one-handed. Not a shilling, a crown.

James stared at it in surprise. He had not suspected Mr Follet of generosity, nor, in fact, did he wish for generosity from such a quarter. Mr Follet was as much his enemy as his father and Miss Follet. James had asked for money because he knew it would antagonize his father, and the only reward he had wished for was the scowl on his father's face. Before he could protest, however, Mr Follet followed Mr Redwood into the carriage and the groom nudged the horses into a trot. There was nothing for James to do but keep the money.

Instead of going to his club, he walked to his Percy Street townhouse, which he had left in the care of his housekeeper-cook and her husband, having had to send away the maid-of-all-work when his father had cut his allowance. His housekeeper, Mrs Pollard, pressed him for details about his future and was relieved to find that James was to return to his townhouse by winter with his full allowance — and a bride.

"Your wife now, sir," she said, "she will be wanting to change things around, I suppose? Bring in new maids? Entertain?"

"I'm not really sure. I suppose so." He did not wish to think of it. "At the very least, Mrs Pollard, I promise you that your job is sacrosanct. Nobody can roast a beef neck the way you do. I would sooner not marry at all than lose you."

"Get on with you." Mrs Pollard grinned. "Your wife would not be pleased to hear you say that."

"I should hope she would have the good sense to see herself cautioned," James replied. "But we will make Miss Follet see her place."

"I'd think the woman who could make you marry her is quite the kind that can never be put in her place."

"Ah, but it is not the woman who makes me. It is my father."

Doubt crossed Mrs Pollard's face. "I hope you haven't been up to anything untoward."

"I am always up to many things untoward," James said. "However, as it happens, for once I am entirely innocent of all wrongdoing. I am the one wronged."

Mrs Pollard suppressed a faint noise in the back of her throat.

"No, really. I shan't bore you with the details, but I am the victim of persecution. And my father believes that Grace Follet shall be my protectress."

Mrs Pollard considered this carefully. "That sounds worse than untoward."

James sighed. "It is, it is, but not the way you think. You will understand when you meet her."

"Hmm." Mrs Pollard looked skeptical. "Well I wish you happy, Mr Redwood. And I'm sure she's a nice young lady, despite all your grumping. Now, I've got letters for you."

They were mostly bills, which James pocketed gloomily, but the last was from Locke, his best friend, who had, following a vicious divorce, fled to France with his new wife to hide from the scandal. Locke was yet another reason James feared marriage. The first Mrs Locke had been a cruel, avaricious woman who had hated Locke and made him suffer every day of his marriage to her. But the letter James read now spoke of nothing but happiness: lovely weather in France, a lovelier wife, and no intentions to return to England for a year or more. At any other time, James would have been happy to hear it. Now, he only wished that Locke was here so he could ask him for advice.

James stuffed the letter in his pocket and headed back out into the damp London streets, wondering what to do next. His usual confidante, when Locke was not around, was a certain Mrs Fortescue, who had once or twice been his lover. He might call upon her — she would have more sympathy for his complaints than Mrs Pollard — but something about having just signed his betrothal contract made him uneasy at the thought. Listlessly, he headed towards his club instead.

It was a shabby, unpretentious building on Piccadilly, little more than a dressed up inn. Here, James and other young men of his ilk gathered to pass the idle hours of their days. Sometimes they played cards or billiards, but only for the most unfashionably low sums. This early in the day, most of James's friends were still at home sleeping off the aftereffects of last night. He meandered through the parlours of the club, looking for a friend, but found none. Everyone was a stranger to him — or an enemy. Feeling more sorry for himself than ever, James sat down with an ale at a lonely table in the darkest corner of the dining parlour to dwell in his misery.

He was not alone long. A few moments after he sat, one of the men he considered an enemy, Herbert Oliver, came sidling in from the billiard room and crossed the room directly to James, the way a stray cat crosses an alley to the butcher's back door.

"Don't suppose you'll buy me a drink?" Oliver said lightly, insinuating himself into a chair.

"You suppose right," James said. "Run out of money again, have you?"

"Unlike you, we do not all have wealthy parents to pay our way in the world."

"Then we are more alike than you know. My father's cut me off."

Oliver's black eyebrows rose until his narrow brow almost disappeared into his hairline. "But really?" A smile spread over his face. "That is a tale. Go on. Tell me."

Ordinarily, James never had anything to say to Oliver that could not be said in two short, eloquent words. He hesitated, then, the need for sympathetic company getting the better of him, said, "Father wants me to marry. He has taken away my allowance until I do."

"Then there's a simple solution." Oliver bit his lip. "By the way, Redwood, are you aware that I have a sister? They tell me she's not unpretty, though I can't see it myself."

"I am aware," James said. "But you are too late. I am already engaged. Because a man must have new coats and other such pleasantnesses."

"So a man must." Oliver plucked at the fraying sleeve of his shirt with a sigh. "Who is the lucky lady?"

"Grace Follet." James glowered into his glass. "My father picked her out for me."

"Follet? I know her — in such a fashion as I am sure you will not believe."

"If I'm not going to believe it, then you might as well save your breath and not tell it."

Oliver was as unsquashable as oil and only shrugged. "Please yourself." He traced an ancient cup-stain on the table. "How old is Miss Follet anyway? Nearing thirty?"

"Twenty-five," James said. "I've no argument with her age."

"Then it's her looks that displease you. Not what I'd call attractive either. I never did like dark women."

"I've heard tell you'll like them any way they'll have you."

"If I cannot have champagne, I will not refuse wine."

James grimaced at the analogy and turned away. Oliver ignored the hint and remained in his chair as James sipped his ale and ruminated glumly on his circumstances. Eventually, his thoughts came to a conclusion which demanded utterance.

"She's just so dull. I can't imagine anyone wanting to marry her."

Oliver gave a long, low chuckle. "Your imagination is lacking. I know a man who was once engaged to her."

James twisted back towards Oliver. "You're joking."

"As I said, you would not believe how I know her."

James narrowed his eyes. He would not put it past Oliver to invent false rumours just to cause trouble. On the other hand, Oliver was a prodigious gossip with an uncanny ability for knowing things about people that they would rather he not. "I might believe you if you gave me evidence."

"I've none — but the matter was never a secret. The man in question is George Benson, vicar down in, oh, Somerset I think. I was at Oxford with him, until I was sent down." Oliver shrugged. "The church would not have suited me."

"I'll bet it wouldn't," James said. "Tell me about Benson. Was he really engaged to Grace?"

"Certainly. It was just after he was ordained. He could not get a living and so took up a curacy, which happened to be in Miss Follet's parish in Richmond. She and he were drawn to each other. They became engaged. It was to be true love. And then it didn't come off."

"When was this?"

"Some time ago. Five, six years I would say."

On balance, James thought it must be true. It did not seem sordid enough to be a lie, and Miss Follet was exactly the sort of woman curates did fall in love with. "I wonder what went wrong."

"Her father did not approve, and so Miss Follet backed out."

"That wouldn't stop you if you were really in love," James said thoughtfully. "Not unless you were very, very cold."

"Was she really in love? I know old Benson was. You know how bad those milksop men get it when they finally find a woman who'll give them the time of day. Over heels and under water. He was in the pits when she cried off."

"Tragic," James said without caring. He had never been in the pits for any woman. "I would like to know if she was in love. On balance, I think she can't have been. She has that air."

"What air?"

"Like she's so sure of herself. So without doubts. So uncaring of what I think."

Oliver raised one long dark eyebrow. "How very singular."

"You're not telling me they're always like that, are you?" James tried to look sorry for Oliver. "Dear me. I didn't know."

Oliver cleared his throat. "Not always, Redwood. Not always."

At those words, James remembered that he hated Oliver, and why. He swallowed the rest of his ale and made to leave the table.

"I doubt she was in love," Oliver said carelessly. "Benson said..."

Slowly, James sat down again. "What did he say?"

"Oh, not much. Just, when he was weeping in my arms about the woman who scorned him, he did mention that she was very... proper about her feelings. Didn't express more passion than would be polite. You know?"

"I can imagine."

"And then there was the whole story with his aunt."

"What story?"

"The very common story. He had expectations of an elderly aunt who was very ill. And the aunt died, and the expectations did not come off. Everything went to a cousin. That was a week before Grace sent him off. But it could just be a coincidence. Certainly, the only reason she gave Benson was that her father said no."

"And now she's marrying me because her father said yes," James said glumly. "Benson's better off for it."

"I think he must be," Oliver said. "He married another woman shortly after Grace; he was very eager to be in love. Her father got him the living in — was it Somerset? It might have been Surrey. I can't recall. I haven't seen old Benson in years, and never would have thought of him at all if you hadn't mentioned Miss Follet."

"It's rare for a wedding to not come off though..." James mused. "There was that woman, wasn't there, left London in a hurry about a month ago? The baby not her future husband's. Damned scandal that one." He frowned. "What was her name? Beale?"

"Oh, her," Oliver said lazily. "I know the story, though I can't recall the name. And then there's the Duke of Dayton's daughter — dug her heels in at the church door and refused to walk down the aisle because her groom wore a pink hat and she didn't like it. If that's even half the story, I'll eat my own."

Hope dawned within James. "Yes, not all engagements come off. And if Miss Follet has broken one engagement before, she's capable of breaking a second. I might not end up married to her after all."

"I don't think Miss Follet would cry off so easily now," Oliver said. "At her age, she'd have to have strong motivation to do so."

"Perhaps I can give it to her." James smiled to himself, a plan beginning to formulate. "I can't turn her down, or my father will never give my allowance back, but if she refuses to marry me, well... he'll have to admit I held up my end of the bargain."

"And how are you going to make her do that? It'll take more than pink hats." Oliver's eyes sparked with sudden glee. "I know! Flirt with other women in front of her."

James shot Oliver a dirty look. "No."

"It will definitely do the trick."

"It's not decent. I'm not going to do anything indecent. I'm merely going to make myself absolutely insufferable." He grinned. "She won't last a week."

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A/N 2021-05-27: For those of you who haven't read An Impossible Deception, Oliver is one of the minor villains in it. Actually, if I write more sequels, he'll be the central villain in all of them. I quite enjoy him.