Over the course of that winter, James sometimes caught himself wondering what he really felt for Grace. With other women, he had always been so very sure about his feelings. Each time he had been in love, it had been as though a spark had been lit in his heart at first sight. When he had merely been dallying, his affections had risen to no more than the level of goodwill and appreciation. With Grace, there had certainly been no spark, but goodwill and appreciation were too cold to describe the growing warmth of his affection towards her.

Perhaps it was loneliness affecting his senses. James had always been close to his father, in an odd, silent sort of way, but after their argument about Mrs Booth, things had not been the same. James was hurt his father did not believe him, and Mr Redwood was angry, and anger made him cold. James felt an absence of someone who understood him. His closest friend was in France, and the spare few other young men whom he trusted were equally out of reach, scattered about England now that London was sleeping for the winter. To be sure, James had other friends in London, but they were friends to have a good time with, to play cards and billiards with, to drink and carouse with, to race and gamble with. There was no intimacy there. Sometimes, there was hardly even liking. Grace was the closest thing he had to a friend all winter. But the affection he felt for her was quite different to what he felt for his male friends. Which was perhaps natural, James argued with himself, as she was not a man, but her sex seemed an inadequate explanation for the warm ache of joy he felt on making her smile. He had made a hundred women laugh a hundred times without feeling that way.

He tied himself in knots trying to untangle the problem. He was more certain about what she felt for him: she was not in love, but she was attracted to him, wanted him, even. She was hungry for his physical intimacy while still skittish of the emotional. It was hardly a solid foundation for a marriage, but, then, as she sometimes told him when she was upset, they were only engaged.

It was an engagement growing more certain as winter passed. Certain practical steps had to be taken before they could marry, after all, and their parents were speedily attending to them. Mrs Follet took Grace to London to order new gowns. Mrs Redwood sent for a book of wallpapers and textiles and squabbled with Grace and James about which they should choose. Mr Redwood commissioned for the London townhouse to be repainted and repapered, and had the upper floors, used for storage, cleared out and cleaned. James went to visit it with Grace one day, and they wandered about the rooms, their footsteps echoing in the emptiness, hardly daring to speak. It was very strange to think they would be living together. Perhaps. They were only engaged, after all.

There was another matter to be attended to. James knew it was coming, and delighted in not mentioning it to his father, so he wouldn't have any opening. One evening in early March, just as James was about to leave the table after dinner so that he wouldn't have to drink brandy in the company of his father's disapproving silence, Mr Redwood called him back.

"Wait a moment, James. We have something to talk about."

"Do we?" James said lazily, sitting down again and leaning back in his chair. "Alright. Pass me the brandy then."

Perhaps Mr Redwood was trying to offer up an olive branch by pouring the brandy himself, but James, eyeing the shortness of the measure, would not have bet upon it. He swirled the glass and watched his father, determined not to speak first and make it easy for him.

Mr Redwood sipped his own brandy slowly, but he was not given to prevarication or side-stepping. After a minute, he said mildly, "It has come to my mind that Grace will desire a coach."

"Has she taken up driving?" James said. "How spirited of her."

Mr Redwood raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow. "Don't be flippant, James. I refer to your coming marriage. A daughter may beg use of her father's — or mother's — conveyance, but a bride expects her husband to have his own."

"I did," James said, "until you stole it."

"A curricle is not a coach. Regardless, we do not need to revisit that discussion. The present issue is a new town coach. You might consider it in the light of a wedding gift to Grace."

"I think past issues have relevance. If Grace were to do something of which you disapproved, would you sell the coach from under her?"

"Grace would not do something of which I disapproved."

"Then what about me? I am certain to. Perhaps Grace would better have hired a coachman than found herself a husband. A coachman can always be replaced, after all, when he becomes disagreeable."

A hard light came to Mr Redwood's eyes. "I have long since abandoned hope of approving everything you do, James. Nor am I fool enough to think that I can check you from your worst impulses merely by tightening my purse strings. So you will forgive me if I think primarily of your future wife's convenience in this matter. I have a duty to her and her father to ensure that as a married woman she will have material comfort. Your duty you may yet confine to the emotional. You will, I hope, prevent yourself from becoming disagreeable to her. Or, at the very least, prevent her from feeling any great disappointment in her choice of husband."

James grimaced and knocked back his brandy like it was blue ruin. "Give a dog an ill name!" The brandy burned in his throat and settled uneasily in his belly. "Spare me the after dinner sermon, please. It gives me indigestion."

"Yes, I should save my breath," Mr Redwood agreed coldly. "The practicalities only, and the sooner dealt with, the better. I will go to Tattersall's tomorrow to buy a pair, and after that to Tilbury Coaches. If you wish your opinion to be consulted in the matter—"

"I certainly do!"

"—then you may accompany me." Mr Redwood's voice grated with displeasure. It was clearly permission, not invitation. "I leave at eight, and I will not be delayed on your account, so be ready."

James found that last comment too pompous to bear, so he stood and offered his father a curtsy. "With bells on, sir."

The next day, James took pleasure in readying himself early so he could wait in the hall ostentatiously checking his pocket watch as his father came down the stairs. Mr Redwood pretended not to notice and sailed past him in silence to the door. The silence continued for the remainder of their journey to London. James wished he had thought to offer to drive the coach instead of sitting inside with his father; it was a clear, cool morning, with the scent of spring in the air. By the time they reached Tattersall's, the courtyard was already overflowing with buyers, sellers, browsers, and mere spectators. James quickly broke away from his father and lost himself in the crowd. He spotted friends and acquaintances from a distance, but such was the bustle and noise that he could not seem to catch their eye. While observing the horses being led around the courtyard before the auctions, however, he found himself near a tall, slender, very elegant blond man with his face half-hidden behind an extravagant gold lorgnette he held to his eyes, and pushed past a pair of beery jockeys to get next to him.

"Delacroix?" James said. "Have you gone blind?"

The blond man slowly lowered his lorgnette and blinked at James before smugly raising it again. "Oh. Redwood. I didn't see you there. Rather beneath my notice, eh?" To illustrate the point, he rested his arm on James's shoulder. "Where have you been all winter? Everybody was wondering if you were dead."

"I was at home," James said. "Which in some ways is similar. What's the point in coming to the sales if you can't see a thing?"

"I come to be seen, not to see," Delacroix murmured. "Why are you here?"

"To buy a town coach and pair."

"I would have thought a phaeton more to your taste."

"It is." James wistfully eyed a pair of frisky grey thoroughbreds. "I am here because" —his cheeks warmed— "I must have a town coach for my wife."

Delacroix's elbow slipped off James's shoulder and he pulled himself up with a start. "You are never married!"

"Not yet. In May, I believe it will be."

Delacroix sniggered. "You jest, surely. Of all men— and of all times— No. This is a splendid joke, Redwood, but I have caught you at it."

James bristled. "It is no joke. I am engaged to be married."

Delacroix choked on his laughter. "...But really? Ah, I comprehend. Her father is dragging you to the altar at the point of his sabre, no doubt."

"Her father is dead," James said curtly, offended by the implication. "And his ghost would have no such complaint."

Delacroix's mouth dropped open. He made a show of wiping his lorgnette on the cuff of his sleeve. As his sleeve was a frothy profusion of lace, this did nothing but smudge the glass. He put it to his eyes again anyway and blinked sightlessly in James's direction.

"Might I enquire as to the good lady's name?" he said.

"Grace Follet. Do you know her?"

"I do not. Indeed, I do not recall ever hearing the name." Delacroix looked perplexed. "But this is a surprising development, Redwood. I think all of London will be struck quite dumb at the news. It is altogether unexpected. I must say, I... I rather expected differently of you."

"To remain a bachelor to the end of my days?" James's eye was caught by a pretty, dappled grey Norfolk trotter. "Yes, I rather thought so too, but..." He was mindful, suddenly, of the risk of being overheard in a crowd like this and inspiring any unpleasant gossip about his engagement. "...Miss Follet persuaded me otherwise. Do you think there is another horse here to match that grey? It is very fair, isn't it? Quite unique."

Delacroix lowered his lorgnette. "Hm. Not impossible, I suppose, but expensive. So Miss Follet persuaded you. When no one and nothing else ever could." Delacroix laughed, rather coldly. "There is one lady in rural seclusion who will be very offended to hear that, Redwood. Have you not thought of her?"

For a moment, James could not think who Delacroix meant. Then he recalled, with discomfort and embarrassment, that Lady Mosrow had fled to the country after her public breakdown last year. But she could hardly still be in love with him after all these years, and certainly her hopes could not have stretched to marriage without also extending to bigamy. "Time heals all wounds," James said. "She will survive."

Delacroix smiled thinly and removed his lorgnette to scan the crowd. "I see a friend of particular interest," he said. "Excuse me."

His long, thin figure swayed away through the crowd. James stared, puzzled, after him, then turned his attention back to the horses. Delacroix always had been an eccentric.

The grey would have been too expensive, indeed, but there was a pair of small, pretty bays that James liked, and he went to find his father to give his opinion. Mr Redwood was not opposed, and when the pair came up at auction James opened at forty pounds. He was not surprised to be outbid immediately, but his father had authorized him to spend up to a hundred-and-eighty pounds on the pair, so he waited until the other interested bidders, a fat farmer and a peaky lawyer, started to flag at around a hundred pounds before outbidding the farmer to a hundred and eight. The farmer rather doubtfully offered a hundred and ten, but when James jumped to a hundred and fifteen, he lowered his hand and fell silent. The auctioneer called it twice and was just raising his hammer when a new bidder shouted out twenty. James raised it five again and looked around, annoyed, for his competitor. He was a broad, solid man of late middle age, dressed severely in black, which only made him seem broader and more solid still. He held an ebony cane tightly in one hand, not resting on the ground, but level, as though he wished he could hit someone with it. This was the hand he raised when he outbid James again. He glared at James, as though it was a personal challenge.

Why not, James thought, and bid again with a smile.

From there, the bidding climbed steadily, and a crowd began to gather to watch. James's competitor had an annoying habit of waiting until the last call before bidding and glaring at James all the while. James quickly realized his competitor was determined not to let him win and must have the capital to prevent it. Had the man not had such an aggressive stare, James might have withdrawn. Instead, annoyed, he kept bidding until at last his competitor shouted eighty and James bowed out.

"The beasts are yours, sir," he said. "And you have paid only fifty pounds more than they are worth. Quite the bargain."

He made to move away, back to the courtyard, but the ebony cane swung out and blocked his path.

"Catherine gave birth two weeks ago," the man said, his voice like granite. "To a son."

James stared at him. "I... congratulate you, sir?"

The scowl on the man's face became molten fury. "How dare you!" he hissed. "How dare you speak so! How dare you stand here bartering for horseflesh while Catherine nurses your child."

The meaning of the words registered, but they made no sense. James was too confused to do more than push the cane aside. The crowd that had gathered during the auction was watching them, full of whispers. The auctioneer was ringing his bell, trying to get attention to start the next auction, but no one was paying attention. James saw his father pushing his way through the crowd.

"I beg pardon," James said, "but who are you, sir?"

"I'm William Balley," the man choked. "Sir William Balley, whose daughter you seduced and abandoned last spring."

Several men in the crowd laughed, while others whistled. Mr Redwood pushed through them, his face white with fury. James could only shake his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Like hell!" The cane came up again, brandished over James's head. "You seduced my daughter and abandoned her when you learned she carried your child."

At last, slowly, James untangled his thoughts. Catherine Balley, the woman who had had to leave London last summer and break her engagement because she was pregnant. David Demery, the cuckolded would-be husband who had not believed James when he said he was not the father. Sir William Balley, her father, and...

"So it was you who hired men to thrash my son on the street last year?" Mr Redwood said in a snakelike tone. "You— you fool. You almost killed him. You almost killed the wrong man."

Sir William lowered his cane until it pointed at Mr Redwood's feet. "My daughter gave his name. She told me what he did."

James tried to speak but found he had no breath for it while everyone was watching him. His heart was skipping what felt to be a dozen beats a minute and he felt sick. He knew only that he was innocent, and that it was useless to say so. He remembered, with a wave of nausea, his conversation with Delacroix earlier: Her father dragging you to the altar. A lady in rural seclusion. And Delacroix's abrupt departure when he said time healed all wounds. He must have thought James abominably cruel. How long had these rumours been spreading? He had been absent from London all winter; he would have heard nothing. How long had people been talking, whispering, with no one to protest the deception? And it put rather a different light on all the friends he had seen today who had not seemed to see him. They had been giving him the cut direct. At least Delacroix had still thought enough of James to return his greeting. How many friends did James have left in London? How many true friends had he ever had?

"Your daughter lied," Mr Redwood said. "The father was not James. And like a coward, you could not even face him yourself, you could not even ask him. You hired men to do your brute work for you. Stupid, cowardly fool."

Sir William, a decade or two younger and a great deal stouter than Mr Redwood, clutched his cane like he intended to brandish it again. James pulled his father back.

"It was not me," he said. "It cannot have been, for I never met your daughter, sir. I'm sorry for what happened to her, but it was not my doing."

"Catherine does not lie," Sir William spat. "I have never known that child to lie. It was you, Redwood, and your reckoning shall come. If not on this earth, in the next one."

"As will yours," Mr Redwood said, raising his own cane.

James hastily slipped between the two men. "Yes, well, fisticuffs didn't solve it last time, and they won't this," he said. "Father, I think it's time to go home."

"James—"

"Please."

"Always the coward," Sir William shouted as James ushered his father through the crowds. "You wouldn't duel Demery, and you won't stay and face me! Coward, villain, Redwood!"

Nobody will believe I didn't do it, James realized, looking at the sneers and smirks on the faces of the spectators. Why, why had Catherine Balley given his name?

They left Tattersall's without uttering a word to each other. James was too shocked to speak, and Mr Redwood too angry. Now that James knew of the gossip, he noticed how eyes seemed to follow him, before darting away when he tried to meet them. It was a relief to climb into the closed coach and pull the curtains shut against the world. His heart was still racing and he could not seem to keep a straight thought in his head. Only when they were halfway back to Richmond did his thoughts settle. He rubbed his face and looked at his father, who was still frowning, though no longer pale with anger.

"How did you know she lied?"

"I saw your face." Mr Redwood ran his thumb over the brass handle of his cane, as though regretting he had not the chance to wield it against Sir William. "Besides, I know you. It takes a particular breed of cowardice to deny a child, and a particular breed of cruelty to abandon a woman so compromised. You are libertine, lazy, philandering, and fickle, James, but you are neither cruel nor a coward. You did not do it. But there, Sir William will continue to believe his daughter, and I will continue to believe my son, and so this matter will never satisfactorily be resolved."

"It won't," James said quietly. "No one will believe me. Not if she named me. Damn that woman!"

He slid back in his seat and stared at the ceiling of the coach to hide the tears pricking his eyes. Then his father thought him all those things—and he was—but not a coward, not cruel. Only he had been, hadn't he, towards Grace? Towards other women too, at times. Perhaps he deserved what the world thought of him. But the rumour would stain his entire family, even his friends, his...

James shot up straight. "What will happen to Grace?"

--

A/N 2022-07-03: I know it's been more than a year since I posted the first chapter, but this explains why James starts the story beaten up in bed and who was secretly behind it all.