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He took his leave and as the coach rattled out of the courtyard and away from the hall, he cast a last glance through the window and saw her standing there, holding hands with Phoebe.

A heavy feeling settled on his chest.

Deuce take it, but it was so difficult to leave.

Like he was leaving two of his most precious things behind.

* * *

London, of course, had not changed one whit. It remained the cramped, stinking, pressing, foggy city he remembered, and he did not care for it in the least. He met William at the Royal College of Surgeons, and it was heartwarming, indeed, to be so sincerely welcomed by his old friend.

William clapped him on the shoulder and beamed at him. “I never thought I’d see the day. But to have you here calls for a celebration. How about we go to White’s for a drink? Let’s talk about the good old times.”

Christopher cared little for clubs, but he agreed to the suggestion. He would endure quite anything to spend more time with William. He was not a member of White’s, and he would never want to be, either, but William was, and he ushered him in as a guest.

Christopher was surprised to see the muted elegance of the club, and he found the atmosphere unexpectedly agreeable. Just when they were downing their third glass of port, chuckling over an old childhood tale in which William had rescued Christopher from a scrape, he heard an amused voice drawling behind him.

“Well, I never. Who would have ever imagined that the great sawbones himself would grace these hallowed halls with his presence?”

Christopher turned around with a frown.

Behind him stood a tall gentleman, elegantly clad in evening gear, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead and an amused smile glinting in his eyes.

Christopher stared, then his face broke into a smile. “Rochford!” He rose and clasped the man’s hand in a firm greeting.

“It has been a while since we both lay under the table, dead drunk. Ah, what times they were. I must say I don’t miss them.” Rochford clapped him on the shoulder.

Christopher introduced him to William, and Rochford pulled up a chair to sit with them. William attempted to pour him a glass of port, but Rochford waved it away.

“I no longer drink.”

Christopher raised an eyebrow. “Noble of you. Yet hard to believe. Your reputation as the hardest drinker went far beyond this club.”

“That was a long time ago, my friend.” Rochford was regaling him with a story about the time when he’d tried to wheedle Christopher into visiting a notorious gambling club, but he’d staunchly refused.

“It was the darkest time of my life,” Rochford confessed. “I desperately needed a drinking companion, yet all St John was ever interested in was body parts.” He waved his hand. “Not that I blame him, I am also interested in body parts, very much so, particularly female ones. The difference being that St John prefers them dead, whereas I very much prefer them to be alive.”

William snorted into his glass, and Christopher barely concealed a smile. “You have not changed one whit, Rochford.”

Rochford returned the grin. “Oh, but I have. I am a happily married man, now, and let me tell you, St John, nothing changes a man quite like a wife. I guarantee you a husband never experiences a dull day.”

Surprise flickered across Christopher’s features. “May I offer you my congratulations? I did not know you had married.”

“It was all over the papers,” William put in. “The marriage of the year. Problem is that you never read the society pages, Christopher.” Turning to Rochford, he added, “The man is so thoroughly removed from society he scarcely knows the name of our king.”

“By now, it really is old news.” Rochford settled back into his armchair.

William lifted the decanter with the port to refill the glass Christopher held out to him. “By now, every scullery maid in London knows that the Duke of Rochford married the headmistress of the girls’ seminary, Miss Hilversham.”

“What!” Christopher nearly dropped his glass. He must have misheard. “Did you say Miss Hilversham?”

“Indeed. She still goes by that name,” Rochford said. “Her real name is Violetta Winford, and she is the daughter of the late Baron Leighton.”

A feeling of dread began to pool in his stomach. “Miss Eleonore Hilversham? Are we talking about the same woman? The headmistress of the girls’ seminary in Bath?”

Rochford nodded. “The very same. She kept the name since that is how she is best known at the seminary. Otherwise, she is known as the Duchess of Rochford, of course.”

Christopher’s fingers tightened about his glass. “Do you know where she is this very moment?”