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“You haven’t asked about the stairs on either side of the wall, Your Grace.”

Fletcher paused in bringing a Shrewsbury biscuit to his mouth.

“I had assumed they were installed when the houses were built.” Fletcher quirked an eyebrow upward. “Do ye ken their origins?”

“I do indeed,” Mr. Pritchard replied with another one of his sad, distracted smiles.

Och, out with it, man. Do I have to beg ye?

Fletcher cleared his throat and opened his mouth, prepared to do that very thing. He needed to be on his way soon if he meant to reach London by nightfall.

“Many years ago—oh, it must be close to three-and-thirty now—two people fell in love,” Mr. Pritchard said.

Fletcher settled back into his chair, prepared to listen to what was in all likelihood a long tale. If that was what it took for Pritchard to sell him the place, he’d stay all bloody damned night.

“Their families would’ve heartily disapproved had they been aware,” Pritchard said, the merest bit of cynicism or conceivably it was bitterness leeching into his words. “Society would have as well. It didn’t matter to them. They bought houses side by side on Bedford Square and installed the steps so they might secretly rendezvous.”

Now that took some ballocks.

Usually, discretion was expected, even for affairs or the keeping of a mistress. Fletcher had never kept a paramour. Oh, he’d enjoyed bed sport on many occasions, but he didn’t go around swiving everything in skirts.

“For nearly three decades,” Pritchard continued softly as if he was seeing into the past, “they were as happy as anyone in their situation might be.”

Fletcher couldn’t help but wonder why the lovers didn’t just use the kitchen doors. It was much easier than climbing the wall, particularly as the people had to be nearing fifty if they carried on an affair for thirty years.

Mr. Pritchard fell silent, tapping his long fingers upon his grey-striped clad knee as he stared out the window, sorrow etching shadows in his features. He’d fallen into several of those weighty silences during the visit.

“I presume one of them, or perhaps both, were already married?” Fletcher said in an attempt to get him speaking again. He had a long ride ahead of him, and that seemed the most logical reason for two people unable to marry and make a life for themselves.

Mr. Pritchard brought his grey-eyed gaze to meet Fletcher’s squarely, a bold challenge in his eyes.

“No, Your Grace. Neither was ever married.”

What?

Never…?

Fletcher regarded him, then comprehension dawned.

Och. That was the way of it then.

He made an affirming sound in his throat. Sensing that this wasn’t the end of the tale, he waited uncomplainingly for Mr. Pritchard to go on.

“Five years ago, Terrance Blakely died from cancer. His death came swiftly, with little warning. Three-and-twenty days, in fact. It gave me far too little time to prepare for life without him.”

That bloody quickly?

“I simply couldn’t bear to remain in London, in that house, and so I moved here.” Mr. Pritchard’s attention flitted to the window again and the serene courtyard beyond. “It’s really quite lovely.”

“I understand,” Fletcher murmured, compassion deepening his voice.

“Do you, Your Grace?” Mouth quirked sideways, Mr. Pritchard shook his head. “I don’t think you truly can.” He straightened in his chair and, after noiselessly placing both feet upon the floor, set his cup aside. “Nevertheless, it does my heart good to think another may know love at 19 Bedford Square. The house is yours if you are still interested.”

“Why wouldna I be?”

Pritchard raised a cynical eyebrow.

“Och, I’m truly grateful to ye, Pritchard. I promise ye, the house and grounds will be well taken care of.” Fletcher stood and extended his hand.

Mr. Pritchard also rose, and they shook hands.

“I do hope to find love and happiness there as well, Mr. Pritchard. My man of affairs will be in touch.”

“If I might, I would ask one thing of you, Your Grace.”

Fletcher finished straightening his jacket before glancing upward. “Aye?”

“Don’t remove the wisteria. I know it’s a lot of work to maintain, but Terrance loved it.”

Giving a nod, Fletcher grinned. “It’s grown into the plane tree. I’ll only trim it enough to keep it from choking the life out of the tree. My lèannan also adores the vine.”

“Lèannan?” Two neat lines puzzled Pritchard’s high forehead, made more so by his thinning hair. “I’m not familiar with the word.”

“It’s Gaelic for sweetheart,” Fletcher told him.

Was Rayne his sweetheart?

Could she be?