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Anthony looked down, pressing the side of his fist into the mantelpiece, hard, so he felt the cold edge of the marble dig into his skin.

His father had never asked what had happened on the retreat from Maiwand. Anthony had never offered his side of the story. That day in Hampshire, when he’d walked with Yardley in the village before heading to London, he’d begun to speak of it and Yardley had stopped him by laying a hand on his shoulder.

You don’t have to explain, to me or anyone else. We’ve kept it out of the papers, so that’s that. You can start fresh, do you hear me? Your father will come around.

For Yardley’s sake, Anthony had shrugged, as though in agreement. But as soon as he’d arrived in London, he’d mired himself in the old rottenness. He went to the Rose and Myrtle and fought with George’s friends, beating them bloody because George himself was out of reach. He drank and then he drank more. His father was never going to “come around,” as Yardley put it. He’d always believed the worst. He’d died believing it.

Anthony crossed his arms.

“How can I control myself?” he said. “It’s not a question of self-control if I can’t choose who I see, where I go, and what I bloody well drink.”

Yardley glanced toward Lavinia and Miss Coover to satisfy himself that they were still battling dullness.

“Don’t spite yourself to spite him,” he said. “Get out of the stables. Take your seat in the House of Lords. Unlike Lavinia, I do recollect you sitting. And to good effect.”

Anthony rocked on his heels, unable to meet Yardley’s eyes. It was to Yardley he’d confessed his boyhood agony with books, how he couldn’t make sense of the letters, couldn’t sound them out or arrange them.

Memorize the words, then, Yardley had suggested. You’ve got a good mind. Pretend they’re pictures, like in Egypt.

He’d taken Anthony to the British Museum and showed him the hieroglyphics. Anthony had pored over his books after that, committing the words to memory. He never learned to take pleasure in reading, or writing, but he could do both, without fear of ridicule. Yardley alone understood the focus that had required.

He owed the man something but could give no satisfactory response. His spite was already running its course.

“She’s a ghoul, it’s decided,” cried Lavinia, waving to get their attention. “She claims”—Lavinia widened her eyes and clasped her hands to her breast in mock horror—“I’m dying!”

Anthony’s eyes flew to Miss Coover. One minute, savior from irremediable dullness, the next minute, harbinger of death. It was evident that both appellations grated. She took a deep breath and released it.

“I never said you were dying. I said you are absorbing poison through your skin.”

“What’s this?” Yardley glanced at Anthony as though he should have some answer.

Anthony spread out his hands. He certainly couldn’t account for what came out of Miss Coover’s mouth.

“Her gown. There’s arsenic in the dye,” said Miss Coover. “You can tell just by looking.”

“It’s green, yes,” said Lavinia, sniffing. “That doesn’t mean it’s poison.”

“It’s emerald green,” Miss Coover snapped, her patience wearing thin. “The pigment is made with white arsenic.”

“I know that.” Lavinia smoothed her skirts. “I know about emerald green. It kills the artificial flower makers. But this gown is different. It’s extremely expensive.”

She smiled forgivingly at Miss Coover. Then she rounded on Anthony, who had approached with her father.

“I would never say it so baldly, but I have to make her understand somehow or she’ll go running off to the coroner.”

“Of course it’s expensive; it’s a Worth gown.” Miss Coover crossed her arms. “The fit is excellent. I have no quarrel with Worth’s tailoring or his styles. The fabric, however, is guaranteed to do you injury.”

Lavinia’s mouth dropped open. Miss Coover ignored her and reached for her bag. Open, it seemed larger. She was up to her elbows, fumbling inside. Wood knocked on wood, and glass clinked on glass.

What the devil did she lug about? An entire apothecary, from the sound of it.

“Don’t move,” she said, turning to Lavinia with a small phial in her hand.

“What is that?” Lavinia started, pressing back into the arm of the sofa.

“Ammonia.” Miss Coover’s hands were steady as she unscrewed the lid. “I use it in solution to strip the varnish from my brushes. If you jostle me, I’ll spill more than I intend.”

“What are you doing? Are you mad? You’ll ruin my dress!”