The line of ships waiting for the legal quays trailed down the river. Captain Shore, staring upriver, his blue eyes squinting against the light drizzle of a cold morning, called for a skiff to take him to the Custom House to ask permission to go straight to the Reekie Wharf and meet a custom officer there.

“You don’t have to unload at the Custom House?” Felipe asked with interest, looking up to the quarterdeck and the Captain.

“Only if you’re carrying special cargo, cargo that pays a royal duty, like coffee or spices, or from the East Indies, or cargo of high value. Our manifest says private goods, furniture and the like.” Captain Shore scowled down at the handsome younger man. “And some barrels of oil, and wine. We can unload them all at Reekie Wharf and pay the duty there. If they were private goods, furniture and the like, then I would have no worries. You tell me they are?”

“I do. And you have an export license that confirms my word.”

“Then of course I am reassured.”

“Do you have to declare the passengers?”

“Of course. And I will,” the Captain warned. “Proper papers. Mrs. Reekie’s reputation is good, and I won’t be a blackguard at her wharf. Proper papers, full declaration. The officer will see you at Reekie Wharf and you can pay your dues and get your passport there. Give me your papers to show at the Custom House.”

Felipe handed over a much-signed document with many ribbons that attested he was Felipe Russo, a trader in antiquities, a member of the guild of stone masons of Venice, a freeman of the city, and entitled to travel where he should wish.

“What about Roberto?” Felipe asked.

“As he’s an Englishman, he needs nothing,” the Captain said. “He’s just coming home. Like Miss Reekie. But they’ll ask if any of us have been in contact with disease.”

“We have not,” Felipe said. “We are all come from Venice, which is—grazie Dio—free of illness.”

“Aye, you have an answer for everything,” Captain Shore said. “Wait on board, till I return.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Felipe said in a parody of obedience, and watched the older man climb down the ladder at the side of the ship and step into the waiting skiff.

“What do we do now?” Sarah asked, appearing at his elbow. “I can almost see my home from here.”

“We have to wait,” he said. “Did you think you would dive in and swim over?”

“No,” she conceded. “I don’t want to do that again.”

“Then I should think you’ll be home this afternoon, as soon as the Captain has permission to dock at your wharf. And then what will we do?”

“I’ll take Rob to my grandma,” she said, smiling in anticipation, “and then we’ll see Livia—at home if she’s there, and if she’s not—we’ll go to Avery House and find her. If you’re still sure?”

“I’m sure,” he told her. “I’m very sure.”

“You’ll unmask her?” she demanded.

“I’ll see what she requires,” he answered ambiguously.

She turned to go back down to her cabin, but he caught the edge of her shawl. “Stay,” he invited her. “Tell me about your home. Show me the landmarks. I’ve never been to London before, tell me about the City?”

Her gaze on his face was very direct. “You’ll find out soon enough,” she said bluntly. “All you need to know for now is that here is the south bank, the poor side of the City where the Nobildonna lives with my family, and uses our space and treats us as if we were there to serve her, and over the river on the north side is where she is headed, where beautiful houses await a cultured and beautiful mistress, where people buy your fraudulent goods, thinking them real, where they enjoy her company, thinking her a woman of quality. It’s an easy city to read. We live here, on this side, the poor side, the dirty side. We’re honest on this side. But Livia is determined to spend her time on the other side. As anybody would. You as well, I expect. That’s where you will ‘see what she requires.’ That side is for the nobility and the liars, those for who appearance matters more than truth. People like her; people like you.”

He took her hand and kissed it, glancing up at her. “No,” was all he said.

“No what?” Sarah said, pulling her hand away.

“I am ready to become an honest man, I no longer want to be one with the nobility and the liars. You can stretch out your hand and save me, Miss Jolie. Miss Pretty. Let me be on your side.”

She looked at him as if she did not wholly trust him. “You are reformed?”

He smiled at her, shamelessly attractive. “If you will save me?”

FEBRUARY 1671, ST. CLEMENT DANES CHURCH, LONDON

Livia, wearing a new gown of navy blue silk, with a matching jacket trimmed with navy blue lace, an exquisite bonnet with a navy blue veil of lace caught back with a golden pin, walked down the aisle of the church, quite alone, her new shoes making a satisfying tap-tap on the floor. Behind her came Carlotta, carrying Matteo in her arms, as if the little boy must witness the marriage of his mother, and establish his rights to his stepfather. Matteo was sleepy and looked around him blinking his wide dark eyes and then tucked his little head under Carlotta’s chin. Livia did not look back at him, but walked steadily forward, her eyes modestly downcast. She had no other companion.

Waiting for her, in his family pew on the right side of the church, was Sir James, Lady Eliot beside him, Sir George Pakenham beside her. In the pew behind them were the upper servants from Avery House, allowed to come to church in the afternoon to witness the wedding of their master. As Livia walked up the aisle they craned and stared and whispered.

Livia, pretending to hear nothing, carried a small posy of primroses, tied with a dark blue ribbon, and a Book of Common Prayer. As they heard her heels tapping on the newly laid stone floor, Sir James rose from his knees, where he had been praying in his family pew, and took his place before the altar, so that when she came up he was ready, like a man standing in a dock.

She thought he was very pale and drawn; she raised her eyes to him, in a parody of modesty, wishing he would look more like a man on his wedding day, and less like a man facing a slowly closing trap. She whispered a word of greeting and he gave a grim nod to acknowledge her and turned to face the minister. Sir George came out of the pew to stand at his side, as Lady Eliot begrudgingly rose to her feet, to witness the wedding.

Livia peeled off her dark blue lace mitten from her left hand. George placed the ring on the open book that the minister held towards him. It was the wedding ring of Sir James’s first wife, George’s sister’s wedding ring, a slim gold band inset with diamonds. Livia had insisted upon having it. She would not have a new ring; she wanted the old one. She wanted everything that the first Lady Avery had owned, as if her ring and her embroidery frame in her parlor, her cut-glass perfume bottles in her traveling case, would make the title real. The minister took a breath, looked from the drawn face of his parishioner Sir James to the exquisite beauty of his young bride, and started the service:

“Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony…”