“But I am your husband,” he said. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright. “Will you come round to the hospital?” he asked. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. The spy—if there was one hiding out in the late Jarvis Remenham’s empty house—would be taken unawares. She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive.
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