The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. She traced him by his scent. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. If so I shall have to leave.
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