Jo was hanging her coat and riding gear when she heard two male voices coming from the library. One of them was her father's, the other quiet too low to recognize. She assumed maybe one of his clients. Not wanting to disturb them, she decided she'd slip quietly up the stairs. As the door to the library opened, she caught sight of a blond-haired stranger. The man turned back round before she could see his face. The stranger wasn't a stranger after all. She'd know the back of him anywhere.

Him. It can't be him.

The Duke.

Get out! You don't belong here.

Two months ago she had slapped him when she had kissed her, telling him she was still working things out with her husband. The memory of fury, and humiliation, when she and her sisters looked at the papers to see him with one of his floozy's, some model or actress, or some other tart, the force behind the slap. Didn't he know what pain and humiliation he had caused her?

Did he know that she was divorced?

He turned around. "Mrs. Forsythe." He said softly.

Apparently not. Or was he just rubbing it in?

Her father said, "Come in and join us, Josephine, won't you?"

"No. I...I'm going up to my room." She hastily started making her retreat.

Matthew excused himself, following after his daughter. "Jose-"

She stopped halfway up the stairs. "Not now, Papa. I need a few minutes." She ran up the remaining flight, knowing he wouldn't continue to follow her.

She laid down on her bed, feeling as if she were about to fall to pieces. She didn't know how much time had passed. There was a rap on her door.

"Can I come in?"

"Yes. Is he gone?"

"He's gone."

Her father entered and sat down on the chair at her desk.

"What did he talk about?"

"Nothing to concern you." He looked a bit weary. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head and they were silent for a few seconds.

"If you need me, you'll know where I'll be." He padded her knee as he got up, leaving the room.

Downton's Annual Christmas Bizarre was held on the first Saturday. The third one since the end of the war. Jo was in charge of the event. She was grateful of the volunteer job. It kept her from dwelling on those whom they had lost, (the crowds were still thin; it was still hard not to notice the empty spaces, now rapidly being filled with prams and toddlers that could barely toddle, her mother and Carrie pushing Mattie and Maise and one year old Noah, in their prams.) and the finalization of the divorce from Nick. They had tried to make it work but they only realized that their differences were far too great. He still came to see Noah whenever he had his shows in London.

She walked around, checking on each of the booths and how they were coming along. She bought a few tickets for the raffle for a saddle, even though she didn't need one. It was going towards a good cause.

When she turned around she nearly barreled into his chest.

Him again.

"You must be shopping for your dad."

She pressed her lips together. Didn't he see how uncomfortable he made her? How much pain he had caused her, that she didn't want him here?

"What are you still doing here?"

"You can still call me Ollie."

I won't call you anything.

"The misses likes to get her Christmas shopping done early."

" Rubbing in one of your latest escaped?"

"No, of course not. It was a joke. I'm on my own this year."

"Aw, that's too bad. Maybe you need a break. You know your sense of humor was always lost on me, Ollie. If you've come to ask for my hand, I'm assuming that's what you asked my father, my answer is the same. And it's in rather poor taste, seeing as the ink on my divorce papers haven't had time to dry."

Some of the women from the booth were calling her over. "Have a good Christmas."

It wasn't till May, nearly five months later, that she heard from him again. The connection was poor. She was going use that as an excuse to hang up. She heard enough that he was begging for something. Something about trouble, that he made a mistake.

"I can't help you. I'm sorry."

"No. Wait. I'm sorry. I need your help. I'm asking you, as a friend. I'm begging you, for the love of God, you have to help me. Please help me. I won't bother you again. You're the only one I can trust."

She had never heard so much fear and anguish and desperation in his voice.

"I met a woman, no she isn't some floozy. She... had a few...and fell asleep and wouldn't wake up. I can't wake her up."

"Where are you?"

"Uh...at a hotel?" Did it sound like he didn't know where he was?" "I think..." He continued, a rambling of words.

"What hotel are you at?"

"Let me think. A hotel in London. The Savoy."

Of course, the Savoy. That's where he takes all of them.

"What room are you in? Wait, slow down. Stay where you are. I'm coming to you."

When she got to the woman in question was lying flat on the bed, still in her party dress.

"What did you do now?"

"I told you, she's not a floozy. She's an artist. Her father works at a gallery. We were taking about him possibly commissioning one of my paintings."

"Couldn't you have done that at the hotel bar?"

"We were...partying. She...took something." He nodded at the nightstand, there laid what looked like tubing and a syringe.

"Did you take some too?"

His eyes shifted. "Not as much."

"Maybe it was a bad batch."

He shook his head. "I think she overdosed. She told me to sleep on my side. When I woke up, I found her like that." The young woman was laying on her side. "I should have made sure she didn't turn over."

She didn't know what difference that would have made.

As she got closer, she got a whiff of sick. She had to cover her nose and mouth and had to turn her head away, as she felt for a pulse. Though it was her sister that was the nurse she still had to learn the basics as a teacher. "No pulse."

"I told you. What am I going to do? People must have seen us together. My life is ruined. It's over."

"Will you shut up? You're not the only one at risk here. I need to think."

She had a lot more to lose. She had her son.

"Of course. I didn't think."

"Of course, men don't think. We have to figure out a way to get her back to her room."

"It's not far. It's at the end of the hall." He told her the room number while she retrieved the key from the girls' handbag.

She poked her head out of the room to see if anyone was coming. The hall was empty, except for a maid's cart. Perfect.

No one would question a maid.

She went over to it, casually grabbing an apron. She put it on, tying it around her waist, pulling it into the room. With Ollie's help they put the body on the bottom of the cart, rearranging the towels and linens so it could conceal it, one blanket draped over the top of the cart. She told him to stay in the room.

"I'll deal with it."

When she was done, she left the cart outside one of the rooms, she couldn't remember the exact number she had found it at. It would have to do. She took the apron off, just as the door next to her began to creep open. She quickly undid the apron and tossed it on top of the cart and darted back to Ollie's room.

It was locked. She wrapped her knuckles, hoping he would unlock it and let her in before she was seen. It seemed like an eternity before he opened it.

The maid reached behind her to grab the cart, but her hand closed around air. Turning around she looked back and forth, from where she thought she had left it. Shrugged and went on her way.

"Well. Is it done?" Ollie asked.

She didn't answer, going over to the bed, like she was about the strip the sheets. "No. I can't take them with me. Call the front desk. Tell them you were sick and you want to change rooms. Wait at least until morning." He looked at her with wide eyed confusion. "You have to stay here."

He shook his head. "No way. I can't stay here in the same room where there was a dead body."

"You'll have to wait till morning, or it will look suspicious. Tell them you were sick last night and don't want to stay in a room that smells like sick." He was still shaking his head. "For God's sake, Ollie. You were in a war." He blinked at her slowly. "I'll go check the hall before I leave. If the police have questions..."

"I won't talk to the police."

"You might have to. They'll think it suspicious if you leave before they find her. People saw you with her." He groaned. "They'll probably interview the guests, it's a routine thing." Johnny Bates was always talking about his police training with her brothers.

"I don't..." He wanted to disappear. He'd rather be back in the trenches.

"Here's what you'll say...She got tired, and you weren't feeling well so you parted ways and you went to bed. That's all you know."

"She got tired. I wasn't feeling well. So, we parted ways and I went to bed. That's all I know."

She headed toward the door. Behind her she heard a thump. He had slumped in the corner. His knees almost drawn up to his chest. His lips were moving but no words were coming out. She knelt down in front of him and held his hands, until he was out of it.

"How?" He seemed to be questioning how he ended up on the floor. His face drained as he realized what had happened, staring at her hands still holding his. "How did you know? How to do that?"

"My father. He had them. He says he left part of his mind in France." He gave a nod and looked away.

"Josephine." He paused. "Thank you. What can I do? To make it up to you."

"Don't call me again." She picked up the last trace of what was left of his mess, taking the tubing and syringe, wrapping it in a cloth, placing it in her purse. She'd dump it in the river somewhere on her way back towards Yorkshire. And was out the door.

She had to act like everything was normal when she arrived home. Easy enough, right? All through dinner the following night she felt a nagging feeling, a stone in her stomach. Should she had left him like that? Her mother asked if she was alright.

She replied yes.

"Where were you yesterday? You missed Papa's birthday dinner." Carrie asked.

"I was in London."

The paper was delivered.

"Blimey!" Carrie exclaimed as she read it, "Gallery owner's daughter, found dead in hotel room of an overdose. At the Savoy. She was his heiress." She looked over at her sister. "You weren't staying at the Savoy, were you? Abigail Fletchly thought she saw you there."

Seeing no way she could lie; Josephine forced a smile. "What a coincidence. I was staying there but decided to switch hotels." Which was partially the truth. After she had left Ollie, she stayed at a cheap rundown hotel across town, (half of it's wing still being rebuilt after the damage the Blitz had left. A hole in the wall was bound to let all sorts of creatures in; not a place anyone from her social circle would be caught dead at, pardon the pun) and had made her departure early the next morning. Before she could be pressed further, her mother said,

"Alright, girls, what did I tell you. No newspapers at the table. We don't need such tragic news while we're trying to enjoy our dinner."

She needed to talk to someone. And that only someone was her father. He was in his study as he always was after dinner.

"What's on your mind, darling daughter? Something was troubling you at dinner."

"It was the paper. You'd think there wouldn't be any sad stories after the war, that they'd only have good news these days..."

"No. Before."

She could never get one over on him, nor when she was small and blamed things on George.

"I went to go see a friend in London who needed my help. My friend was in a bad way and I feel guilty for leaving. I haven't heard anything from...my friend and I'm really worried, I told...my friend not to call me."

"Why don't you call your friend?"

"Well, you see, we thought it best that I don't get further involved, because of Noah."

"You have a very wise friend. If it has to do with anything illegal."

"No. It was nothing like that." Maybe mishandling of a corpse, disposing of evidence and tampering with a crime scene. "I'm sorry I missed your birthday, Papa."

"Don't worry about it. You were helping a friend."

Should she call him? She'd had thought at least he'd call her to tell her he was alright. She hoped he didn't do anything more drastic. Like ending strung out again or crashing his car into a ditch somewhere. She looked at her father.

He seemed to be thinking deeply about something. "Call him."

"Who?" She asked if she had no clue to whom he was talking about.

"Your friend. The Duke."

"How'd you..."

"I have my sources." Surely, he wouldn't have her followed. Then he smiled and she felt bad for even thinking such a thing. "I am your father." With that he pulled her close and gave her a hug.

"Ollie." She said with a sigh and with more affection than she had intended. "I helped him like I helped you once, papa."

"That's my girl. Call him to see if he's alright. Get him the help he needs. But don't get further involved. Whatever he's in to, I don't want you drawn into it." A little too late for that. Josephine thought. "I don't want to see you get hurt again."

"I can take care of myself, papa."

"I know. I guess that's what I'm afraid off. That one day you'll stop needing me."

"I could never." She planted a kiss on his cheek and left.