It was a beautiful afternoon, but Raymond's thoughts remained dark. He gazed out his carriage window at the streets, bright and cheerful and beginning to bustle with people, and saw none of it. All he could see was a night-dark street, the flash of legs and hooves before him. All he could think of was Elizabeth's face, so dear, so necessary.

Was he about to break her heart? Despite her protestations, did she have feelings for this man, this Thomas Keen? It could be that she wasn't even aware of them, that she'd never given herself a chance…

Would she believe what he had to say? One of her more appealing qualities was her deep loyalty to her friends — did she feel the same bond with him? If her loyalties were torn, which way would she turn?

He supposed that it was pointless to continue to speculate about these things when he was on his way to see her. Why torture himself, when he'd discover the truth soon enough?

He shifted on the cushion and sighed. His tailbone carried a highly unpleasant bruise that had caused no end of irritation today. He did prefer it, however, to the alternative, and thanked his lucky stars for watching over him yet again — and of course, the provenance of good friends.

Arriving at the Scott townhouse, he was greeted pleasantly, and waited no more than a few minutes to be ushered in to see Lady Chester. A marked difference from his last visit — what change an engagement makes, he thought, amused.

Apparently, Lady Chester was in a giving mood — she merely smiled at him with a brief exchange of pleasantries, and whisked off to fetch Elizabeth. Whom, by some grace or other, was sent in to receive him alone.

"Lord Blackwood," Elizabeth said demurely, very pretty in sprigged muslin. "Such a pleasure, sir. My aunt will be just a moment. Would you care to sit?"

Amused by her earnest attempt at propriety, Raymond smiled and executed a polite bow in return.

"I assure you, the pleasure is mine, Miss Scott," he returned. He swept his tails up and sat on the prim sofa, wincing in discomfort as his backside hit the stiff seat.

In a flash, Lizzy was at his side. "Raymond, is everything all right? Are you hurt?"

He looked up at her concerned face, took her hand in his, and smiled. "Just a little bruised, myself and my dignity, LIzzy," he said. "Won't you sit?" He gestured at the seat beside him with his free hand.

"I do need to talk to you, Elizabeth. Yesterday…" He looked into her clear blue eyes, let himself soak in the warmth of her hand in his, in her slim body perched beside him. He didn't want to destroy her illusions…but it was as much for her own safety as anything else.

"Your young man, Mister Keen." He started again, changing his tack.

"I wish you'd stop calling him that," she cried. "Tom is just a family friend, a business associate of Papa's, honestly, Raymond."

"All right, then, Elizabeth." He could be accommodating, and hopefully it was true. "Your friend, Tom. Dark hair, glasses? Slim build, an inch or two taller than I am? Neat clothes, but a little worn around the edges?"

She was staring at him by now, eyes wide with surprise. "How-how did you do that? Have you met him, Raymond?"

He smiled again, a little grimly. "I believe I may have come across him recently," he said drily. "I also wanted to tell you that between the two of us, Dembe and I have spoken to everyone on your list of suspects.

"I have to say that all the men we spoke to seemed like perfectly nice gentlemen, all their dealings fair and above board. I can't say that I found any of them to be suspicious in any way."

"Oh, but Raymond–"

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he continued doggedly. "I just can't see any of these men murdering Sam in cold blood. The investment of concern is a good one, I've looked into it. There are no problems, and everyone involved stands to make a tidy profit — you included, my dear."

Elizabeth flushed. The whole conversation seemed to be getting out of hand. "That's not the point," she started.

He squeezed her hand. "I know it's not your main concern, Lizzy. And it's certainly true that someone may be a consummate actor, and hiding their true thoughts from me. But your father seems to be remembered with a universal fondness and respect by his peers. It's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Of course it is, Raymond," she answered. "I don't like to think of Papa having enemies hiding amongst his friends. I just…I just want to know the truth about what happened. Anyway," she went on, frustrated at the lack of progress, at Raymond's avoidances, "what does any of that have to do with Tom? You don't still think…"

"I know you believe that the two of you are merely friends," Raymond answered. "Good friends?"

"I-I suppose," she answered. "He likes the same books I do, he's interested in travel. He-he's given me flowers," she added slowly. "He…"

"Has he heard of our engagement?" Raymond's voice was excruciatingly polite.

"Yes, we…we spoke of it yesterday, he…"

"Did he congratulate you, by chance?"

Of course, she had to admit the truth. "He didn't," she said softly. "He asked…if I was all right, if I was being coerced into the marriage."

"Oh, really," Raymond said, and his voice changed, his face changed, and somehow he seemed an entirely different man, a dangerous man.

"He was just looking out for me," she hastened, "like a friend…would…"

She trailed off helplessly, looking into Raymond's dark, forbidding eyes. "That's not it at all, is it?" she asked quietly.

"I'm afraid not, sweetheart," he said, gentle again. His expression softened as he looked at her. "I'm very much afraid that young Mister Keen has other ideas entirely." He put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded parchment. "Would you read this, Elizabeth?"

She took the parchment in trembling hands and unfolded it. Tears came, unbidden, as she recognized her father's handwriting. She read the letter slowly, a horrified foreboding coming over her as she read.

"I've got Sam's diary here, as well," Raymond said. "I know you didn't want to read the whole thing, but I think…I think you must read this marked passage, here." He offered her the opened book.

She took it reluctantly, and read the words, her own papa's words, and had to believe them. Believe that the quiet, scholarly young man she knew was capable of rage and violence. But murder…she didn't…she couldn't…

She looked back at Raymond helplessly. "I don't know what to say," she said.

"There's something else," he said heavily. "The reason I'm a little bruised today, the reason I could describe Tom Keen…Elizabeth…" He was looking at her with such caring sympathy she was terrified about what might be coming next.

"Raymond, just tell me," she said. "I can't stand this."

"Outside my club last night, someone pushed me into the street, straight into the path of my own horses. The only reason I'm here now to talk to you is Dembe, and his quick reflexes."

The horror had grown so huge inside her that she didn't know how her body could contain it. Raymond, pushed into the path of a coach and horses, Red, nearly dead at the hands of…of her own friend, the hands of this man she apparently knew not at all.

The dam burst. As her tears began to flow and she reached for him, desperate to ensure for herself that he was safe, safe and sound and hers.

Raymond had been certain he'd have to work relatively hard to talk Lizzy around, suddenly found himself holding her in his arms while she wept into his coat. Was this it, then? Did finding out her young friend wasn't what she'd thought leave her this upset, this bereft?

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he murmured, holding her close, glad to at least be able to do that. "I'm so sorry to have to be the one to take a friend from you."

She stiffened in his hold, and he wondered if he'd misspoken. She sat back, and frowned at him.

"Oh Red," she said, and reached up to touch his face. "That's not it, that's not it at all."

"What on earth is wrong, then, Lizzy?"

"It's you," she said, sounding impatient now. "You idiot, it's you, you might have died, I might have…might have lost you."

Shocked, he just looked at her, wondering. It had been a terribly long time since anyone had cared enough about him to shed tears over his well being. In fact, he wasn't certain that anyone ever had.

"Oh Red," she said again, then leaned close and kissed him.

Her lips were warm and wet, and she tasted of salt and sadness. His mind knew this was beyond indelicate, and that anyone could walk into this room at any time. His body savoured, yearned, wanted more. He held her face in his hands, a cradle; she clung to his lapels and pressed herself into him.

He was losing his mind, drowning in her. As she tasted him in return, her tongue quick and eager, he thought that he might easily get carried away on this tide. Her hand slid inside his jacket to press over his heart, and the sweet tenderness he felt almost undid him.

Good lord, but he wanted her.

He broke away gently, the thought of her tumbled onto the rug before him shocking him back to himself. Good grief, they were sitting in her own rooms, just waiting for her aunt to reappear. What on earth was he thinking of?

Her breath was short, her eyes still damp as she looked up at him, her gaze full of mute appeal.

"It is neither the time nor the place, my sweet," he told her, taking her hands in his and shifting away from her a little. "Proprieties must be observed, after all."

She looked like she might argue with him, then smiled, a little ruefully. "My apologies, my lord," she answered. "I am merely…so glad to see you unhurt by your regretful encounter."

"Your concern is most touching," he said, meaning it deeply. "I am wondering if a special licence is in order," he continued. "If you are married without delay, this man will have no reason to threaten either of us further."

"He could…he could still try to murder you, to get you out of the way," she pointed out, flushing. "And I believe Aunt would be most displeased if we cancel her plans. It might appear…untoward."

"Something must be done about the lad," Raymond muttered, surprised at the keenness of the disappointment he felt. The urge to make Elizabeth his, and only his, was growing stronger by the very moment.

"Why, it's obvious," she said, her eyes sparking. "We must confront him, of course. We can go to the offices of Mister Oates and tell him that we know everything. We must get his confession."

And nothing Raymond said afterwards would dissuade her from this madcap notion. He was greatly concerned that if he did not take her, she would merely go on her own, and then anything could happen.

And so, after a brief discourse with Lady Chester, he found himself in his carriage, Elizabeth seated by his side, on his way to the business district with no real plan in mind. A young man bent on love and murder would not confess his crimes merely because someone asked him to do so…yet, if confronted with the truth by his lady herself, he might let something slip…

And Raymond would be there to be certain nothing went wrong. He did wish he'd had time to retrieve his pistol, but supposed that would only cause undue trouble. He looked at Elizabeth across from him and saw that she was watching him already.

"Are you really all right, my lord?" she asked quietly.

"Please don't worry, Elizabeth," he answered. "I am fine, thanks to Dembe. No lasting harm was done."

She was quiet for the rest of the short journey, gazing out the window at the London streets. He wondered what she was thinking and laughed at himself for the near-obsession he seemed to be developing. Elizabeth was already his fiancée; they would be married and she would be his, and that was the end of it.

He would see to it, personally.

The offices of the Scotts' man of affairs were simple, but neat and clean, in a respectable building. When they arrived, however, the only person to be found was Mister Oates himself.

"Miss Scott," he said politely, "Lord Blackwood." A short and proper bow. "To what do I owe the honour?"

"We were hoping to speak with your assistant," Raymond said politely. "A Mister Keen, I believe."

Mister Oates looked creditably surprised. "But…but Miss Scott, I thought you would have known!"

"Known what?" Elizabeth asked impatiently. "Where is he today, Mister Oates?"

"Miss Scott, Mister Keen is not here," Mister Oates answered. "Mister Keen gave his notice at least a sennight ago. I haven't seen nor heard from him since."