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“Get back in bed. I’ll wait.”

She let go of the door, and he heard her dash across the room and scramble into bed.

He pushed the door open and turned toward the dresser, keeping his back to the bed. When he set the candle down, his shadowy image filled the speckled mirror. The room smelled of her, of tooth powder, lemon soap, and almond cream. He smelled of ale. He took a steadying breath of air that was full of Miranda.

What he had to do was simple. He’d done it a thousand times. There was no reason that a girl lying in a bed looking at the ceiling should make him feel clumsy and disconnected from his hands. He rehearsed the moves in his mind. Boots, jacket, neckerchief, waistcoat. Even when he removed them, he’d still be decently clothed.

“I hung some of your things in the clothes press,” she said.

His stomach took a mad dive at the thought of her touching his clothes.

“Thank you,” he said. He turned and opened the press, briefly losing his intention in the lavender scent of her gowns. His brain managed to summon the thought—Boot jack. He brushed aside her muslin skirts, found the jack, and removed his boots.

“How are your feet?” he asked.

“I’ve ruined a pair of fine cotton stockings,” she said.

“We can look for a shop tomorrow. Did you leave me a pillow on the bench?”

“Yes. And a blanket.”

He took a deep breath and shed his jacket, neckcloth, and waistcoat in quick succession, then stood for a moment, his hands full of wool and linen, and his head full of nothing.

“There’s a hook in the press for your coat,” she said.

He made his hands put away the clothes, then turned to the bench for the pillow and blanket. He tossed the pillow onto the rug and pulled the blanket around his shoulders. Leaning over to blow out the candle, he caught a glimpse of her eyes watching him in the mirror. He blew out the candle. The room went dark, and he stretched out on the cold, hard floor.

Above him the bedclothes made silky sliding noises that unsettled him and left his body on edge. He lay still and waited for his heart to stop racing and his blood to slow in his veins. He wanted to try some deep breaths, but she’d hear him. He had not slept in a room with another person since his days at Bredsell’s School.

“What happened to Lady Penelope do you think?” her voice sounded small and lost.

He didn’t say what he thought. “If she were in one of your stories, what would happen to her?” he asked.

“Oh,” she said, “in a story?” She was silent for a minute. “In a story, she would find her husband and save him from the villains who’d imprisoned him, and she’d smuggle him out of France, and they’d live in a castle in Italy until it was safe to return.”

“I like it,” he said. He would not quarrel with a happy ending.

“But you don’t think it happened that way? Do you think Adam Pickersgill took the child?”

“No.” All he’d seen of the old man was kindness and confusion. He doubted Adam Pickersgill had ever hurt a soul.

“You sound very sure. You’re always so sure, as if I could never be right.”

“I don’t know what happened. It’s the spies’ job to find out, and if we do, the club will open again.”

After a moment she asked, “Is it so important to you that the club reopen?”

“It’s everything,” he said. If she couldn’t love him, at least the club would offer work and pay, and a chance to go on rising in the world, far beyond Bread Street.

She didn’t answer, but he heard the bedclothes rustling again and the bed frame creaking.

“Is the mattress lumpy?” he asked.

“No,” she said in her smallest voice.

Something troubled her, and he waited to see if she would tell him. He should not have mentioned the club. He knew it was a vexed topic. For months Miranda had pinned her hopes and fancies on one of the club’s gentleman spies. Lord Hazelwood was a disgraced and disinherited lord who made a charming spy and who would never marry a shop girl. Now Hazelwood had married another.

When he didn’t hear her movements any longer, he asked, “Do you still love Hazelwood?”