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is no need to persist in this morbid habit of reading tedious books. Lady Elliott told me that she saw you with a copy of the Odyssey in the park.”
    “Do you have a particular objection to Homer, or are you against all ancient texts?”
    “There is no need to speak to me like that, Emily. I cannot imagine what possessed you to bring a book to the park.”
    “The weather was fine and I wanted to sit outside. A shocking concept, I agree.”
    “Well, open a window, or if you must be outdoors, stay on your own property. There’s no need to flaunt your eccentricities in front of all of London.” She removed a pair of spectacles from her reticule, put them on, and peered at my face. “I do believe you are getting freckles.” She thrust her parasol over me.
    “Thank you, Mother. As always, your support overwhelms me.”

    “Don’t take a snide tone with me. You are the widow of a viscount and need to start acting like one.”
    “Acting like a viscount?” I bestowed on her my most charming smile. “Perhaps that’s what I’m doing when I’m reading Homer.”
    “Your behavior is intolerable. You should take better care or you’ll find yourself isolated from all the decent people in England.” With that, she marched away.
    I left the river not long afterwards and returned home, exhausted, my cheeks and nose a distressingly bright shade of pink. On this count, at least, my mother had been correct. My hat, though very elegant, had not provided enough protection from the sun. I longed for a cool bath, but as soon as I had asked Meg to draw one, Davis announced a visitor. I looked at the card he handed me and walked, puzzled, to my drawing room, where I faced a woman I had never before seen. She was dressed in the unrelenting black of a new widow and darted towards me the moment I entered the room.
    “I shall not apologize for coming to you like this, Lady Ashton. You cannot be surprised to see me.”
    “I’m so sorry, I’ve not the slightest idea to what you refer.” I glanced again at her calling card. “Mrs. Francis? Is your husband David Francis?”
    “There’s no need to play naïve with me, young lady. I know all about—” She stopped, her eyes brimming with tears.
    “Please sit down.” I ushered her to a chair and rang for tea, growing more confused with each passing moment. “Have we met before?”
    This made her laugh, with a deep, nervous sound. “I am quite aware that you were my husband’s mistress. Now that he is dead—”
    “Dead? Mr. Francis is dead?” I pictured him sitting in my library not two weeks ago and, though I had not known him well, was consumed with the horrible, sinking sensation that is the faithful spouse of all dreadful news.
    “He died two days ago.”

    “I am more sorry than I can say. Was he ill?”
    “You know that he was not.” Above their red rims, her eyes blazed with acrimony. The heat in my house was suffocating. I crossed the room and began flinging open windows. A parlormaid entered with a tea tray.
    “No, take it away,” I said. “Bring us something cold.”
    Mrs. Francis did not speak again until the girl had left the room. “His last words were about you.”
    “How can that be? I only met him once.”
    “I’ll thank you not to pretend innocence. If it was only once—” She had started to cry again, and I could not bear seeing the pain etched on her face.
    “Please, let me comfort you.” I took her hand, and though she would not look at me, she did not pull it away. “I know not how such a misunderstanding has come to pass. I was never your husband’s mistress, nor was I romantically linked with him in any way. He was one of a group of my friends at the theater a week or so ago, and we all came here afterwards. Nothing of significance transpired between us.”
    “Why, then, was it your name that he uttered with his last breath?”
    “I’ve no idea. You must know his friend, Mr. Michael Barber? He was here with us, and I’m sure he could