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Henry couldn’t leave him: status as a gentleman of title.
    For Henry’s only son was Henry’s bastard; so far as Submit understood, William had no claim on any title. She attributed his various legal moves as merely device, meant to cause her maximum aggravation. William had been raised among people of power. He knew the system and how to use it to leverage his way into a larger settlement—which she was probably going to give him, though she wasn’t sure how much would satisfy him right now. Exactly what was enough, she wondered, to make a misbegotten son stop wishing for legitimacy?
    “Do come in out of the rain, William.”
    She moved to the far side of the carriage, tucking her feet and skirts up into the darkness on the seat beside her. As he entered, she watched him trying to locate her by her voice. The brief, muted light showed nothing but her damp shoes abandoned on the carriage floor. As he closed the door, the carriage became cavelike, rank with humidity, the smell of wet leather, damp satin.
    “I thought you might not ask.”
    “I was getting wet.”
    “I shouldn’t think that would bother you, having felt the warm flow of love in the form of piss in the bedsheets.”
    Submit made a sound of disgust, then let the remark go. The concept of dignity meant as much to William as it did to a stone boulder—and he would roll right over anyone who allowed his incredible insults to give offense.
    He removed his coat and hat, then blotted his face with a handkerchief. “Is there a blanket?”
    There was an extra one folded on the seat beside her. She couldn’t resist throwing it at him from the dark.
    He made a startled noise as it hit him in the face. Then he began arranging it over himself. He took perhaps a minute with this before he asked, as if he were making small talk,“How are you getting on? Word filters to me that you are at a hostel.”
    “A woman’s boardinghouse. Griffin’s on Chaney Circle.”
    “I know. I went there first. That’s how I knew to look for you here.”
    “Then why do you ask?”
    “Are you comfortable there?”
    “I would rather be home.”
    He snorted. “In my home.” He settled back into his corner of the carriage. “So, you find that gauche, insensible William is not without friends?”
    “I find you are not without confederates.”
    “The same.”
    “Then you are pitiable as well.”
    The beat of rain dominated briefly. Outside, there was a distant series of thunderclaps.
    “What do you want, William?”
    “Are you pregnant? You should know by now—”
    She laughed.
    “I would be more delicate—” William was mildly put off course by the laughter. He collected himself and continued. “But then, you are not a stranger to the particulars of breeding, your family having made a science of cows. Well?” he asked. “Are you?”
    She didn’t answer his rude question. “You have petitioned for a title?”
    Through a circuitous route of petitions and politics, William might gain himself a courtesy title or perhaps, by the longest stretch of the imagination, one of Henry’s lesser honors. The marquess had an earldom or two, a viscountcy all trivialized by the marquessate. All this was of course contingent upon there being no legitimate issue.
    “I’ve found I can petition if you will sign an affidavit. If you will only be gracious about all this—I have an offer for you.”
    “Someone’s given you hope?”
    “Perhaps, though the Home Secretary won’t allow anyone to even speak on my behalf, so long as there’s a chance Henry might have left an heir.”
    “Let’s hear your offer.”
    He cleared his throat. “You withdraw any claim on that old stone castle in East Anglia, that hasn’t even so much as running water at a pump valve. That, and all the property connected to it. Then I will leave the way clear to the cozy little London house with all its conveniences—Margaret is virtually sobbing that I want to move her from it; you would be much happier