Chapter 3London, August 29, 1885
There were, William reminded himself, several matters more worrisome and more worthy of his attention than this business of Elizabeth Barton spending the day on Emil Schwieger’s perfectly functional arm. Many matters. Of far greater importance. It was not even as though the pairing represented any stated preference on her part. It was a masquerade, no more.
William was still hard-pressed not to grind his teeth at the thought of it. He had yet to discuss with her the topic of their kiss in the village of Waterloo—they had shared very few moments alone since, and none had seemed quite the time to open the conversation—but right now, he wished he had opened it anyhow, suitable opportunity or not. What were she and Schwieger talking about in the sitting room?
