They reached Bath late Wednesday afternoon. The city was a crescent of pale stone smelling faintly of sulfur and wet pavement. Arthur directed the driver to a modest address on Lansdowne Crescent. It was not a slum, but it was a severe departure from the palatial sprawl of Rothford Manor. It was a narrow terraced townhouse with a blue door.

Arthur stepped out of the carriage. He didn't wait for his footman. He walked up the three stone steps and banged a brass knocker. A maid opened the door. She wore a stained apron and looked harried.

"Yes?"

"I am the Duke of Rothford," Arthur said. The title usually parted crowds. "I am here for my wife."

The maid's eyes widened, but before she could speak, a sharp voice cut through the narrow hallway. "Let him in, Mary. It was only a matter of time before the ledger keeper realized his accounts were short."

Arthur stepped into the cramped foyer. A woman stood at the top of the stairs. It was Margaret, Beatrice's older sister. She was a widow, famously sharp-tongued, and entirely unimpressed by nobility. She wore a practical brown bombazine gown and a scowl that could curdle milk.

"Lady Margaret," Arthur said, removing his hat.

"Your Grace." She descended the stairs. She did not offer her hand. She stood blocking the hallway, her arms crossed. "You took your time. She's been here a week."

"Parliament," Arthur said. The excuse, which had always felt like an ironclad shield, suddenly sounded pathetic.

Margaret laughed. It was a harsh, scraping sound. "Of course. The agricultural bill. How are the turnips faring, Arthur? Better than your wife, I presume."

Arthur tightened his grip on his hat. "I came to see her."

"She is resting. She arrived here looking like a corpse." Margaret leaned forward, her voice dropping to a vicious hiss. "You starved her, you pompous fool. Not of food, but of breath. She was drowning in that mausoleum you call a home."

"I never raised my hand to her. I never raised my voice. I provided—"

"You provided a highly decorated cage and then forgot you owned a bird," Margaret interrupted. "She doesn't want your money. She doesn't want your title. She wants to exist, and she doesn't exist when you are in the room."

Arthur felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. "That is for her to decide, not you."

Margaret stared at him for a long, calculating moment. She stepped aside, gesturing toward a closed door at the end of the hall. "The back parlor. Don't expect the woman you left behind. That woman is dead."

Arthur walked down the narrow hall. The floorboards creaked. He reached for the brass handle, his palms sweating. He who had addressed the House of Lords without a tremor was terrified of opening a parlor door. He turned the knob and stepped inside.

The room was small, heated by a robust fire. Smells of roasting apples and damp wool hung in the air. Sitting in a wingback chair by the window was Beatrice. She was reading a book, a real book, not a household ledger.

She wore a simple gray wool dress, devoid of the lace and silk he usually paid for. Her hair was not pinned up in an elaborate severe style. It was braided loosely down her back. But the most shocking thing was her face.

The pale translucent skin he remembered from the staircase was gone. There was color in her cheeks. The washed-out gray eyes were focused, tracking the lines of ink on the page. She looked up as the door clicked shut. Arthur stopped breathing.

He waited for the mask to slip over her features, the polite, distant expression she wore at his breakfast table, the face of the Duchess of Rothford. It didn't appear. Instead, Beatrice looked at him with a calm, terrifying indifference.

"Arthur," she said. Her voice was steady. It didn't waver. It didn't plead.

"Beatrice."

"You found the letter, then."

She closed her book, marking the page with a ribbon.

"I did." He took a step forward, then stopped. He didn't know what to do with his hands. "I have brought the carriage. Your trunk can be loaded in ten minutes."

She looked at him. Really looked at him, just as she had on the staircase. But this time she wasn't searching for a crack in his armor. She was simply observing a stranger.

"I am not going back," she said.

"Don't be absurd. You are my wife. You are the Duchess of Rothford."

"I was the Duchess of Rothford," she corrected gently. "Now, I am simply Beatrice. It is a much smaller life, Arthur, but it is infinitely louder. Margaret's dog barks, the roof leaks, the maid drops the tea service. It is chaotic."

She smiled. It was a small, genuine thing, and it hit Arthur like a physical blow. He hadn't seen her smile like that since the year they were married.

"I love it. It is entirely improper. The scandal will blow over in a month. Tell them I went mad.

Tell them I ran off with a French poet. They will pity you, and you will be left in peace. It is exactly what you have always wanted."

"It is not what I want."

The words tore out of his throat, raw and loud. Beatrice blinked, surprised by the volume, but she did not flinch.

"Isn't it, Arthur? You haven't looked at me in three years."

Arthur stared at her. The parlor suddenly felt oppressively hot. The smell of roasting apples turned sickly sweet in his lungs. "I am looking at you now," he said.

Beatrice shook her head slowly. "You are looking at a problem to be solved, a misaligned column in your ledger, an unruly tenant who has skipped rent. I am an inconvenience to your schedule, Arthur, not a wife."