After our morning encounter, I felt elated, like I always did after discipline. I chatted brightly, increasingly alarmed at Jacquard’s gloom but keen to find out his movements. “So, what will you do for the rest of this week, sir? Take some hits in the fencing rooms? Place a bet on the fight at Gentleman Jackson’s?” The second I said it, I bit back my tongue. His look turned instantly stormy. That’s it. He’s lost a wager. “I see no reason to share my weekly rota with you, if you refuse to share yours.” Oh no. This bit deep, clearly. As I finished my meal, I turned to lighter matters. “What of the opera this evening? Are we to go? Will everyone be there?” Soon he started to relax as my eager inquiries made him smile. I’d asked him before but never tired of him telling me. A visit to the opera was a long-promised high point of our stay in town. He’d assured me I’d find it dazzling. “And are we to visit Vauxhall, sir?” “Tomorrow, perhaps.” His smile faded.
