A Flaw in the Blood by Stephanie Barron

she intended to do battle. The enemy, however, was beyond her reach. Fitzgerald had no intention of serving as proxy.
    “Is there scandal in the letters?” he demanded. “Is that why a body went the length of stealing them?”
    “Scandal? They were almost entirely about the nature of the London poor!”
    Fitzgerald made a sharp sound of annoyance, unable to believe her, and threw up his hands.
    “Prince Albert honoured me,” she said with difficulty, “by soliciting my opinions on a range of subjects. The condition of housing, for example—he had designed a model tenement himself, for the use of charitable organizations. Or reform of the waterworks, and the construction of Mr. Bazalgette's new system of sewers—you will have seen the works of the tunnels presently being undertaken . . . the Middle Levels near Piccadilly are actually complete. I toured them in the Consort's party only a few weeks ago—”
    “Sewers,” Fitzgerald repeated sardonically.
    “They are
vitally important,
Patrick,” she persisted. “Recollect that Uncle John established that the transmission of cholera is through tainted water; indeed, were it not for his researches, I am sure Bazalgette should never have been commissioned to embark on this massive reform—or at least, not in my lifetime. It requires an Englishman to fear for his life before he will consider of his drains. Prince Albert wished me to consult with Mr. Bazalgette regarding the sewers' outfall. They are far down the Thames, almost to the sea, where the chance of contamination with drinking water must be minimal. The various London waterworks are also undertaking programs of filtration, which should go far in improving public health.”
    “Your Prince cared about public health?”
    “He was intelligent enough to know the Crown would pay for trouble, soon or late,” she returned crisply. “Better sewers now, than an epidemic later. And water hit home—Buckingham Palace, to my knowledge, has some of the very worst in the city. And Windsor's drains are not to be spoken of. It is no wonder that he died of typhoid fever—it, too, is a disease of fouled water. Poor man.”
    “Did the Prince seem ill, when you toured the Middle Levels?”
    She considered an instant. “I didn't notice. Not that afternoon—there was too much to be viewed and decided. And I am never entirely at my ease, you know, in such a company of gentlemen—all of them distinguished in some field or another, and drawn to the Consort because of his power. Only
he
accorded me the kindness of listening to my observations—and because he did so, Bazalgette was forced to attend. I wonder how many of them believed me to be Albert's paramour?” she added on a note of bitterness.
    “And were you?”
    He had not been able to stop himself; he needed to know the answer too badly.
    She turned and stared at him. “I should strike you for such a question, Patrick.”
    “You should strike me for any number of reasons, Georgie—but not my frankness. Look you, there's never been a breath of scandal about Albert and the ladies, but you'll admit it's dodgy business to be adding a girl like yourself to a company of engineers! I never met the man. I want to know how deeply he went with you. How much pain his death has caused.”
    She drew a shaky breath. “One need not have . . . intimate relations with a gentleman . . . to mourn his loss.”
    “No.” Fitzgerald rubbed his hand over his eyes. Why hate a dead man so much? It was he, Fitzgerald, who was dining with her, after all. But Georgie's voice, whenever she spoke of Albert, was taut with respect. And something else. Was it
yearning
?
    “So he looked well,” Fitzgerald said with effort. “And yet, a few weeks later—”
    “I did not say he looked well,” she broke in quickly. “Indeed, I do not think he has been in health for some months. That particular afternoon I should describe him as preoccupied. He listened to Bazalgette—he asked all the