“Charles Street,” Miss Lithwick answered. “You may set me down anywhere you wish.”
“That is all the way over by Berkeley Square,” Jem said, taken aback. “You cannot tell me you meant to walk?”
She gave him a quizzical look. “It’s scarcely two miles. You have never lived in the country, have you?”
“You live in Bath,” he retorted, turning the horses onto Holborn, which swarmed with traffic.
“I did not grow up in Bath,” she replied. “But Miss Gregoire’s is there, and we walk everywhere. Miss Gregoire’s girls never take chairs.” She added after a moment, “The Gorgons use their feet, or whatever appendages they have. Do you suppose they had human legs, or something clawed? The earlier artisticrepresentations vary, and the mentions in Homer and elsewhere dwell mostly on the snake hair and staring eyes, et cetera. The wordgorgosmeans terrible, or inspiring fear, so it’s quite clear they were meant to be monsters, but one wonders?—”
She broke off as Jem let loose a snort, adding pertly, “As I said, you may put me down anywhere you like.”
“I will drive you,” Jem repeated, “and I will call out whichever vile knave named you and your friends the Gorgons. Such a man should be driven through the street with a pitchfork.”
She burst into a merry peal of laughter. It startled Jem, singing through his blood just as her voice had.
He had been wrong in more ways than one about Miss Lucasta Lithwick. One drive, one dance, one afternoon with her was not going to be enough.
And if she ever learned what he’d truly been about, with his invitations and flattery, she would have worse than taunts about his garb for him. She would consign him to the deepest circles of hell, which was no doubt where he belonged.
CHAPTER NINE
Avoiding barreling coaches, expensive sedan chairs, and boys and dogs darting into traffic, Jem followed Lucasta’s directions to a modest shop at 19 Charles Street. He couldn’t have been more surprised to see the gilded sign bearing the imprint of Ignatius Sancho, Grocer.
He’d heard of the shop, but never visited. Before he had time to read the title of the books stacked in the window—The Letters of the Late Ignatius Sancho—Lucasta strolled inside.
Ignatius Sancho was the man whom all London had known as the noble African. He’d overcome being kidnapped and sold into enslavement to become a prominent property owner and voting citizen. Even a vicar’s daughter lately of Bath must know his story.
And she must know what she was about, choosing to patronize the family’s store. Nonetheless Jem walked with a cautious step into the store behind her. He’d been enjoying their stolen time together and would have, by his own lights, delayed this crucial test.
She’d been kind at the Foundling Hospital to children of every possible hue, but that was a fashionable charity. In his unfortunate stroll through Lady Clara’s lemon trees, he’doverheard her disparage him for being no better than a draper’s son, which was what all of England thought. Then she’d abused the conductor at the opera for possibly being blind. So far he’d seen nothing to suggest she was above the usual prejudices of her class.
He could shut his eyes to it as a business owner—he had to, if he wanted any custom in this town. But if Miss Lithwick behaved rudely in the shop of the late and much-admired Sancho, Jem would leave her to take a chair or walk alone, possibly in the rain, his reputation as a gentleman be damned.
The air smelled of tea and chocolate, spices and herbs. Lucasta strode through the neat shelves and bins to the broad wooden counter at the back of the store and greeted the woman behind it.
“Mrs. Sancho! Have you no help in the store today? What happened to the apprentice who was here last time?”
“Running an errand, so I’m teaching my William to serve customers.” Mrs. Sancho was dressed far more fashionably than Lucasta in a closed robe made of chintz with dainty buff stripes. A sash tied about her waist bloomed against the skirts gathered in the back, and her sleeves were decorated with buttons as well as lace at the cuffs. Jem approved.
“What wish you today, Miss Lithwick?” Mrs. Sancho gave Jem a curious look.
“The usual.” Lucasta set her muff on the counter. “Tobacco for the Baron. A pound of sugar at the least. Cici put the last of it in her tea this morning, and for that matter, we require more tea. Whatever blend my aunt commissioned is unpalatable. I suspect it is mostly ground beans and sawdust.”
“Shame.” Mrs. Sancho clicked her tongue. “Will, run fetch a sugar loaf for Miss Lithwick. The good loaves, my sweet.”
A young boy, wearing a smart blue suit with his black curly hair pulled into a queue, ran off to attend this task with all the loose-limbed, noisy energy a young boy possessed.
“The girls are well?” Lucasta inquired. “Miss Frances? Ann? Elizabeth?”
“Well as can be,” Mrs. Sancho reported as she measured tea from the tins behind the counter. “I wish they were here. They would love to tell you how they are progressing with their music.”
“I wish to hear it.” Lucasta smiled as William returned with a sugar loaf wrapped in paper. “And what instrument will you take up, Master William?”
“I’m going to be a printer,” the young boy declared. “And print books like Papa’s.”
“A noble profession,” Lucasta agreed. She selected one of the books from a display on the counter and laid it next to the sugar loaf. “In that case I shall come to you for all my printed music. Your father’sTheory of Musicis quite fine, you know. I refer to it often with my students.”
William beamed and ran off, content that he had discharged his duty. Mrs. Sancho rewrapped the sugar loaf and measured out the tobacco. “Now remember to tell the girls,” Lucasta said as she counted coins, “they are always welcome at Miss Gregoire’s. I am not sure we’ve ever had three sisters at one time! They would make quite a sensation.”
