CHAPTERONE
Outside the carriage window, Ellen Nightingale saw London was now cloaked in fog as darkness slowly settled over the city. Night suited her. She liked to be concealed from the eyes of society. Not that she walked in their exalted ranks anymore and hoped never to again. Which was ironic, really, considering she lived not that far from the world she’d been raised in and yet it could be an entire continent away.
Opening the door above her head, she spoke to the driver.
“Are we near to home, Mungo?”
“Approaching the shops on the corner of Crabbett Close, Miss Ellen.”
“Halt then, please.”
The carriage rolled to a stop. Stepping down, Ellen looked up at the large man who sat on the driver’s seat.
“Go home, Mungo. I shall walk the remaining distance.”
“You’ll not in this fog!” he barked back at her.
“It is a matter of a few feet. I wish to return my book to Mr. Nicholson, as I promised him I would do so today.” Ellen stared up at her family’s driver, footman, and whatever else he was on any given day.
“I’ll wait.”
“I am unsure how long I will be. The horses will get cold if you wait. Besides, I have my umbrella.”
She felt the weight of his gaze, even though she saw only his large outline through the fog.
“I’ll return on foot to collect you, then. Stay in the shop until I arrive,” he said in his broad Scottish brogue. “Your uncle would have my head were I to allow you to stroll about London at such a time and with the fog thick as it is tonight.”
Ellen sometimes wondered who was the servant and who was the master in their relationship. In fact, he was this way with all their family, even Uncle Bram, his friend and employer.
“Oh, very well.” She knew better than to argue with a man who was as malleable as English Oak. Of course, she did not utter those words, as the insult would be extreme due to his birthplace.
“Not one foot, Miss Ellen.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mungo, I have agreed to not leave the bookshop.”
“You’ll pardon me for wanting the reassurance, but considering your reckless need to charge into danger, I would like it.”
“I am not reckless, and the single occasion you recount constantly was an accident.”
“How is it an accident when you run from your family and into a melee, where a stray punch then knocked you to the ground before we could aid you?”
Ellen hissed out a breath. “I felt the need, as clearly that woman was in trouble.” She raised a hand that he probably couldn’t see and continued. “Before you resume your lecture, the bookshop is but a few feet.”
“I will stay here until you reach your destination,” Mungo said.
Ellen fought back the sigh and walked away. Thick fog wrapped its eery fingers around her as she made her way to Nicholson’s Book Store. The tap of the heels of her sensible leather ankle boots were the only sounds in the air.
She knew to her right was the sign announcing Crabbett Close, where they lived. To the left were Nicholson’s bookshop and Appleblossoms Bakers and beyond that Nitpicks Trinkets and Treasures.
Mr. Nicholson would be inside as he always worked well into the evening and welcomed visits from anyone passing.
Ellen swung her umbrella back and forth to avoid bumping into anything. Had she not walked in these conditions before, it would have been unnerving.
Peering up through the fog, she saw the sign announcing the bookshop, and the lamp George always kept lit in the window when darkness fell.
“I have reached my destination!” she called out loud enough for Mungo to hear.
“Well, get inside then!” came his reply.
