Oddly, Thomas felt a distinct twinge of disappointment when Lady Everly told him that Lady Amelia would not be joining them. Although he wasn’t planning to attend the tea party himself but to merely escort the women there, he’d looked forward to spending a little time with her on the ride over. “I do hope she feels better soon,” he said as they plodded along Piccadilly.
“I’m sure she will since she isn’t very prone to megrims.” Juliette’s brow knit in thought. “In fact, I don’t recall her having one before. I’m usually the one feeling ill.”
This statement had him sitting up straighter. “Do you suppose it might be a symptom of something more serious? Perhaps you ought to return home just in case she starts feeling worse.”
“We won’t be gone long as it is—just a couple of hours,” Lady Everly said, “and according to Juliette, Amelia plans to sleep during that time, so I hardly think our presence, or lack thereof, will make an ounce of difference.”
“I rather agree,” Thomas heard his mother say from her spot beside him. “Megrims are a common enough ailment, unpleasant as they may be.”
Relenting to their argument, Thomas kept quiet for the remainder of their journey while the ladies discussed the peeresses whose company they were about to keep.
“I intend to run a few errands while you take your tea,” he said when they pulled up in front of Dorset House a few minutes later. “What time should I come to collect you?”
“Shall we say half-past four?” his mother suggested.
Agreeing, Thomas escorted the ladies to the front door and waited until they were all safely inside the building before returning to his carriage and continuing on his way. He’d promised Jeremy some new paints and was happy to oblige, not only because he could see that the boy took pleasure in mixing the colors and spreading them out on his canvases, but because it was clear that he was developing a talent.
Having instructed his driver about their destination, Thomas sat back and looked out the window. Unfortunately, the shop was located at the farthest end of Oxford Street, which would place him right on the fringe of St. Giles. Granted, one had to venture farther north or south to really notice the drastic contrast to Mayfair, but encountering the occasional street urchin or beggar would still be possible, which was why he usually sent a footman to manage the task. But since he was already out and not too far, he’d decided to see to it himself for the sake of efficiency.
Outside the carriage, he could see a varying array of architectural styles sitting wall to wall with each other. Some were angular in shape, lacking any form of embellishments whatsoever, while others were decorated with swirling filigree moldings and decorative columns. He’d been inside several of these homes over the years, and knew therefore that to judge them on their exterior appearances alone would be a mistake since some of the simplest looking ones contained the most lavish interiors.
Turning up Princess Street, the carriage made its way toward Soho Square. A light drizzle started up, the fine little droplets dotting the windowpane and prompting the pedestrians to bow their heads as they walked. He considered them—the ladies in their finery and the gentlemen wearing top hats—and thought of how strange and exotic this world must appear to Huntley and his sisters. Yes, they’d lived an aristocratic life as children, but they’d all been so young when they’d lost their parents that he wondered how much of it they could remember.
For a second, he tried to imagine what it must have been like for them to lose everything, suffering through years of hardship only to be forced back into a society that would happily reject them at the first available opportunity. He shook his head, unable to fathom their ability to persevere in the face of such constant opposition. Perhaps...
Straightening himself, he stared at the people out in the street. One person stood apart from the rest on account of her clothing. Not even a scullery maid would dare to dress like that, and there was something about the way in which she walked—something familiar. As his carriage drove past her, he turned to look at her face. It was slightly concealed beneath the ugliest bonnet he’d ever seen and tilted in such a way that he only caught sight of the lower part of her profile. But it was enough. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman out there was Lady Amelia, hurrying off to only God knew where with an urgency that replaced the immediate anger he felt because of her scheming with a mixture of curiosity and alarm.
Where the devil did she think she was going? The carriage moved on and he lost sight of her. Waiting a moment, he knocked on the carriage roof, signaling for the driver to pull over and stop. The second he did so, Thomas jumped out, keeping the carriage between himself and the pavement so Lady Amelia wouldn’t see him.
“Wait for me here,” he told his coachman before edging his way along the street until he caught sight of Lady Amelia once more. She’d passed him in the short time it had taken him to alight, allowing him to cross the street and pursue her unnoticed.
Instinct tempted him to call out in greeting. He’d take some savage satisfaction in her startled expression when he asked her what the bloody hell she was up to. Damn, but the little twit hadn’t even thought to bring along a chaperone! And if something happened to her, it would be on his head. Huntley would murder him where he stood and rightfully so.
Christ, he was going to wring her neck when he caught up with her, but not before figuring out what harebrained insanity might have prompted her to feign sickness so she could meander about Town in such scruffy attire. One thing was certain—he was more likely to find out if he followed her than if he stopped her and asked. So he kept his distance as they wove their way toward High Street.
Keeping several yards between them, he watched her cross the street. Drawing a staggering breath, he felt his heart clench. Dear God, she was heading straight for Seven Dials, and he would have to go after her in order to ensure her safety. Only he wasn’t dressed to blend in, but rather as a prime candidate for a mugging. Steeling himself, he started across the street while pondering all the ways in which he’d like to throttle her for being so reckless. She obviously had no regard for her own safety, never mind the fact that he would likely return to Dorset House smelling of sewage. Already, the putrid stench of filth was drifting toward him, not the least bit dampened by the rain.
But rather than head up Bainbridge as he’d expected, she stopped in front of a large building that would have been handsome had it not been so neglected, and knocked. The paint peeled, and from where he stood a short distance away, he could see that several roof tiles were missing. The windows were also in bad shape. Some were only cracked, but several had holes in them while one had been boarded up where the glass had gone missing. Keeping his eyes fixed on Lady Amelia, he watched with interest as the front door opened and an older gentleman with thick white hair and bushy whiskers came into view. He greeted Lady Amelia and waved her inside. The door was promptly shut, leaving Thomas to wonder how on earth she might be acquainted with Mr. Gorrell and what business a woman like her could possibly have with one of London’s most notorious solicitors.
Chapter 4
The damp smell of wood provided the air with a thick mustiness that was hard to inhale. Coughing, Amelia watched tiny drops of water cling to a stain on the ceiling. One by one, they spilled into the puddle that sat on the floor.
“The recent rain we’ve been having has not been very helpful,” Mr. Gorrell said, following her gaze. “Perhaps you are starting to reconsider?”
Amelia shook her head. “Not at all.”
“You ought to know that that is not the only leak.” Scraping the heels of his shoes across the unvarnished wood planking, he walked past a staircase that looked too fragile to carry anyone up it.
Amelia followed him into the adjoining room that would once have been used as a parlor. The paint on the walls was now chipped and peeling. Cracks stretched like veins across the plaster while the parts of the molding that had not gone missing sagged with exhaustion. To think this place—this house—had once been as grand as her own, that the wealthy had come here for tea and dinner and perhaps even the occasional ball, was both sad and wonderful all at once.
Turning toward a grimy window, she glanced out at the London scenery beyond. It was unusually bright and inviting now that it stood in contrast to this pitiable interior, which seemed to have been drained of all color. With a sigh, she went to the table where Mr. Gorrell waited and took a seat on the closest chair.
“I am not easily put off,” she told the solicitor, “at least not once I’ve set my mind to something.”
“Perhaps this list of necessary work will change your mind.” He handed her a piece of paper. “Since our previous meeting, I thought it prudent to ask a few laborers to give an assessment of the damage and what might be required in order to make the house habitable.”
“Thank you.” Amelia scanned the bold letters and the long column of words they formed. “The entire roof must be replaced?”
