“Nelly?” she said quietly.
“Yes, miss.”
“Do you ever have the impression,” Francesca continued, her tone entirely conversational, “that one is being observed when one would prefer not to be?”
Nelly did not answer immediately, which, in itself, was answer enough.
“Yes, miss,” she said at last. “I was just considering whether or not it was my imagination.”
“It is not,” Francesca replied.
“Do you wish to return?”
“No.” She gave that answer more quickly.
Nelly glanced at her. “Then we must give whoever it is something very dull to observe.”
Francesca allowed herself the faintest smile. “My thought precisely.”
They turned onto a broader street, where the traffic of carriages and pedestrians increased sufficiently to provide both cover and distraction. Francesca adjusted her gloves as they walked, keeping her posture relaxed and her expression composed.
“If someone is following us, we must appear entirely uninteresting,” she said quietly.
“A lady about her ordinary business,” Nelly said.
“Yes.”
“What would you consider ordinary, miss?”
Francesca gazed ahead, where a bookseller’s window displayed a modest arrangement of volumes. “We shall begin with books,” she said.
The shop was narrow but well kept, its interior lined with shelves that rose nearly to the ceiling. The scent of paper and binding glue were distinct from the street outside. A bell chimed as they entered, and the proprietor looked up with polite interest.
Francesca moved slowly through the space, selecting volumes with the deliberation of someone who had nowhere else to be. She paused over a treatise on agricultural improvements, then another on political economy, though she did not immediately purchase either. She did not look towards the door… but she was aware of it.
Her senses told her of the door’s opening and of the shift in the air that accompanied a new presence.
Nelly moved slightly closer to her. “Miss,” she murmured, as though commenting upon a book, “we are not alone.”
“No,” Francesca agreed quietly.
“Shall we remain?”
“For a moment.” She selected a volume at random and carried it to the counter, engaging the proprietor in a brief discussion regarding its contents. Her voice remained calm, her manner entirely composed. Then she arranged for its purchase and delivery.
If Thomas Kendall stood somewhere behind her then he would see nothing beyond what he expected: a lady engaged in the mild pursuit of improvement.
When they left, Francesca did not hasten. They walked on.
“Where to next, miss?” Nelly asked.
Francesca glanced ahead, where a milliner’s shop displayed a selection of gloves and hats in muted tones suitable for the season.
“There,” she said. The shop was brighter than the bookseller’s, its windows arranged to catch what light the afternoon allowed. Silks and ribbons adorned the interior, and the milliner herself greeted Francesca with immediate attentiveness.
“Miss Vale,” she said. “How may I assist you?”
“I find myself in need of gloves,” Francesca replied, “and perhaps a hat suitable for morning calls.”
