The pavement was likewise heaving, doxies readying themselves for departing bucks, hawkers selling ribbons and song-sheets, but Amelia swung around the corner and into Russell Street, where a line of hackney carriages awaited trade.
Ignoring the first sly-looking three, she found a fellow dozing upon his carriage step, a dog on his lap.
She kicked his booted foot. “Hanover Square.”
“Eh?” One eye opened to drift over her curls, down her dress and land on her silk slippers. “Yer ain’t running aways, are yer? I don’t want Bow Street on me tail. Show me yer coin.”
Amelia muttered beneath her breath as she’d given all her coin to the maid. “The butler at Hanover can pay you.”
“And me brains are in me ballocks. Night.” And he closed his eyes.
With a scowl, she began to draw the long necklace from her cleavage. As a rule, she would not resort to this but when needs must. “I do have this, however.”
“I don’t care if yer’ve got–” His eyes widened at the single black feather dangling from her necklace. Then he scrambled to his feet, the dog letting out a yowl. “Bloody hell, the Prince… Yes, me lady…er… Princess. I mean…”
“I’ll pay when we reach Hanover.”
“No need.” And he opened the door with a swish, nose at knees. “Always a pleasure to do service fer His Highness.”
Amelia clambered inside. It smelled of wet dog but not much caring, she sat back against the squab.
It had been a useful evening, she told herself, albeit with more questions than answers. Lady Twyford’s confession had been unexpected and now Hugh would focus on Lady Tremlach.
This was their work. She knew that.
Her hand quivered upon the reticule ribbons as she fumbled for a handkerchief.
This was what they had to do.
A senseless, foolish tear seeped and she palmed it away.
Do what they must.
Another followed. Then another.
Amelia let them flow.
Her one chance as Cinderella in silks had come to an end.
And just like that night in the fairy tale…
She was alone.
