Not a moment later and with greatcoat capes fluttering, Hugh dashed out the door and down the steps, boots eating up the pavement towards the south-west corner, eyes darting hither and thither.
Little Brook Street led off and he commenced down it with some speed because once she hit the juncture of Bond Street, he might lose…
Ah ha!
Snuff-coloured skirts and a carpetbag marched ahead.
To Piccadilly, perhaps?
For what? Perchance to meet with a Raven? Or someone connected with Ross’ death?
He skulked twenty or so yards behind her, keeping close to the buildings and–
“Newspaper, Sir?” A grubby urchin flappedThe Timesat him.
“I have it delivered,” Hugh bit out, endeavouring to keep an eye on those snuff skirts as they paused at the juncture, evaded a carriage and then…continued on.
Not Piccadilly then, and he watched as she turned right up South Molton Street.
Hugh reclaimed his stride.
For a lady of diminutive height, she walked with rapid step, compact and fluid, rarely halting, but he supposed a governess, without lady’s maid or chaperone, was compelled to hasten and make herself invisible on the streets of London where all sorts of lecherous buck roamed.
South Molton was uncrowded at this time of day, so he was obliged to lag a little further behind until she reached the never-ending bustle of Oxford Street.
But why had she exited the Square from the furthest corner from their current location?
As she peered into a shop window, he dallied outside Laurie & Marner carriage makers, was offered a discount on a smart green curricle by Mr Laurie and then handed a pamphlet on the miracles of foot massage.
But his minx of a governess was now weaving through the crowds with head down and elbows out – like a bloody bull in a field of cows.
She passed the Stratford Hotel, but as he did likewise, his nostrils caught the whiff of delectable beef broth, mouth-watering chicken pie and–
With an abrupt twist of heel, she scurried into Tupps Bun Shop and he wondered if he had a moment to nip into the hotel for a pint and pie as his lack of breakfast had begun to make itself known.
No. Because she dashed out again, stuffing a box of doubtless appetising buns into that capacious carpetbag of hers.
Now she hurtled on past the plethora of stores on Oxford Street – a mingle-mangle of jewellers, tobacconists, hosiers, and tallow chandlers, the thoroughfare chock-full of hawkers, song-sheet sellers, and diminutive but odorous piles of manure. His governess seemed able to sidestep the lot of them, whereas he was halted at every moment by bawling pasty sellers, spitting shoe shiners and plucking flower girls – a lodestone for every Tom, Dick and Harriet seeking to part him from his coin.
His prey paused at the junction of New Bond Street…not for the first time. Then commenced down it.
This refined street was even more congested, for the fashionable set strutted, window shopping, prattling and getting in his damn way.
Miss Jones bustled on and he continued his pursuit.
Blenheim Coffee House tempted with its luscious scent of roasted beans.
The Green Man public house lured with its whiff of ale, liver and onions.
Even Owen and Bentley’s ices appeared appetising, despite the frigid spring day.
Gads, this was torment: he was starving and–
All of a sudden, they were at Little Brook Street again.
Indeed, they’d walked a complete polygon, and he speculated if they were now heading home to Hanover Square? An utter waste of time for all concerned, although at least breakfast would be…
No such luck as she crossed Little Brook, skirted a few gentlemen on horseback and continued down Bond Street before pausing outside Barker’s Repository of Sweets, where a further gaggle of females cooed over sugar-coated pink bon bons.
