Darling held tight to a leather strap overhead, looking slightly green around the gills. “If it’s this bad for us, how is poor Patrick faring?”
“I gave him the well-sprung carriage, but I’m sure the journey will be hard. His recuperation will be easier at home, though. You gave him the laudanum?”
“Yes. Not that he’ll use it. But one can hope.” Darling craned her neck to see out the dusty window. “Are we close to your godmother’s house?”
“I think so. Although after so long delayed at the inn, just the fact we are in London means we’re close.” The week had felt like a year. She and Darling had spent their days with Patrick, trying to keep his spirits high while they waited for help from home. His injury was too serious to risk placing him in the hands of strangers in a hired carriage. At least tending to his care had given her something to focus on besides her encounter with Lord Amesbury and the general dread she held for returning to London.
Town was so stifling—and she wasn’t used to those restrictions anymore. In the country, a maid was sufficient companionship for sticklers of propriety. But London society saw and judged everything. They gossiped behind chicken-skin fans, eviscerating the next generation over tea, living in the hope that they’d be the first to share the latest tale of misfortune—assuming the misfortune belonged to someone else.
Lottie’s days of wandering about as a perfectly capable unsupervised adult were behind her. Lady Agatha would fulfill the role of chaperone through the turbulent waters of the ton and with any luck would stomp on Lottie’s toes to prevent improper things such as conversations about the works of Mary Wollstonecraft.
Outside the window, the buildings transitioned from sporadic to claustrophobic, one structure built atop another. She probably wouldn’t want to wander in London anyway. Only a fool would attempt to navigate these streets alone.
“The town house in Berkeley Square is under construction at the moment. Aunt Agatha leased a home not far away, on Hill Street. The architect assures her they’ll finish before winter, but we shall see.”
At last, the carriage drew up to the address from Agatha’s most recent missive. An ancient man so thin he resembled a walking cadaver answered the door. He stared with a silent, unblinking stillness until Lottie handed him her card.
The butler bowed his head in acknowledgment, no movement wasted. “I am Dawson, milady. Lady Dalrymple awaits you in the front drawing room.”
“Thank you, Dawson.” Their steps echoed across the tile floor of the foyer, the sound filling the cavernous space before fading into the plasterwork on the ceiling. In the comfortable drawing room, her walking boots sank into the plush carpet.
“I see the prodigal child has returned at last,” Agatha said from her chair by the window.
“If you’re not serving fatted calf for dinner, I shall be bitterly disappointed.” Lottie kissed her godmother’s powdered cheek. Although she was still a striking woman, the lines in her face had deepened with time. Agatha had never been beautiful in the classic sense, but then, Lottie loved that about her. Too tall, too thin, and too angular for the popular definition of beauty, yet even at her age, she continued to influence both fashion and society. Lottie’s honorary aunt was distinctive and memorable—which was better than beautiful.
“Fatted calf?” The older woman raised an imperious brow. “I am sure we could have tracked down a bit of plump livestock to celebrate your return, had I known to expect you today. I thought you would be here days ago. Instead, here I sat, wasting away for want of a word from you.”
“Yes, Auntie, I can see you’re wallowing in the depths of despair at the idea of my demise on the road.” Lottie gestured to the tin of sweets next to the chair. “All of my best wallowing requires biscuits too.”
“Do not distract me with your impertinence. Tell me where you were.” Two thumps of her cane on the carpet punctuated the demand.
Lottie settled across from her godmother. The sunlight through the window illuminated the silvery curls peeking from beneath Agatha’s black lace cap. “I sent word after my initial post regarding the accident. Some of our fellow travelers ended up staying past their intended departures due to the rain. It must have delayed the post as well.”
“God does tend to let his wrath loose on the countryside. Yet another reason I prefer to stay in London. Regardless, it is good to see you, child. I assume you met Dawson on the way in.”
“Yes. Do we have guards at night to ward off the grave robbers? I imagine the body snatchers have been eyeing him for some time. He must be as old as Methuselah.”
Agatha’s bark of laughter had a rusty quality to it. “Mock all you like, but he is frightfully competent at his post.”
“He would have to be. After hundreds of years of experience, there would be little new you could throw at him. Wherever did you find him? And more importantly, does Stemson know you’re being served tea by another man?”
Agatha leveled a look at her. “Stemson nearly had apoplexy when I discussed moving the entire staff to this residence. One would think the architectural firm staffed highwaymen and brigands, the way he carried on. No, he insisted his place was at his post, keeping an eagle eye on the workmen, even though they came with the highest recommendations.” She offered Lottie the tin of biscuits, then waited while she selected one. “Dawson has been a satisfactory addition to my home. This house was leased with staff in place, all carefully vetted by a hiring agency. You do remember the purpose of a hiring agency, do you not? I do not search the gutters for my help.”
Lottie rolled her eyes at the old refrain. Her estate was filled with good people, but some of them had needed a second chance. Patrick
