By 10:52 a.m. she was plucking at her dress. Though Mrs. Samuels had laundered it (and even mended the lace Thea had so expeditiously sewn on two days ago), she’d still rather be wearing something else when Lord Tremayne came to call.
He’d surprised her last evening, arriving before she changed into the beautiful night rail he’d sent. What if—
Pure excitement raced through her veins. What if he meant to retrieve her reply personally? What if he were simply waiting until a socially acceptable time to call?
Was she truly expected to wait the entire day before “posting” her note?
Horrors!
At 11:06 a.m. she jumped up, thinking to dash to her rented room in the unsavory part of London to gather what few personal items she retained. Everything of value had long since been sold, and though a single one of Lord Tremayne’s leather gloves (if not a single finger on a single glove) was surely worth more than the sum total of all she possessed, the thought of greeting him in something other than her old olive dress drove her onward.
But the reluctance to return there made her pause…
The thought of visiting the dingy room threatened to suck dry all the joy she’d felt today. Yet there was one item she’d grieve were it to disappear, which was more than likely to happen the longer she left the space abandoned: her hairbrush, a gift from her mother when Thea was but twelve and right before her doting parent succumbed to a swift illness. The handle was fancy, the boar bristles soothing.
That was surely worth retrieving.
But what if, during her trek across town, she missed his arrival?
At 11:08 a.m., conflicted, she dropped back down.
11:16 a.m.
“No, thank you, I still have this last cup.”
11:17 a.m.
“I’m glad my color is better, and aye, the shawl is quite warm. I appreciate the loan of it.” And aye, I’ve learned my lesson about timed humming.
12:24 p.m.
“Thank you. Lunch would be lovely.”
“I saw yer eyes spark at those scones. Making a peach cobbler now, I am. ’Tis my duty to fatten ye up.”
12:47 p.m.
“Please don’t think it’s your bountiful offering; I’m simply not hungry. Such a large breakfast, you know.”
Such worry-induced indigestion, you know.
1:03 p.m.
If that clock doesn’t start ticking with more alacrity, I’ll wring its scrawny neck…
1:20 p.m. (and fourteen s-l-o-w ticks of the second hand)
Oh, doom me to Devonshire! I’m turning into Mr. Hurwell!
That unpalatable thought ringing in her mind, Thea returned the shawl (she didn’t want the damp weather messing with the fine yarn) and asked Mrs. Samuels if she could spare a hunk of cheese (which the woman did, her perplexity only growing when Thea explained it was for George and Charlotte).
Moments later, she set off, refusing Mr. Samuels’ offer of escort, insisting her errand would best be conducted alone. In truth, she would have been comforted by the company, the thought of confronting Grimy Grimmett nearly enough to make her embrace Clock Watching as a full-time occupation, but she was made of sterner stuff than that.
Asides, knowing—and with a great degree of certainty—that she had Lord Tremayne’s arrival to look forward to upon her return only hastened her feet once she left her new residence.
Hastened her down one damp street and then another.
Hastened her a bit faster when the tiny drizzle turned to a full-out downpour…
Until Thea realized, more than a little taken aback, that she was totally and completely lost. Lost and without the fare to pay a hack—had she any notion of her new address. Which she didn’t.
Middlesex could’ve been Mercury for all she recognized through her dripping lashes.
Surely she wasted half the afternoon searching for a familiar landmark, but she might as well have taken the slow coach to Scotland for all the good her wandering did.
Early that morning, Daniel received a letter—just not the one he was anticipating.
Dan—
Jackson’s — 10 a.m.
P
And people thought he was abrupt?
The summons wasn’t entirely unexpected. But the timing was. Disappointing, if not downright disheartening.
So instead of whiling the morning away, fiddling with that pesky gear, the one that hung up every time he tried to get Uranus orbiting properly, while awaiting Thea’s next missive, he packed up his pugilistic paraphernalia and hied off to #9 Bond Street. Ready to get his face boxed, if not his ears.
It was nearing noon and Penry had yet to put in an appearance. Or grace Daniel with the ragging he knew was coming.
Slam! Daniel got in a solid jab, then danced back on his toes to the cheers of several men who’d gathered to watch when his latest opponent had issued the challenge over twenty minutes ago. Hell, it was the third person he’d sparred with today and he’d hardly even broken a sweat.
Certainly didn’t know the name of the prig he currently shared the ring with, some young blood back in town after his Grand Tour. A cocky upstart who’d insisted they fight gloveless, and without wrapped hands, so Daniel would “feel the wrath of my every knuckle plowing into your flesh, old man.”
Old man? Who did this coxcomb think he was dealing with? Methuselah?
Daniel owed it to every male with less than three and a half decades in his cup to take the blustery fribble down a notch. And he’d been doing it in style.
Child’s play, really.
Ducking, spinning, landing a nice one-two on the chap’s not-so-cocky-anymore chin, slowly but surely wiping that smug expression off his face.
Giving his mind way too much time to ponder his friend’s unexpected absence.
Was Penry trying to serve some sort of mangled justice by not showing on time? Doubtless, given his cryptic note, he had an earful to deliver concerning the Everson boy. And even though Daniel was no longer a grateful lad of eight, he respected the man enough to listen to any advice he cared to impart.
After all, hadn’t it been Penry, back then known to a young Daniel simply as
