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Miss”—he looked enquiringly at Cassandra—

      “Kent,” she said quickly.

      “—is but recently come to town, but finds herself at a stand for lodgings, her friends not having returned as soon as they were expected. Your best course,” he said, addressing Cassandra, “will be to put up at one of the hotels.”

      Mrs. Nettleton nodded her approval, but the look she gave Cassandra was shrewd and appraising.

      “Do you live far from London?”

      More invention came into Cassandra’s head. “I have come from Bath, where I resided until recently. I am a widow, my husband was wounded at Waterloo, and was never well again, and he died last year. From his wounds. My friends, Mr. and Mrs. Fortescue, dwell in Wimpole Street.” Cassandra had little idea of where Wimpole Street was, but had heard Emily describe it as the kind of place where maiden aunts with no great social position or money often chose to live.

      Mrs. Nettleton looked faintly surprised. “Wimpole Street? Indeed. I would have thought…but that is no matter. Are there no servants at home?”

      “The knocker is off the door. They have been away in Scotland, but were due to return last week; I can only conclude they have been delayed. I hope no mishap can have befallen them.”

      “Is your stay in London to be of some while?” Mrs. Nettleton asked.

      Cassandra blushed. “I intend to establish myself here, I am well-taught as an artist, and I hope that I may find employment instructing young ladies”—she turned with a smile to Mr. Rudge—“as Herr Winter did me.”

      “Have you no family in London, no other acquaintance?” Mrs. Nettleton said.

      “I fear not. My parents are dead, I have no brothers or sisters.” Cassandra felt a momentary qualm, consigning her mama to the grave, but she didn’t want Mr. Rudge to pursue the subject of her family; it was best to keep away from the county of Kent.

      Mrs. Nettleton searched in her reticule and produced a card, which she handed to Cassandra. It was engraved in an elegant copperplate, and gave her address as 7 St. James’s Square.

      “It so happens that I have a room which I let out from time to time, only to ladies of good family, and generally to persons I know. My house is large, and I am glad of the company that a lodger provides. It is a comfortable apartment, on the second floor.”

      Cassandra stared at the card and then looked up at Mrs. Nettleton. Could her problem be solved in this fortuitous way?

      “You know nothing about me,” she said.

      “Mr. Rudge vouches for your master, at least, and I am sure Herr Winter would instruct none but those who came from the best houses, is that not so, Mr. Rudge?”

      “Indeed, a man of Herr Winter’s standing and reputation might pick and choose where he chose to teach, and I did hear that he has pupils at several great houses in his neighbourhood…” Mr. Rudge looked questioningly at Cassandra.

      “That is so,” said Cassandra. “But he also instructs young people from more modest establishments, such as myself. My late papa was a clergyman.”

      Why had she not thought to say that sooner? It was not so far from the truth as some of her wicked lies, for was not her stepfather, although still alive, an ordained clergyman?

      The clerical touch worked magic. Mrs. Nettleton and Mr. Rudge beamed approval. She was placed, she was respectable.

      “Pray step round at any time to suit you,” said Mrs. Nettleton. “You have my direction. Where are you staying at present?”

      “With my old nurse, in Parker Street, but it is not precisely convenient for her…”

      “And not suitable for a young lady such as yourself,” said Mrs. Nettleton firmly. “I have a numerous acquaintance; perhaps it will be possible for me to find some houses with daughters in need of a drawing teacher.”

      “I will keep my ears open, also,” promised Mr. Rudge, “although it is an overcrowded profession, especially here in London. However, a pupil of Herr Winter’s would come highly recommended, I feel sure.”

      The two women left the shop together, shaking hands as they stood outside on the pavement.

      “I hope to see you soon, my dear Mrs. Kent,” said Mrs. Nettleton. “Shall we say tomorrow morning?”

      Cassandra walked back to Covent Garden with a lighter heart than she had had for many days. Even the hostility of Mrs. Dodd, who was not her old nurse at all, but James Eyre’s, could not upset her that evening. Mrs. Dodd thoroughly disapproved of her, for she had a great fondness for James, as was only natural, and knew that he and Cassandra had had a violent quarrel. Cassandra suspected that only the knowledge that Mr. Eyre would expect to find Cassandra there when he came back prevented Mrs. Dodd from tossing her and her possessions out into the street. She was grateful for that small mercy, but nonetheless, she must be gone before James did return. He was in Ireland, to visit a sick godfather, from whom he had expectations; he had said he would be away less than a week, and that time was nearly up.

      She had arrived at Parker Street in Covent Garden in quite a different mood to that of the present. Their departure from Bath had been sudden and thrilling, slipping out from Laura Place at midnight, the door left on the latch for her by a reluctant Petifer, with the few things she could bring with her hastily made into a bundle.

      She had left a note for Mrs. Cathcart, saying that she was bound for Gretna Green; this she had laid on her own pillow, knowing that by the time it was discovered in the morning, she and James would be many miles on their way northwards.

      It was not until the first raptures of their journey had abated, that Cassandra had discovered they were not heading for the border.

      “On reflection, my love,” James had said, “I came to the conclusion that we are better off in London. It will be harder for them to trace or follow us, you know, and after all we do not wish to be hauled back like a pair of school runaways. In London, we may make our plans without any fear of interference.”

      Cassandra would willingly have accepted a suggestion that they set off for the steppes or the wilds of Turkestan, if that had been what James wanted. He was older than she was, and much more experienced in the ways of the world. And the last thing she wanted was to find Mrs. Cathcart banging on an inn door on the road to Scotland, summoning her for retribution and separating her from James.

      She asked whether they could be married so easily in London, since she was underage, but he smiled at her tenderly, and said that anything could be arranged in London, she was to leave it all to him. It might take a little time to arrange, but as long as they were together, what did a few days matter?

      “We had best tell Mrs. Dodd that we are married, however,” he said. “I do not suppose you have a ring you could wear, no, of course not. We must stop and purchase one, only I am very short of funds just at present. It’s a dashed nuisance.”

      “I have my mother’s wedding ring,” Cassandra said. “Will Mrs. Dodd believe that you are married, with no announcement of an engagement or a wedding?”

      “She is used to my impulsive ways, and when she meets you, she will love you as much as I do, and not ask any awkward questions, you need have no fears on that score.”

      Mrs. Dodd did not seem exactly enthusiastic over their arrival, but she was obviously fond of James, if suspicious of Cassandra. “You’re in a scrape, James, and too old for me to get you out of it as I used to when you were a little boy. You may have the best bedchamber, you and the new Mrs. Eyre.”

      Even if there was a hint of sarcasm in Mrs. Dodd’s voice, it warmed Cassandra’s heart to be called Mrs. Eyre. And an idyllic night of love with her beloved James made her care even less when and how their marriage was to take place. She was living for the moment, and these moments were filled with rapture and happiness. In the daytime, they strolled arm in arm about London, exploring and laughing

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