Avoiding a tea party wasn’t something Amelia had planned on doing, but it would be a necessity if she was going to keep the appointment she’d made for later that day. So she deliberately remained in bed for another two hours after waking, until Juliette eventually came to knock on her door.

“Are you all right?” she asked, popping her head in the room.

Amelia groaned from beneath the comforter she’d pulled up over her head. “I have the most dreadful megrim.”

“Oh dear.” Juliette stepped further into the room and carefully closed the door behind her. “Perhaps some chamomile tea will help? I can ask a maid to bring some up along with a breakfast tray.”

“Thank you. That would be lovely.”

Amelia ate the food as soon as it arrived and finished her tea while Juliette sat in a nearby chair and kept her company. “How do you feel now?” she asked when Amelia pushed the tray aside and leaned back against the pillows propping her up.

“As though three angry little men are hammering away on my skull right here, here and here.” She pointed to the sides of her head and to the top.

“Would you like me to send for the doctor?”

Amelia forced a weak smile. “I’m not so sure there’s a lot he can do. This will eventually go away on its own and without the expense of a doctor.”

Juliette chuckled. “It’s not as though we can’t afford it now, and I’m sure Raphe wouldn’t mind.”

“That isn’t the point, Julie.” Wincing, she started massaging her temples for effect. “I wouldn’t mind spending the money if I thought a doctor would help, but I doubt he would do anything besides telling me to get some rest. And if he were to suggest bloodletting—”

“Doctor Florian doesn’t advocate that practice, Amelia.”

Struck by her sister’s unusually sharp tone and the defensiveness it conveyed, Amelia couldn’t help but ask, “How do you know?”

With a shrug, Juliette gave her attention to her skirt, which apparently needed picking at that precise moment. “He mentioned it when I was sick with the measles.”

Her illness five weeks earlier had been a terrifying experience for all of them. Raphe’s secretary, Richardson, had recommended the young doctor on account of his broadmindedness and the keen interest he supposedly had for unconventional methods, but in the end, it had been Gabriella and Raphe who’d helped Juliette through the illness since there had been little else for them to do but make her comfortable.

“If you’ll recall, Doctor Florian initially suspected influenza. It wasn’t until his follow-up visit that he realized I had the measles. When Raphe asked him if there was something he could do to help me, Florian launched into a lengthy denouncement of purging, bloodletting and something else that I fail to recall at this moment. He insisted it does more harm than good.”

“You speak of him with great respect.”

“It is nothing more than what his profession and intellect demand.”

Amelia wondered how much of the man’s intellect her sister could possibly have been subjected to during their brief acquaintance. As far as she knew, the two had met only twice and that had been while Juliette had been racked by fever and feeling miserable. To suppose they might have enjoyed a philosophical discourse, or shared their political views or anything else that might have led Juliette to form an accurate opinion of his mental prowess was highly unlikely. Which made the whole thing all the more intriguing since it did suggest that her sister might be fostering a greater interest in the doctor, even if she had yet to be made aware of it herself.

“What time is it?” Amelia asked, deciding to drop the subject.

Crossing to the chest of drawers on which the clock sat, Juliette studied the time. “Eleven thirty. We’re supposed to leave in about three hours.”

Amelia pushed out a breath. “I dread it already.”

“Perhaps you should stay home.”

“Do you think Lady Everly would agree to let me do that? She is taking her responsibility as our sponsor far more seriously than I would ever have imagined, what with the list of suitors she presented and all the events she plans on taking us to.”

“It does appear as though Raphe’s concerns about her suitability were grossly misplaced, though I must confess I’m enjoying the dowager duchess’s company, as well.”

“As am I,” Amelia admitted. The lady was far more approachable than she would have imagined a woman of her standing to be.

“Not to mention that it gives you plenty of opportunity to spend some more time with her son.” Juliette grinned. “Honestly, Raphe couldn’t have planned this any better if he’d known about your affection for Coventry.”

Amelia crossed her arms with a shake of her head. “There’s nothing to it.”

“Of course there isn’t.” But Juliette’s smile suggested she didn’t buy that lie for a second. Thankfully, she chose not to pursue it, saying instead, “Leave Lady Everly to me, Amelia. I’ll see to it that she doesn’t press you about going out today.” Rising, Juliette leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Amelia’s cheek. “Try to sleep a bit more. You won’t feel the pain if you do.”

To do so was of course out of the question. Especially since Amelia felt perfectly fine and remarkably awake. She longed to get out of bed and proceed with her day, but knew she could not risk doing so if she were to truly convince Lady Everly of her need to stay home. So she stared up at the ceiling and waited for the hours to tick by. They did so with infernal slowness, allowing her plenty of time in which to consider the dances she’d shared with Coventry the day before.

He’d been perfectly gallant, of course, and considerate of her apprehension. She still hoped he hadn’t suspected the cause of it—that he’d simply supposed it stemmed from her inexperience with the steps, which it might have done if her partner had been anyone else but him. But it hadn’t been, and because of that, her heart had launched itself into her throat the moment he’d arrived and his mother had asked him to help. She could still feel the heat of his hand burning her skin, her stomach once again aflutter at the memory of his smile directed at her as he’d led her about.

And rather than portraying refined elegance, she’d been as light on her feet as an ox plowing a muddy field would have been if it were also dragging a cartload of stone behind it. Flinging her arm across her face she let out a groan. Why did he have to divest her of her senses so? She was having a hard enough time recalling correct etiquette, posture and speech without him constantly muddling her brain.

She knew she tended to tense up in her effort to overcome it, which invariably resulted in more mistakes than she’d otherwise make if he weren’t present. And then there was the self-awareness she now harbored on account of a few cruel words—the knowledge that she could never hope to win a man like him. Everything combined to make dancing with him the sweetest kind of torture.

And yet, he’d miraculously managed to put her at ease during the waltz, a feat she would not have thought possible until it had been accomplished. His hands had found her waist—something that would have made her stop breathing if he hadn’t lifted her up in the air. She’d been so shocked by the unexpectedness of it that all tension had fled her body, replaced by nothing but utter delight at the weightlessness she’d experienced. For a moment, she’d imagined what birds must feel like without gravity anchoring them to the ground. She remembered laughing too, because if something like that didn’t warrant laughter, she really didn’t know what might.

It had been incredible; a welcome distraction from her thoughts. And it had made her relax just as Coventry had wanted her to, if only for a moment. But while the whole experience had left her feeling breathless and more enamored than ever before, she knew better than to suppose he might hold a similar regard for her. The man was simply being helpful and kind. That was all there was to it and all there would ever be since she was not at all the sort of woman a man like him would consider marrying. Not for a fleeting second.

With this in mind, Amelia set her fantasies of Coventry aside and considered the task that had kept her at home today. Waiting until the front door closed with a thud, she went to the window and gave her attention to the street below where Coventry, having come to collect Juliette and Lady Everly as promised, assisted them into his carriage. Amelia watched with an ache in her chest until he’d climbed in as well and the conveyance had driven away. Expelling a sigh of relief, she then pondered her next dilemma, which would of course be leaving the house unnoticed, especially by Pierson. Well, there was nothing for it but to try. The man she intended to meet would not wait more than ten minutes for her at most, which meant she had to get going if she was to make her appointment.

Crossing to her wardrobe, she pushed aside all her pretty new dresses and pulled out the one she’d been wearing the day she’d arrived here. Fashioned from coarse brown wool, it itched in a way she hadn’t noticed until she’d tried wearing fine muslin and silk. But considering where she was heading, anonymity would be a priority. Any sign of finery would likely get her robbed.

She stared at herself in the mirror once she was finished, studying her simple hairstyle, the lack of embellishment and the unappealing cut of her dress, which was further enhanced by the shapeless bonnet she’d put on her head. Raphe had bought it for her years ago as a gift for her birthday, an extravagance she’d found upsetting back then, even though she’d been pleased by his kindness. The brim had lost its stiffness some time ago, prompting it to sag in the middle. Compared with the ones she now owned, some might say it was a tragic catastrophe—certainly not the sort of thing the sister of a duke would ever consider wearing. Which was just perfect since it would hopefully prevent anyone from suspecting who she was as she made her way toward Bainbridge and High streets where the slums of St. Giles began.

Oddly, Thomas felt a distinct twinge of disappointment when Lady Everly told him that Lady Amelia would not be joining them. Although he wasn’t planning to attend the tea party himself but to merely escort the women there, he’d looked forward to spending a little time with her on the ride over. “I do hope she feels better soon,” he said as they plodded along Piccadilly.

“I’m sure she will since she isn’t very prone to megrims.” Juliette’s brow knit in thought. “In fact, I don’t recall her having one before. I’m usually the one feeling ill.”

This statement had him sitting up straighter. “Do you suppose it might be a symptom of something more serious? Perhaps you ought to return home just in case she starts feeling worse.”

“We won’t be gone long as it is—just a couple of hours,” Lady Everly said, “and according to Juliette, Amelia plans to sleep during that time, so I hardly think our presence, or lack thereof, will make an ounce of difference.”

“I rather agree,” Thomas heard his mother say from her spot beside him. “Megrims are a common enough ailment, unpleasant as they may be.”

Relenting to their argument, Thomas kept quiet for the remainder of their journey while the ladies discussed the peeresses whose company they were about to keep.

“I intend to run a few errands while you take your tea,” he said when they pulled up in front of Dorset House a few minutes later. “What time should I come to collect you?”

“Shall we say half-past four?” his mother suggested.

Agreeing, Thomas escorted the ladies to the front door and waited until they were all safely inside the building before returning to his carriage and continuing on his way. He’d promised Jeremy some new paints and was happy to oblige, not only because he could see that the boy took pleasure in mixing the colors and spreading them out on his canvases, but because it was clear that he was developing a talent.

Having instructed his driver about their destination, Thomas sat back and looked out the window. Unfortunately, the shop was located at the farthest end of Oxford Street, which would place him right on the fringe of St. Giles. Granted, one had to venture farther north or south to really notice the drastic contrast to Mayfair, but encountering the occasional street urchin or beggar would still be possible, which was why he usually sent a footman to manage the task. But since he was already out and not too far, he’d decided to see to it himself for the sake of efficiency.

Outside the carriage, he could see a varying array of architectural styles sitting wall to wall with each other. Some were angular in shape, lacking any form of embellishments whatsoever, while others were decorated with swirling filigree moldings and decorative columns. He’d been inside several of these homes over the years, and knew therefore that to judge them on their exterior appearances alone would be a mistake since some of the simplest looking ones contained the most lavish interiors.

Turning up Princess Street, the carriage made its way toward Soho Square. A light drizzle started up, the fine little droplets dotting the windowpane and prompting the pedestrians to bow their heads as they walked. He considered them—the ladies in their finery and the gentlemen wearing top hats—and thought of how strange and exotic this world must appear to Huntley and his sisters. Yes, they’d lived an aristocratic life as children, but they’d all been so young when they’d lost their parents that he wondered how much of it they could remember.

For a second, he tried to imagine what it must have been like for them to lose everything, suffering through years of hardship only to be forced back into a society that would happily reject them at the first available opportunity. He shook his head, unable to fathom their ability to persevere in the face of such constant opposition. Perhaps . . .

Straightening himself, he stared at the people out in the street. One person stood apart from the rest on account of her clothing. Not even a scullery maid would dare to dress like that, and there was something about the way in which she walked—something familiar. As his carriage drove past her, he turned to look at her face. It was slightly concealed beneath the ugliest bonnet he’d ever seen and tilted in such a way that he only caught sight of the lower part of her profile. But it was enough. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman out there was Lady Amelia, hurrying off to only God knew where with an urgency that replaced the immediate anger he felt because of her scheming with a mixture of curiosity and alarm.

Where the devil did she think she was going? The carriage moved on and he lost sight of her. Waiting a moment, he knocked on the carriage roof, signaling for the driver to pull over and stop. The second he did so, Thomas jumped out, keeping the carriage between himself and the pavement so Lady Amelia wouldn’t see him.

“Wait for me here,” he told his coachman before edging his way along the street until he caught sight of Lady Amelia once more. She’d passed him in the short time it had taken him to alight, allowing him to cross the street and pursue her unnoticed.

Instinct tempted him to call out in greeting. He’d take some savage satisfaction in her startled expression when he asked her what the bloody hell she was up to. Damn, but the little twit hadn’t even thought to bring along a chaperone! And if something happened to her, it would be on his head. Huntley would murder him where he stood and rightfully so.

Christ, he was going to wring her neck when he caught up with her, but not before figuring out what harebrained insanity might have prompted her to feign sickness so she could meander about Town in such scruffy attire. One thing was certain—he was more likely to find out if he followed her than if he stopped her and asked. So he kept his distance as they wove their way toward High Street.

Keeping several yards between them, he watched her cross the street. Drawing a staggering breath, he felt his heart clench. Dear God, she was heading straight for Seven Dials, and he would have to go after her in order to ensure her safety. Only he wasn’t dressed to blend in, but rather as a prime candidate for a mugging. Steeling himself, he started across the street while pondering all the ways in which he’d like to throttle her for being so reckless. She obviously had no regard for her own safety, never mind the fact that he would likely return to Dorset House smelling of sewage. Already, the putrid stench of filth was drifting toward him, not the least bit dampened by the rain.

But rather than head up Bainbridge as he’d expected, she stopped in front of a large building that would have been handsome had it not been so neglected, and knocked. The paint peeled, and from where he stood a short distance away, he could see that several roof tiles were missing. The windows were also in bad shape. Some were only cracked, but several had holes in them while one had been boarded up where the glass had gone missing. Keeping his eyes fixed on Lady Amelia, he watched with interest as the front door opened and an older gentleman with thick white hair and bushy whiskers came into view. He greeted Lady Amelia and waved her inside. The door was promptly shut, leaving Thomas to wonder how on earth she might be acquainted with Mr. Gorrell and what business a woman like her could possibly have with one of London’s most notorious solicitors.