Once again Miss Emma Hastings was reduced to timidity when she found herself riding with Mr. Birmingham in his lavish carriage. Its luxuriousness was quite beyond anything she had ever seen. The sumptuous seats of pale green velvet were trimmed in a rich gold braid that matched the tassels upon the window curtains. She wondered if the threads were made of real gold. A second son he might be, but Mr. Birmingham was unquestionably rich.

It was rather surprising, really, how kind he was to her—a complete stranger. Would it not have been easier to just offer his coach and dispatch her to High Holborn? It was as if he—an unquestionable sot—empathized with her. How could a man of such privilege so well understand the difficulties facing a lone young woman in a strange city many thousands of times larger than anything she'd ever seen?

Perhaps his kindness was likely to preserve himself from having to endure another session of her tearful hysterics. She must have sounded like gypsy wailer. It mortified her still that she had put on such an exhibition in front of him.

But, truth to tell, she could easily launch into another sobbing fit at the very thought of returning to Upper Barrington.

She wished to express her gratitude to him, but it was as if she'd lost her tongue. She felt so inadequate, like a barnyard hen beside a magnificent peacock. Mr. Birmingham must be accustomed to being with beautiful women who were genteel, well-dressed and clever members of the haute ton.

What must he think of her? She peered down at the sprigged muslin dress she'd sewn with her own inferior hand. Aunt Harriett insisted all her day dresses be constructed only of that girlish, modest fabric. Her lack of sophistication would be even more evident by her hand-knitted red shawl. From the glimpses of haute fashion she had observed in the pages of Ackermann's, she knew the young ladies in London would wear fine merino or velvet pelisses over their morning dresses.

Because of the trajectory of her thoughts, she finally came up with something to say to him. "I suppose Maria was very beautiful."

He was silent for a moment before answering in a woeful voice. "The most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I fell in love with her the first time I saw her upon the stage." Turning to Emma, he added, almost boastfully, "She's an Italian opera singer."

"You met her in Italy?"

He shook his head. "I've never been to Italy. She came to London for an exclusive performance. She'd been the toast of Naples."

Even though Emma had never seen Maria, she would vow that every man in that audience must have half fallen in love with the lovely opera singer. What man wouldn't be honored to win such a woman's affections?

But to Emma's thinking, it was Maria who had been the lucky one to have won Mr. Birmingham's affections—even if he was frightfully attached to the bottle. He was a very fine looking man. And exceedingly kind. And enormously wealthy. "When did you meet her?"

"Three years ago."

Emma might be a provincial, but she knew enough of the world to know that men did not marry women like Maria. They kept them as mistresses. (Much of Emma's education came from reading the Society columns in the London newspapers to which Aunt Harriett subscribed to.) A man with Mr. Birmingham's wealth would have been able to give the Italian woman anything his fortune could procure.

"She was your mistress?"

He did not meet her gaze but spoke crossly, eyeing his lap. "That is not a topic fit for a young lady's ears."

What had come over her? Emma knew better than to have asked so personal a question. "Forgive my impertinence."

"I daresay you're just unaccustomed to Society."

After they reached the address of Mr. Wycliff's establishment, Mr. Birmingham's coachman opened the door and lowered the step for them.

Mr. Birmingham was kind enough to offer his hand when she disembarked. How interesting it was for her to observe real barristers hurrying along the pavement in long, tightly curled white wigs and flowing black robes.

Every new sight and sound in the Capital exhilarated her. This city's vibrancy never waned, be it day or night. Such a diversity of people and professions she had never thought to see. Upper Barrington to London was like bread crumbs to a royal feast.

There was so much more she wanted to see. If only she didn't have to return to Upper Barrington. She knew if she went back, she'd never leave. She'd die an old maid just like her aunt. No man there was suited to be her life's mate.

Just as terrifying, once Aunt Harriett died, Emma wouldn’t even have a home in Upper Barrington. Therefore, she had been all the more grateful to her uncle for offering to share what he had with her.

Mr. Birmingham proffered his arm, and they entered the three-story building which housed the offices of Mr. Hugh Wycliff.

They located Mr. Wycliff's place of business on the second floor. The solicitor's clerk, a bespectacled man not much older than Emma, looked up from reading one of many dozens of bulging folders which cluttered his desk. "May I help you?"

Mr. Birmingham spoke. "Miss Hastings wishes to see Mr. Wycliff regarding her uncle, the late Mr. Simon Hastings."

The clerk nodded, rose from his desk, and went to an adjoining room. Seconds later he reemerged. "Please, come this way, Miss Hastings. Mr. Wycliff can see you now."

Mr. Wycliff's office was devoid of the piles of papers which cluttered the outer office. His corner office was lighted by eight tall windows and warmed by a red-brick fireplace.

The white-haired, well-fed gentleman stood when she entered, the expression on his face suitably grim, given the sad nature of her visit. "I offer you my most sincere condolences, Miss Hastings."

She nodded solemnly as he beckoned her and Mr. Birmingham to sit in the chairs opposite his desk. Even after he'd muttered his condolences, his face remained solemn and he refused to meet her gaze. Several seconds passed. He gave no indication he would initiate a conversation.

Finally, Mr. Birmingham spoke. "Miss Hastings arrived in London last night at her uncle's invitation, only to learn of Mr. Hastings' death."

"Very unfortunate," said Mr. Wycliff, shaking his head sorrowfully. "Just in the prime of life."

While five-and-fifty sounded quite old to Emma, she realized to a man of the solicitor's advanced years, five and fifty might seem young. "I would like to know when my uncle died."

Mr. Wycliff counted upon his fingers, mumbling under his breath. "Four days ago."

"He's been buried?"

"According to his wishes. He was laid to rest on Tuesday."

"Where?" She was surprised at the moroseness in her own voice.

"In the churchyard of St. Mary Magdalene."

She looked at Mr. Birmingham. "Do you know where that is?"

He nodded solemnly.

Her gaze returned to Mr. Wycliff. "I'd like to know more about my uncle's death. Had he been ill?"

"Not to my knowledge. He was fit and energetic. Seemed younger than his years, and he never missed a day going to his place of business in Southwark."

Her brows lowered. "Then what killed him?"

He shrugged. "We know not. A stomach complaint. His housekeeper said that he must have suddenly turned ill. All the servants had off Sunday, and when she went into the library on Monday morning, she found his body. He'd . . . excuse my indelicacy, Miss Hastings, but there was evidence that he'd . . . cast up his accounts, so to speak."

Tears sprang to her eyes, but this time—to her relief—she spared the present gentlemen her embarrassing display of wailing. The potent earlier tears had been for her own loss of hope. Now they were for her poor uncle. "How sad that he died alone."

Mr. Wycliff inclined his head. "Indeed."

"Miss Hastings would like to take possession of the house on Curzon Street," Mr. Birmingham said. "Do you have the keys?" That he'd been so quick to change the morose conversation convinced her that he feared she'd launch into another crying fit.

Mr. Wycliff nodded. "Your uncle's housekeeper—she's the one who originally came to tell me of his death—gave them to me yesterday after all the servants left."

"Do you know where I could reach her?" Emma asked. She would like to ask Uncle Simon's uppermost servant about him. Her eyes misted again. Now she would never know him.

"Let me see," the solicitor said, opening a drawer of his desk. "I put her direction somewhere. I knew I'd have to contact her regarding her legacy in your uncle's will. Mr. Hastings made provisions for his upper servants." He took out a piece of paper. "Oh, yes. Mrs. Thornton has taken a position at 151 Camden."

He copied it to another piece of paper and handed it to Emma.

Mr. Birmingham stood. "We'll just collect the keys and be on our way."

The solicitor did not respond. He did not make eye contact with either of them, but sat frozen in his chair for a moment. Finally, he eyed Mr. Birmingham. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Why?" Mr. Birmingham asked.

"Because the house does not belong to Miss Hastings."