leave me alone. I have nothing at all that you could want.’
‘Do you not now?’ The largest boy at the front looked her over. ‘Seems to me you are mighty pretty to be alone.’
‘If you touch me, I will hurt you.’
Blackened teeth showed. ‘How did you plan to do that? You are a little on the small side.’
‘The crushing of a foe holds no correlation with the size of one’s muscles. It’s all here, you see, in the head. Give me one moment to lay you out flat on the road or be gone. I have no time to tarry.’
Such confidence seemed to quell a little of the bravado displayed by the group and Lottie pushed her advantage.
‘Well, hurry up. What’s it to be? A fight or the wisdom to retreat?’
‘You ain’t scared, miss?’ A boy from behind the first asked this question, his eyes full of puzzlement.
‘Of course not. I see boys just like you around the Fairclough Foundation on Howick Place, but its seldom one has the temerity to threaten me.’
‘Miss Fairclough?’ Another lanky youth detached himself from the group. ‘It’s you?’
‘Indeed it is.’ She squinted to see his face better, not wanting to extricate her spectacles from the bag which had begun all this nonsense in the first place and draw notice to her possessions. ‘Who are you?’
‘My cousin, Emmeline Fraser, is learning to sew at your school. She loves going there.’
The tone of the group had subtly changed now. It was something to steal from a stranger and quite another thing to do it from a friend.
‘Emmeline’s mother no doubt would be most upset to hear about this awkward meeting then should I find the need to tell her of it.’
The first challenger had stepped back now and the others had followed. She used such indecision to her advantage.
‘Well, I shall bid you all goodbye and I hope next time we see each other it might be in happier circumstances.’
The passageway was opened to her and Lottie stepped through, taking care to lift her skirts over the drain that ran down the middle of the road. The hard anger inside had lessened now, but fright lingered. She really ought to have taken her maid, Claire, with her today as the walk was a reasonable distance and a further fracas was something she did not need.
Smoothing down her golden skirt, she tidied the tendrils of her hair and took in a deep breath.
She could not afford to lose heart if she stood any chance of completing what she had set out to do. Shoving her thick woollen cloak back, she checked to make sure the note she had spent a long time writing last night was still in her pocket. If words failed her at least, she had this to give him. Mr Jasper King. She hoped all this effort would come to something.
After the unsettling meeting with the street youths Lottie wondered if she could still manage to complete her task. Shaking her head hard, she stepped forward. Of course she could. If she were to fail then her sister Millie would marry a man who was overzealous, ridiculous and pedantic to boot and she would be miserable. Lottie could not let that happen.
After walking another quarter of an hour, the streets held a greater cleanliness and beauty and she loosened her guard a little. Great George Street had a different feel from the narrow dank alleyways that sat in the shadows of Westminster Abbey and she was glad to have arrived there.
Jasper King’s sister was called Mrs Gibson, a woman she had met once a few years ago on a committee set up for the Betterment of Women at Risk. Lottie prayed she would remember their association and allow her entrance, but this was just another problem on a day of many. She sniffed and felt red-raw pain sear her throat. She had lost her handkerchief somewhere and had not thought to add a spare to the contents of her reticule.
Her nose was dripping.
Using the back of her hand so as not to stain her dress, she wiped away the moisture, looking up at the house she had finally reached just as the sun came out, its brightness reflecting upon the glass and sending a shaft of light down on the street before her.
Perhaps this was an omen? Perhaps right at this moment Millie was already being courted at the party in the country by a man for whom she could hold a tendre. Lottie frowned even as the thought of what she was doing here had her crossing her heart, such a deception probably the worst idea she had ever concocted.
Lady Alexandra’s parties had always been full of people for whom Lottie held little liking, with their penchant for the chitter-chatter of nonsense and shared gossip. It had been a relief when Mama had agreed to allow her to stay at home in the company of her maid until she was feeling a bit better.
Jasper King held the answer to all their prayers. He might also know where her brother Silas was, for although she hated to admit to worry, it was most definitely there. Seven months without correspondence was an inordinately long time, even for her adventurous sibling.
Two young women in front of her stopped to look around as she took the first step towards the front door. Dressed beautifully, they gave the impression of questioning her presence here, but Lottie was as easily at home with the rich as she was with the poor.
‘Good morning.’ Her voice was as friendly as she could make it. ‘My goodness, can you believe that it is only a few weeks until Christmas and so very much to do.’
‘That is exactly what we were just saying, wasn’t it, Rachael? The year just passes by so quickly and suddenly it is the Season of Hard Work again.’ The taller woman looked far more agreeable now, holding the door open for Lottie to follow them. Without an invitation in hand she hurried up behind them and continued the conversation, smiling at the stern-looking servant who stood back from the front door and was seeing to cloaks and hats.
‘Thank you.’ With relief, she accompanied the others into a salon to the right side of the entrance, accepting a glass of white wine from another servant who stood with a silver tray filled with drinks.
The wine fortified her and made her feel warm again, the alcohol bolstering up both courage and anticipation. She knew no one at all, the two women she had spoken to having disappeared off into the far corners of the large salon. Still, she did not falter, looking around with hope as she came inside the room. He had to be here somewhere—Mr King with his velvet eyes and his beautiful smile—but she could not see him, the chatter in the crowd growing with each passing moment as more people arrived. How much did a person change in eight years? She prayed that she would recognise him.
She should put her spectacles on, she knew that, but some sort of personal vanity stopped her from retrieving them from her reticule. ‘Best foot forward’ resounded in her brain and she smiled as yet another of Nanny Beth’s sayings was remembered.
Thank goodness for her new gown, she thought, and as a wave of missing her mother and sister assailed her she moved on into the back salon proper.
Here the crush was worse than in the front room and, spying a window seat to one side, she made for it and sat. This would be a good vantage point, slightly elevated and comfortable. Her nose had begun to run again and she wiped the end of it with her hand, turning the wet palm into
