Next month was Teddy’s birthday. He would be one and twenty. A man grown, as far as the law was concerned. Which meant that their time under Mr. Weatherwax’s power was almost at an end.

It was quite clear to her under the terms of Papa’s will. Teddy would now be responsible for what little remained of the Hayes family’s business. All that was needed was for Mr. Weatherwax to cooperate. And why shouldn’t he? After all, it was he who had set out the very rules by which they were all bound.

As she bounced along the streets of London in the ill-sprung hansom cab, Laura felt rather optimistic about the whole thing. It was Teddy who remained doubtful. He’d never cared for Mr. Weatherwax. Never trusted him.

“The law is the law,” Laura often said in response to Teddy’s predictions of doom and gloom. “Even if he is a villain, he must abide by it.”

She firmly believed that, even now.

A short time later, the cab came to a halt in front of Mr. Weatherwax’s office. It was a narrow white building with a polished brass nameplate and freshly swept steps. “Shall I wait, ma’am?” the jarvey asked.

Laura climbed out, giving her skirts a shake to dislodge the straw and other debris her hem had picked up on the floor of the cab. “That won’t be necessary.” She paid the man from the few coins in her reticule. “Thank you, sir.”

He tipped his hat to her before clucking to his horse and driving on. The rattle of the cab, and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, echoed behind her as she climbed the steps to the door and firmly applied the knocker.

A young maidservant answered the summons, opening the door just a crack and peering out with wary eyes. She wore a mob cap atop her mousy hair, and an apron over a homespun gown.

“Miss Hayes to see Mr. Weatherwax,” Laura said. “I have an appointment.”

The maidservant drew back. “Best come in, then, miss. I’ll take you to him.”

Laura followed the maidservant through a narrow hall and up the stairs to Mr. Weatherwax’s office. He was just visible through his half-open door, sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, scowling over a document of some sort. When he saw Laura, he cast it away and stood, swiftly buttoning his waistcoat over the paunch of his stomach and shrugging on his frock coat.

“Miss Hayes.” He came to greet her. “Punctual as always.”

He extended his hand and she took it, ignoring the flicker of distaste that went through her when he pressed her palm a fraction of a second longer than was necessary.

“Mr. Weatherwax,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Good morning.”