An expensive carriage, drawn by four beautiful grays, drew to a stop directly in front of her. There would have been nothing remarkable about this if Jamie himself hadn’t opened the door and stepped down from the rig, turning to lift a stunningly attractive woman after him.

Although Bliss couldn’t hear what was said for the clatter of hooves and wheels on cobblestones and the thudding of her own heart, what she saw devastated her. Jamie laughed at something the woman said, his hands lingering on her tender waist, and then bent his head to give her a brief but tender kiss on the mouth.

The woman gently touched his face with a small gloved hand, and Bliss was abruptly and painfully reminded of her shabby coat, her scuffed shoes, her secondhand skirt and shirtwaist. Next to this vision, she was nothing but an unsophisticated bumpkin.

She retreated into the crowd praying that Jamie wouldn’t see her, and God must have had sympathy for her situation. Her estranged husband said a few more words to his lady friend and turned to stride off in the direction of the harbor. Something drew the woman’s attention, however, for after a few moments of utter paralysis, Bliss sensed a hard stare.

She forced herself to meet the bright green gaze of Jamie’s mistress for a second or so and, then, horrified, she turned and began making her way, as rapidly as she could, toward the tram stop.

“Wait, please!” she heard a feminine voice call, and Bliss knew somehow that it was herself being summoned, but she didn’t stop. Not many things had the power to frighten her into flight, but the prospect of an encounter with her husband’s paramour did.

Mercifully, there was a tram to be boarded, and Bliss got on, not caring where the vehicle might take her. Only one desire pulsed in her mind: to get away.

The tram jerked and rattled into motion, and then it was making its way between the wagons and buggies that shared the street, its bell issuing a shrill warning for all and sundry to step aside.

“Damnation!” Peony fumed, slamming the door behind her and pulling at her bonnet as she approached the counter.

Her favorite clerk, Michael Potter, smiled at her. “Good morning, Mrs. Ryan,” he said, used to her fiery moods.

Peony was still sputtering. “I don’t know why I should bother my head about that little redheaded snippet, anyway,” she fussed. “She’s Jamie’s problem, not mine, and I don’t care if she catches the first ship to Shanghai—”

“Actually,” interceded Michael, “she’s off to the States, if we’re talking about the same ’redheaded snippet.’ I just spoke to her.”

Peony’s mouth rounded into an O, and it was a moment before she could absorb the implications. “Of course,” she said, on a long breath. “I presume the young lady left an address.”

Michael held up a slip of paper. “Number nineteen Macomber Street,” he replied. “Her name is Bliss Stafford.”