“I will pay a call on you each afternoon,” Elsmore said, after a beat of rainy quiet, “or morning if you prefer. You set the time, and I will abide by it as best I can. If you must contact me otherwise, send me a brief, general note from a Mr. Patrick Entwhistle. Avoid using a Wentworth and Penrose messenger to deliver it and keep the content vague.”

“I can do that.”

They traveled the rest of the distance without conversation, the rhythm of the rain nearly putting Ellie to sleep. Before that mercy could befall her, Elsmore was handing her down from the coach. The cobbles in the porte cochere were slick, and she accepted his assistance without a fuss—for now.

“This way,” she said, leading him into the carriage house. “The whole edifice was one grand house until about thirty years ago. Renovations were undertaken piecemeal, until his lordship bought the building.”

The porte cochere attached the carriage house to the back of the main building. Those coming and going thus had privacy, which Ellie valued as much as the relative luxury of her apartment.

She showed Elsmore where the spare key was and explained how to work Lord Stephen’s lift. Moments later, His Grace stood with her in her modest parlor, holding the ledgers while Ellie lit candles and hoped the cat hadn’t left any feline calling cards of an inappropriate nature.

The duke set the ledgers on her desk. “This is where you’ll work?”

“For the next two weeks.” The premises were chilly, but not frigid. Lord Stephen’s rooms on the next floor up were always kept roaringly warm, as were the rooms of the writer living on the floor below. Ellie benefited by proximity, though she also lit the parlor stove on truly cold days.

“I have a question for you, Mrs. Hatfield.” Elsmore lounged back against her desk, a battered old article rescued from some alley.

The cat emerged from under the sofa and sniffed at Elsmore’s boots. The beast was all black with green eyes, an aloof creature by nature, but drawn to novelty.

“That is Voltaire,” Ellie said. “She’s quite the mouser.”

Elsmore picked up the cat, who nuzzled the wool of his lapel as if he were her long lost kitten. “A worthy companion. I’m curious about something.”

The cat commenced purring and rubbing her head against His Grace’s chin.

“I’ve asked you many questions,” Ellie said. “I suppose you are permitted to ask me a few in return.” The chop shop across the street would be open for another hour, but they sometimes ran out of soup at the end of the day. Ellie did not fancy a dinner of stale bread any more than she fancied watching the cat flirt with the duke.

“This is a very friendly feline, but then, animals usually like me.”