Chase looked up. There beside a fretful Brigsby stood Minerva Hepplewhite. She wore a vague artificial smile and a brown dress and orange pelisse. More brown and orange decorated a bonnet that framed her face nicely, showing her dark hair and darker eyes.

Chase stood and gestured for Brigsby to leave. Minerva’s gaze speared into him. She did not appear either sad or embarrassed this morning. She looked determined.

“Good morning,” he said. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I had you followed.”

“Did you now? By whom?”

She pretended she had not heard him. “May I sit?”

“Of course.” He walked around the table and held out a chair for her. “It is early. Would you like some breakfast?”

“Some coffee would be nice.”

He strode to the door and found Brigsby very close on the other side. He sent him for more coffee and another cup. He returned to the table, and closed the portfolio.

“You should not be here,” he said.

“If I let you in my house late at night, I am not going to worry about coming to yours in broad daylight. If gossip starts, we will tell them all that I came to employ you in a discreet inquiry.”

“Which you did not. Something else sent you through town at nine o’clock. I might have still been asleep. Mayfair does not awaken until noon.”

“I assumed you were not the sort to lie abed all morning. My concern was that I would arrive to find you already had left this house.” She gazed around the chamber that he used for dining, taking its measure, lingering on the Turkish carpet and the dark wooden Indian table against the window. As her gaze returned to him, it first paused a moment on the portfolio.

“It appears a comfortable house,” she said. “Of course on Bury Street it should be.”

“It suits me.” The whole house was not his, but he assumed she knew that since she had climbed the stairs to his front door. His apartment occupied the third level, which gave him good air and fine prospects of the street and nearby St. James’s Square.

The coffee arrived. He waited while Brigsby served her. His manservant said nothing, but a worried little frown expressed how irregular Brigsby found the situation. On a few occasions he had served women breakfast, but they had stayed the night. Apparently, Brigsby found that more acceptable than a woman arriving before calling hours.

Chase waited until the door closed again. “Why are you here?” To kiss you again. To apologize for throwing you out. To tear off this brown dress and beg you to take me. He could fantasize, but he knew better than to hope.

“You left before explaining.”