“Well, he made me see that the world I live in and the one he inhabits are vastly different, even though they exist cheek by jowl. I have been trying to remedy my ignorance through reading, but though Mr. Mayhew’s descriptions of London are extremely evocative, it’s not the same as experiencing it first hand, is it?”

Donald listened, bemused, as she launched into an enthusiastic summary of her research, giving him a glimpse, for the first time since her return to London, of the vibrant young woman who had taken last Season by storm. It would not do to condemn outright the actions of any parents regarding their daughter, but in his opinion, Lady Margaret had been treated harshly. Her retreat from society had been necessary, but her total estrangement from her family he thought unduly cruel. Were the duke and duchess gratified by the outcome, a now very correct young lady who made polite if guarded conversation? Certainly Killin seemed to approve. Hovering over her at every gathering, the earl had unsurprisingly decided to sacrifice pride in the pursuit of advancement.

Donald had steered them onto Parliament Street when they left Montagu House, avoiding Downing Street and next to it, on King Charles Street, the palatial new Foreign Office. Though the building was by no means complete, it was already occupied by diplomats and their staff. He had been spending a large proportion of his time there, during this sojourn from his Berlin posting, and had no desire to bump into anyone he knew, given his present company. Lady Margaret might consider him well beyond the age of acting the gallant, but his colleagues would see matters very differently. Good-natured teasing about belatedly settling into domesticity he was accustomed to, but she was the charming daughter of a very influential duke who happened to be one of the richest men in the country. He had no wish to be accused of pursuing an advantageous match, especially when the lady in question considered him a benign old gentleman.

Lady Margaret interrupted this rather depressing train of thought by tugging on his sleeve. “I meant to ask, is my outfit suitably nondescript? I am wearing my very plainest bonnet and cloak.”

“The bonnet alone would be worth a week’s wages in a second-hand clothing emporium.”

“It is known as a slop-shop,” she informed him, looking smug. “I learned that from Mr. Mayhew’s book, but it was Mr. Scott who taught me my first cant words. A gonoph is a young pickpocket, you know.”

“I did not, but it is a timely reminder for us to keep our wits about us.”

“It’s hard to believe that there is a den of iniquity nearby,” Lady Margaret said, looking around her.