“But why?” His smile revealed his white teeth, which somehow resembled fangs. “My coach is here and I am at your service. Let me drive you where you wish to go.”

“No, thank you, it is quite – unnecessary. A Hackney carriage will doubtless appear at any moment.”

“And if it does, what an unpleasant uncomfortable manner of travelling. Pray accept my hospitality. My coach is the very newest model and is almost I admit not quite worthy of your beauty.”

“I thank you, my Lord. I would rather find my own way to where I wish to go.”

His eyes narrowed for a moment and he glanced up at the house behind her and at her box reposing on the top step.

“So you were visiting Mistress Fitzherbert?” he commented. “How very strange!”

“I see nothing particularly strange in it,” Gretna retorted.

“You were going to stay with her? You have perhaps an engagement in her household?”

“I thank your Lordship for your interest in me,” Gretna said with all the dignity she could muster. “But I would not wish to keep you standing here – when you obviously have other commitments. I assure you that I am quite capable of hiring a carriage to carry me wherever I want to go.”

“What a long speech,” he jeered. “And so proud, so independent. I wonder if you will be quite so imperious when you have been in London a little longer. You might even find me useful, who knows?”

Gretna made no answer, but turned her head away, watching the road as the carriages passed in either direction.

“Does Stade know of this?” Lord Wroxhall asked from behind her bonnet. “Has he maybe concocted a little plot by which you are introduced into Mistress Fitzherbert’s household. Or am I mistaken?”

“I have nothing to say on this subject, my Lord,” Gretna replied angrily.

“Somehow I think Stade does not know of it,” Lord Wroxhall said slowly and Gretna sensed that his eyes were scrutinising her, lingering on the plain cheap gown she wore, on her simple shawl and her untrimmed bonnet.

Last night he had suspected that the Marquis was her protector. Today he was not so sure. Her clothes contradicted any ideas that he might have on that score.

She waved her hand suddenly.

A Hackney carriage was now approaching, but, as it drew nearer, she saw that it was occupied. She looked anxiously up the road and again anxiously down it. If only Lord Wroxhall would go away.

“Suppose, my dear, we have a little chat,” he suggested. “Let me drive you to Mistress Fitzherbert’s house in St James’s Square.”

“Do you know it then? You know – where she lives?”

Perhaps the question was over-anxious. At any rate he seized the advantage.

“I will take you there. I know the house and so does my coachman. It’s a waste of time waiting here for a Hackney carriage that may never come.”