Just for a moment she wondered if there could be any truth in Lord Wroxhall’s tales and if the Prince of Wales was really enamoured of Aunt Maria.

Then she dismissed the whole story as quite ridiculous and absurd.

No one could live more simply or like a quiet existence more than Maria Fitzherbert. Why, Gretna had even heard her say once when they talked about London,

“The London I know is very different from the London one hears about by rumour or reads about in books. I live a very secluded existence with only a few dear and close friends to keep me company.”

That had been two years ago and Mr. Fitzherbert had been dead for three years. There was no reason to think that his widow would have changed her style of living, especially not to the extent that Lord Wroxhall had suggested.

“It is one of his wicked lies,” Gretna said aloud.

She realised that the coach was pulling up beside the pavement. They were in a broad busy street and she guessed, although she had never been there before, that it was Piccadilly. She could see the footman running across the road and speaking to the driver of a rather dilapidated vehicle drawn by a thin unkempt horse.

The coach door was opened and Gretna stepped out, her box was transferred to the Hackney carriage and she gave the footman one of her last shillings.

“Thank you very much,” she smiled at him.

“Where shall I tell him to drive to, miss?” the footman enquired.

“St. James’s Square. I will instruct him further when we get there.”

“Very good, miss.”

The footman closed the door and the Hackney carriage set off slowly.

The seat that Gretna was sitting on felt hard and cold after the soft luxury of the Marquis’s coach. They drove for only a short distance before the carriage pulled up.

Gretna opened the window and put out her head.

“Is this St. James’s Square?” she asked.

“That’s right, missie. They didn’t give me no other address.”

“I am afraid I don’t know the house. But if you wait a moment I will enquire of a passer-by. Someone may have knowledge of where the lady I am seeking resides.”

“Well, missie, I knows that the Earl of Lansdale lives ’ere,” the coach driver said, pointing with his whip to the nearest house. “And His Grace of Severn next door, I knows ’im well enough. Mean as a miser ’e be. Won’t use ’is own coach for fear it should cost ’im anything and never parts with a penny piece for those as drives ’im.”

“Perhaps, as you know so many of the houses,” Gretna ventured, “you know where Mistress Fitzherbert’s residence is.”