He laughed a little. And fretted a little less than he had been. Court her. He could do that. He would enjoy doing that. Perhaps she’d discover the feelings she’d confessed to years ago weren’t entirely gone. Perhaps she’d decide to stay. He didn’t know how much of the three weeks of her time in London remained, but he’d do what he could with what time he had left.

A knock sounded at the door. His posted hours for the day had ended, but he never turned anyone away, no matter the time.

Mrs. Simms slipped out to see who had arrived while Barnabus finished up in the sitting room, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of Gemma, but his heart feeling more hopeful than it had in years.

Mrs. Simms returned in the next moment and announced simply, “Someone to see you.”

He immediately recognized Mr. Snelling, the man who’d come to see him about a nonexistent illness. He was watching Barnabus with a look of curiosity, but not one that felt threatening.

“Is your throat giving you difficulty again?” Barnabus asked.

The man shook his head. “I thought it was time I told you why I really came by.”

The unexpected candor was welcome, and Barnabus looked him over, studying him, searching for some sort of clue.

“I’m certain you didn’t miss that I had taken note of . . . Well, I . . .” He grew more uncomfortable as he stood there, looking at Barnabus with drawn brows. “You look a terrible lot like my sister, and I can’t get past it.”

“The resemblance is likely a coincidence.” Barnabus ignored the fact that he himself didn’t believe in such things. “I haven’t any family other than my mother, and she’s been gone for a long time.”

The man turned his hat around in his hands, spinning it by the brim. “I’ve not seen my sister in twenty-five years. We came to London to look for work, but the very first day, we were separated on a crowded street. I couldn’t find her. I looked for days, months, years. Though I’ve little hope of finding her now, I still watch for her. Seeing you was . . . jarring. You look so like her.”

Barnabus swallowed a lump of both emotion and apprehension. “What’s your sister’s name?”

“Agatha Snelling.”

That wasn’t very helpful. Barnabus had long suspected “Millie Milligan” was not his mother’s actual name, but it was the only one he knew.

“She’s only a year younger than I am,” Mr. Snelling continued. “The right age for being your mother. And I wondered—” He shook his head. “I know there’s little chance of it in a city this large, but . . . blimey, you look so much like her.”