At least she hoped so. On all counts. She hoped Sinclair would not toss her out on her ear. She hoped she would be welcomed as a guest of the Duke and Duchess of Birchwood. She hoped her family would not come in hot pursuit of her.

So much of this depended on Sinclair and how he reacted to her arrival.

Bea made quick work of packing Nora’s luggage and then disappearing to pack her own things.

They left before dawn, creeping out of the house like thieves in the dark in time to catch the morning train. Bea arranged for her cousin, Bobby, one of the stable lads, to take them to the station, and that was some comfort to Nora. Who was more trustworthy than family?

Nora tried to contain her excitement as they settled into their seats. She stared out the window up until the very last moment, as though expecting to see a member of her family charging after them on the platform. No one came.

Then they were on their way.

Colonel Sinclair—no, Mr. Sinclair—would soon see that whilst she was not Dr. Langley, she was very much his daughter in every sense and a fine and capable healer.

She’d see the duchess through whatever ailed her and he could choke on all his doubts about her.

She stared out the window at the passing countryside, anticipation zipping through her. In a few hours, she would be in London.

It turned out locating the residence of the Duke and Duchess of Birchwood was not such a difficult task. Birchwood was not your average duke, it seemed—if dukes could be called average. Nora supposed her sister marrying a duke had somewhat normalized them in her mind. After lengthy exposure to Warrington, she had removed dukes from their category of mythical figures where she had always allocated them.

It was becoming apparent, however, as she sat on the edge of a brocade settee in the grand Birchwood drawing room under the watchful eye of stone-faced footmen, that the Duke of Birchwood was cut from a different cloth. She’d always thought her brother-in-law maintained a preposterous number of servants, but now, after seeing the amount of staff Birchwood kept on hand, she changed her mind.

As she waited, the moments ticking by, she was reminded that the Duke of Birchwood was not Warrington and she placed dukes back in their previous category alongside mythical figures.

She eyed the elegantly appointed room.

It was not that Haverston Hall was not an impressive residence, only that this place, this place where Sinclair lived and would one day be master, seemed much more palatial.