To that end, once Marianne arrived in the late morning to assist her in the shop, she decided to pay the gent around the corner a visit.

The streets and pavements were bustling with activity as people went about their daily chores and business. She greeted by name those she knew, gave a smile and nod to those she didn’t. As she made her way past the mews, glancing up at the window in which he’d been standing the night before, she couldn’t help but wonder how often he stood there, gazing out.

Turning onto Ettie Lane, her heart picked up its tempo while her feet slowed theirs. The residence was neither large nor intimidating, so the apprehension taking hold surprised her. She was intimately familiar with the layout of these terrace houses for they were all the same and Mick had shared the design with her, had even asked for her opinion on the matter. And then she’d watched them being built. It had been exciting to see her brother create so much from nothing.

So it wasn’t the building causing her heart to thump wildly, her palms to grow damp within her gloves, but the gentleman who made his lair within those walls. To approach him for a favor when she barely knew him seemed the height of foolishness, but surely he couldn’t object to her request when it would serve such a useful purpose.

Gathering her resolve around her like a finely sewn velvet pelisse, she marched up the steps, banged the knocker, and waited impatiently, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, hoping whatever fault he’d found with her last night had melted away and he’d deliver a warm welcome.

When the door finally opened, she was surprised to find herself staring at a dark-haired woman whose spectacles made her blue eyes seem far too large for her face. “Mrs. Bennett.”

“Miss Trewlove, is something amiss?”

“No, I’m simply surprised to see you here.” Knowing the man who ran Mick’s construction crew and his wife lived on this street, she glanced around. Had she gotten the wrong house? “I was looking for Mr. Sommersby.”

“Ah. He’s gone out. Said he’d be awhile, that I wasn’t to bother with preparing a midday meal for him.”

She brought her attention back to Mrs. Bennett. “You cook for him?”

The dear woman bobbed her head. “Aye. He has me come in each morning to tidy up, not that there’s ever much to tidy. He has very little furniture, our Mr. Sommersby. Nothing personal like. Mr. Bennett says I’m not to worry myself over it as long as he pays me every day—which he does. But still, there’s a loneliness to the place, you know?”