And yet, it could not be denied that Mr. Kent was far from the rank of gentleman. And therein lay the problem.

5

The Times office was near Bridewell hospital prison, just up from the wharves around Blackfriars Bridge—not an area usually frequented by women of the ton.

I peered out the rain-smeared window of our town carriage, seeing only the grimy gray brick frontage of a brush maker’s shop and a man hurrying along the narrow footpath, head down and broad-brimmed hat sagging wet. The morning had turned very gloomy indeed.

We had come to a standstill on Union Street, one of the routes leading to Printing House Square. I let down the window with a clatter and poked my head out, ignoring the cold sweep of mizzle across my face. From the shouts and curses ahead, it appeared a cart blocked the way and the driver was nowhere to be found. We were two equipages back from the obstruction. I turned to look behind. Had anyone followed us from Grosvenor Square? This was the moment when such an intrusion might become apparent. I could not, however, see past the wagon at our rear. Samuel peered around from the back footman’s step, inquiry upon his wet face. I shook my head and turned my attention to the front of the carriage again.

“Weatherly,” I called. No response. I increased my volume. “Weatherly!”

“Yes, my lady. Coming.”

The carriage rocked—Weatherly descending from his lookout next to John Driver. I drew back inside the carriage and closed the window, brushing the sprinkle of rain off my velvet cap. From the limp feel of the feathers and silk flowers, it had not fared well.

Weatherly opened the carriage door, his greatcoat collar up and his hat dripping from the brim.

“Did you see anyone following us?” I asked. I had entrusted the task to Weatherly, since Samuel was not the most observant of young men.

“Perhaps, my lady,” he said. “Three back, there is a hackney that has kept up with us from Grosvenor Square.”

My heart quickened. It could, of course, be a coincidence.

“Are you sure it is the same?”

He nodded, wiping an errant drip from his eye. “I recognize the horse’s blaze. And the driver wears a red kerchief.”

So, a good chance we were being followed. But by whom?

“Can you see who it is? Would it be Mr. Kent, by chance?” It stood to reason that it was my sister’s swain or if not him, then one of his colleagues.

Weatherly shook his head, sending a spray of water from his hat. “I cannot make out the passenger.”

“How far are we from the Times office?”

“Three turns and we will be there, my lady.”