8

Julia, Tully, my maid, and I stood on the footpath opposite Mr. John Hatchard’s bookshop waiting for a break in the line of carts, carriages, and horses that processed along Piccadilly.

Hatchards had recently moved from its original premises farther down the road—to make way for the newly completed Bullocks Museum—and the new shop was much larger than the original. A double frontage with two huge display windows that curved elegantly in toward the entrance to show the latest literary offerings.

“Do you think Miss Grant has arrived yet?” Julia asked.

“I hope so,” I said. “If she has not, then something may have already gone wrong.”

Julia shot me a worried glance. “Do not say that.”

“What did you want me to say? That she is out the back in the carriage waiting for us as we have planned? It is impossible to know if she is or not.” My tone was oversharp, but I did not fully trust Miss Grant to follow my instructions. Still, that was not my sister’s fault. “The shop looks busy,” I added, softening my tone. “That must be to our favor.”

Indeed, the two benches set outside the shop for waiting servants were fully occupied by maids and footmen, and a number of carriages waited farther along the road.

“Tully, when we go in, see if you can find a seat on the bench,” I said.

“Yes, my lady.” Tully’s face had pinked with the excitement of being part of the plan. I had asked her to wear her scarlet cloak—unmissable among the drab livery of the footmen—and to make sure she was visible outside at all times.

“Look, we can cross now,” Julia said.

A gap had opened up between the vehicles. We picked up our hems and made our way across the wide road, evading the mounds of dung and churned mud. I refrained from looking over my shoulder, but I was sure the lanky, unkempt Runner was still trailing us. I knew him for one of the Bow Street agents who had stood outside our former home in Hanover Square a month ago. Was Mulholland watching us as well? Perhaps one of his “noses” was at this very minute darting back to inform him of our whereabouts.

We made the footpath outside Hatchards safely, our arrival prompting a wave of bobs and bows from the waiting servants.