The back entrance to Hatchards led to a space that was packed with crates on either side, leaving a narrow path through to a gate painted in the Hatchard green. At the back doorway, Thomas retrieved the large package that had been delivered with my note and handed it to me. I ripped open the brown paper and pulled out the two cloaks I had sent in preparation for this moment.

“One for you,” I said, offering the blue wool to Julia. I swirled the burgundy velvet over my shoulders. An easy way to change our apparel. I returned the packaging to Thomas. “Thank you, Mr. Hatchard.”

Thomas bowed. “I wish you well. Jermyn Street is up through there.”

His nod directed us to the laneway behind the shop. I drew the cloak close around my body—the crates had ragged edges just built for snagging cloth—and led the way through the gate and into the cobbled lane. So far, so good.

“I hope the Ermine does not note we have not returned. I would not put it past her to wait for us in the hope of an invitation,” Julia said as we negotiated the flagstones slicked with mud.

Ahead, two middling women raised upon wooden pattens walked past the laneway entrance, the clack of their shoe coverings ringing upon the stone. A scruffy tan dog trailed behind them, stopping to sniff the corner before running off as we approached. But no sign of our carriage. Damn, I had hoped it would be waiting for us.

“Even if she does, we will be well away,” I said as we stepped over the water-filled rut that separated the laneway from Jermyn Street. “Besides, Mr. Hatchard will deflect any interest.”

We both surveyed the street, searching for our transport. It was not overly busy: three delivery wagons making their slow way toward St. James’s Street, a man driving a bullock in the opposite direction, and a gentleman on a rather fine bay mare conversing with a man outside a shop.

“It is not here,” Julia said, stepping back as a beefy man barreled past, touching his cap. “Why is it not here?”

I searched the street again, as if the carriage would magically appear. “They are probably just held up. A turned cart or something.”

“I hope they are not too long. We are rather conspicuous standing here so close to St. James’s Street,” Julia said.

My sister was right; we were dangerously close to the notorious gentlemen’s clubs at the end of the street, but we could not go back.

“Perhaps we should start to walk toward Piccadilly,” I said.

“Wait! Look!” Julia pointed toward Duke Street. A familiar carriage had turned the corner. “That is ours, is it not? Thank heavens.”

I blew out a relieved breath. Yet something was not right. I narrowed my eyes, focusing upon the driving seat. Two sat upon it. Was that Weatherly beside John?