“Innocence through denial,” I murmured. “And an obscured path to the top.”

So Mulholland knew Lord Evan was in England and had not fled the country as I had tried to convince him. Not only that; our supposition that Mulholland was working for someone of high rank who, for whatever reason, wanted Lord Evan dead appeared to be confirmed. Bad news, all round. And that included, I could not help thinking, my sister’s refusal to share Mr. Kent’s letter with me. I could see only heartbreak for her in that connection—the difference of rank and society between them was too great. And surely my sister had already suffered enough heartbreak in her life.

•   •   •

The old hackney carriage smelled of wet straw, sour sweat, and the faint, ever-present perfume of dung. I shifted on the bare wooden seat—the upholstery had for some reason been ripped out—and looked out the window at the passing view of Bow Street.

The sky was darkening toward dusk, my appointed time to meet Lord Evan, and the encroaching evening had already brought out the pleasure-seekers. A pie seller did a brisk trade on a corner to a group of young men, and a well-lit tavern full of patrons flashed by, the scraping lilt of folk fiddlers within following us along the street. If I recollected correctly, one of the entrances to Covent Garden was coming up on our left. I knocked sharply on the cabin wall.

“ ’Ere will do,” I yelled. Better to walk the last few streets, especially in this guise. Not many men of my “rank” would spend the coin to hire a hackney, even one as shabby as this piece.

The carriage pulled up. I opened the door, took the step down to the footpath, and lifted my hand in thanks to the driver. Since I had already paid, he tipped his hat and drove on, looking for another fare.

I stood for a moment to get my bearings, earning the muttered curses and irritated glances of those hurrying along the footpath. Ahead was the corner of Russell and Bow Streets. I could walk the long way around to Bedford Street or cut across Covent Garden, a much shorter route. One I would never take on foot as Lady Augusta Colebrook.

I smiled.

Covent Garden, then. And finally, some time alone with Evan. It still felt strangely forward to think of addressing him without a title, even with his invitation. It was an intimacy that I had not had with any man before. Even my brother was Duffy, or Duffield, never James.

“Evan,” I said aloud. Practice made perfect, or at least not so awkward. “Are you well, Evan?” A passing woman glanced warily at the shabby man talking to himself and gave me a wide berth. Quite right. I ducked my head and lengthened my gait into a manly stride toward the market.