“War hasn’t even been declared yet.” Viv adjusted the balance of her purse strap and the string of her gas mask box on her shoulder. “Come, let’s return to Mrs. Weatherford’s and see if she was able to talk some sense into Mr. Evans.”

Grace made a sour face at her friend. “He doesn’t want me there any more than I want to be there. The shop is old and dusty and filled with books whose titles I’ve never even heard of.”

A sparkle lit Viv’s eyes. “That’s why it’s perfect for you, Duckie.”

Grace couldn’t help but smile at the endearment. Her mother had first called her that as a toddler when her blond curls flipped out at the base of her neck. Like a little duck’s tail, Mum used to say. The moniker stuck. With her mother now dead, Viv was the only one who still remembered, and used, the nickname.

“Your uncle’s shop was a dusty bit of nothing before you stepped up.” Viv put her hands on her hips. “And something tells me Mrs. Weatherford will strong-arm Mr. Evans into a letter of recommendation in six months if he dares to refuse.”

The image of Mrs. Weatherford haranguing Mr. Evans into submission was almost laughable. “Now there would be a battle of wills.”

“I know who I’d put my money on.” Viv winked. “Let’s go see what she’s accomplished.”

By the time they returned to Britton Street, Mrs. Weatherford was already in the parlor with a cup of tea as the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Yet another delicious meal, no doubt. Mrs. Weatherford had quite the talent in the kitchen, the same as Grace’s mother.

Mrs. Weatherford looked up from her teacup and waved the fog of steam from her glasses. “Ah, there you are. Mr. Evans will pay you a fair wage and would like you to start tomorrow morning promptly at eight.”

Grace slid her low heels off and, without bothering with her slippers, padded onto the thick pile carpet in the parlor. “You mean...?”

A victorious smirk touched Mrs. Weatherford’s lips. “Yes, dear. You are the new assistant at Primrose Hill Books.”

Relief wrestled with trepidation. It was a job, one that would guarantee Grace a livelihood in London. With it, perhaps she could finally put Drayton and her uncle successfully behind her.

“Thank you for speaking with him, Mrs. Weatherford,” Grace said gratefully. “It was so considerate of you.”

“It was my pleasure, dear.” The slight puff to the older woman’s chest indicated that it had indeed been her pleasure to do so.

Grace paused. “Might I ask why it’s called Primrose Hill Books when it isn’t on Primrose Hill?”