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“Ah, Miss Blake!”

Lady Latimer is striding toward them from the vicinity of the staircase, dressed head to toe in a shock of magenta taffeta, wig piled up high on her head with small silk roses dotted through. Both Dora and Edward jump up from their seats.

“You received my note, I see.”

“I did, madam,” Dora says, flustered, “and I’m very grateful. But I cannot possibly accept.”

“Tosh!” Lady Latimer waves her hand across her rouged face. “I decide who attends my social gatherings.”

“But I have nothing to wear.”

“You have something plain and serviceable, surely?” the old woman scoffs and Dora blushes with shame, for though she does indeed own many a plain and serviceable gown, not one of them is less than five years old.

“I do, but nothing suitable for a soirée.”

“I see...”

It is clear Lady Latimer has not thought of this, not considered the divide between their classes as in any way a barrier to fashion, but then Edward steps forward, dips in an awkward bow.

“If it pleases, my lady, I will make sure Miss Blake has something suitable for the occasion.”

Lady Latimer looks at Edward with sharp, appraising eyes, then back at Dora.

“Your young man, I take it?”

Edward blinks, begins to stammer. “Oh, no, madam. I mean, that is—”

Lady Latimer cuts in with a short laugh. “Bring this one along, Miss Blake. He has a timid look about him. I do like that in a man.” She glances at Horatio who has appeared at her side. “They are like not to be rogues then, my dear. The timid ones are malleable, easily guided to our whim. Better we women have the upper hand in matters of the heart, don’t you think?”

Dora is at a loss for a response, but then she realizes there is no need of one; Lady Latimer has seen the pithos. She claps her hands in pleasure, strides toward it with almost childish excitement.

“How glorious! Yes, yes, it is perfect, utterly splendid. Horatio, you will show our guests out, won’t you?”

This last is thrown over her ladyship’s shoulder, and Horatio loses no time in guiding them to the door. Mr. Coombe, Mr. Tibb and the two lads are already on the wagon, waiting. When they reach it Mr. Coombe reaches down to help her up. Dora straightens her skirts, and Edward settles in the seat beside her.

“I hope,” Edward murmurs shyly, “you did not find me too presumptuous?”

“No,” Dora answers, shy herself, “though I confess myself surprised. Surely you don’t mean it?”

“Of course I do. Mr. Coombe, would you be willing to drop us off at Piccadilly?”

“If you like,” the large man sniffs, flicking the reins. “Makes no difference to me.”

As the cart rumbles away down the drive, Edward clears his throat, straightens his cuff.

“I am not timid,” he says.

It is more than a put-out grumble. His voice is pained in its defensiveness and Dora reaches out, gently takes his hand.

“I know you are not, Edward,” she says softly.

Edward looks away. He does not pull his hand from hers.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hezekiah cradles his gin against the fleshy plane of his naked chest. He is thankful for the fug alcohol affords, the way his mind fizzes and lulls, how his vision blurs a little when he turns his head. Like that. He takes a long sip from his glass, rests his head back against the headboard, feels the comforting solidness of carved oak.

At his side Lottie wrings out a cloth in a basin. When she started the cloth was white. Now it is stained yellow with a tinge of green-pink, and on the surface of the cloudy water, questionable gobs of something (Hezekiah will not let himself think on it too much) are floating. Soapsuds, he tells himself. Nothing worse than that.