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“One of your creations?”

Dora glances down, lets out a shy laugh. “Yes. Mock cannetille. One of my favorite pieces. I...” Edward senses her hesitance. “I suppose it will look rather out of place where we’re going, but I thought perhaps if I wore something of mine it might encourage others to ask about it.”

“And why shouldn’t they?” Edward says, keen to put her at ease. “Lady Latimer invited you, I’m sure, precisely so you might have others enquire about your work. I hope you receive many commissions tonight.”

Dora ducks her head. “Thank you.” She pauses. Then, “How are you this evening, Mr. Ashmole? I appreciate you collecting me. I understand it must have been quite out of your way.”

For a moment Edward is not certain that Cornelius has heard her for his friend keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the view outside. But then he turns his head, chews his cheek a moment before saying, “Edward was most insistent that we shouldn’t permit you to find your own way. I could hardly argue with him since you are Lady Latimer’s guest of honor.”

There is a drollness to his voice, an uncharacteristic meanness, and Edward is thankful for the dimness of the carriage that shields his embarrassment.

Dora glances at Edward. “Well, I hope I didn’t inconvenience you overmuch.”

“You didn’t,” Edward says, glaring at Cornelius. Cornelius looks away, resumes the chew of his inner cheek. “It was no inconvenience. No inconvenience at all.”

Dora nods, once.

Edward is ashamed.

***

The rest of the ride passes in silence, and once the carriage has succeeded in worming its way through the network of Fleet Street and circled its way back via Holborn, the journey is blessedly swift.

When they reach the vicinity of Lady Latimer’s villa the roads become smoother, the air smells less of woodsmoke and rotten vegetables, the hubbub of the streets is decidedly more subdued. Still, Lady Latimer’s soirée has gathered quite a crowd, and it is evident from the crush of other carriages that an easy entrance will prove unlikely. At length Cornelius suggests they alight. A heavy wind still quips the air, and the awkward party of three makes its way toward the house.

Cornelius strides up in front, leaving Edward and Dora to follow in his wake. Edward offers his arm to Dora and she takes it, he thinks, gratefully.

“I must apologize for Cornelius,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low so his friend cannot hear. “I don’t understand why he acts in such a way.”

“Don’t you?” Dora responds, fingers pressing into Edward’s sleeve. “I think it very obvious. He has taken a dislike to me.”

There is no use denying it.

“He has. That is true. But it is also true that I don’t understand why. Truly I don’t. I’ve never known him to act so discourteously. To a lady no less.”

“Perhaps he does not think I am a lady?”

“But of course you are.”

She laughs low in her throat. “I am a mere shop girl, as he so ably pointed out. You can hardly blame him for thinking so little of me for it.”

Edward opens his mouth to respond to the contrary, to remind her that he himself is a mere “shop boy,” but then the street opens out into the square and together Edward and Dora stop and stare, struck.

When they delivered the pithos the circular green was beautifully tended but without adornment. Tonight, the square is bejeweled with flaming torches, connected with ivy garlands via stone plinths. Atop each, a gloriously colored parrot perches within a gilt cage. There are twelve in total, and even Cornelius pauses in his saunter.

“The old madam has really outdone herself.”

“It’s...” Edward tries to find the appropriate word. Ostentatious would certainly do, a needless extravagance to be sure, but then how could he ever purport to understand the whims of high society?

“Quite,” Cornelius throws over his shoulder, as if he has read Edward’s thoughts.

A pair of heavily powdered dowagers totter past, holding desperately on to their set white wigs in the wind. Three younger women, giggling as they rush by, cling on to their cloaks. A servant battles with an umbrella, trying unsuccessfully to shield them.

Cornelius has picked up his pace once more and Edward guides Dora past the crush of carriages, must skirt by a white mare that has taken this very moment to evacuate its bowels on the cobbled street, and joins Cornelius in the queue forming to enter the villa. A pair of footmen stand either side of the ornate door, so similar in face they could as well be twins, and Edward concedes that all Lady Latimer’s footmen look as though they have come from the same plaster molds.

“She keeps a very young and pretty staff, doesn’t she?” he whispers to Dora.

At this Cornelius looks himself, assesses them with a perfunctory glance before tweaking the lace at his cuff.