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Midnight. Henry cleared her throat. "What time is it now?"
"It is probably near to half past eleven. The clock said fifteen minutes past the hour when we left."
Henry wished there was some way to stop her heart from beating quite so fast. Dunford was probably preparing to leave his club at that very minute. Soon he would be on his way to Bloomsbury, to number fourteen, Russell Square. Silently, she cursed Lady Wolcott for having given her the address. She hadn't been able to stop herself from looking it up on a map. It made it all the more difficult, knowing precisely where he was going.
The carriage drew to a halt in front of the Blydon mansion, and a footman immediately came out to help the two ladies down. As they entered the front hall, Caroline wearily pulled off her gloves and said, "I'm going directly to bed, Henry. I don't know why, but I am exhausted. Would you please be so kind as to ask the staff not to disturb me?"
Henry nodded. "I think I shall browse the library for something to read. I'll see you in the morning.*'
Caroline yawned. "If I wake up by then."
Henry watched her climb the stairs and then wandered down the hall to the library. She picked a candelabra up off of a side table and entered the room, nosing the flames closer to the books so she could read the titles. No, she mused, she didn't much feel like another Shakespeare. Richardson's Pamela was much too long. The tome looked to be over a thousand pages.
She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Moonlight spilled through the windows onto its face, making it very easy for Henry to see the time. Half past eleven. She gritted her teeth. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep that night.
The minute hand moved lazily to the left. Henry stared at the clock until it was thirty-three minutes past the hour. This was insane. She couldn't just sit there and watch the clock all night. She had to do something.
She raced upstairs to her room, not quite certain what she was planning to do until she threw open her closet and saw her men's breeches and jacket folded up in a corner. It looked as if the maid had been trying to hide them. Henry picked up the garments and fingered them thoughtfully. The jacket was dark blue and the breeches, charcoal gray. Both would blend well into the night.
Her decision made, she hastily shrugged off her evening gown and pulled on the masculine attire, slipping a key to the house into the pocket of her breeches. She pulled her hair back like a pony's tail and then tucked the end into the collar of the jacket. No one who got a good look at her would mistake her for a boy, but she wouldn't attract attention from afar.
She put her hand on the doorknob, then remembered how she had been mesmerized by the ticking of the clock in the library. She dashed back across the room, picked up the very small clock that sat on her dressing table, and ran back to the door. Poking her head out into the hallway, she ascertained that it was empty and hurried out. She made it downstairs and out the door without being noticed. She took off at a brisk pace, making sure she walked as if she knew where she was going. Mayfair was the safest part of town, but a woman still couldn't be too careful. There was a spot where hacks queued up only a few blocks away. She'd get one to take her to Bloomsbury, wait with her while she spied on Christine Fowler's house, and then return her to Mayfair.
She reached her destination quickly, her hand still clutching the clock. Glancing down, she saw it was 11:44. She'd have to get across town quickly.
There were several hacks queued up, and Henry hopped into the first one, giving the driver Christine Fowler's address. "And step lively about it," she said crisply, trying to imitate Dunford's tones when he wanted to get something done immediately.
The driver turned onto Oxford Street, then headed along that road for several minutes until he made a series of twists and turns that led them to Russell Square.
"Here you are," he said, obviously expecting her to step down.
Henry glanced at the clock. 11:56. Dunford wouldn't have arrived yet. He was extremely punctual but not the sort who inconvenienced hosts by arriving early. "Er, I'll just wait a moment," she called out. "I'm meeting someone, and he's not here yet."
"It'll cost you extra."
"I'll make it worth your while."
The driver took a good look at her, decided that only someone with money to burn would be dressed in such an outrageous getup, and sat back, figuring that sitting still in Bloomsbury was a hell of a lot easier than looking around for another fare.
Henry stared at her little clock, watching the minute hand slowly sweep toward the twelve. Finally she heard the clip-clop of horses' hooves, and looking up, she recognized the carriage coming down the street as Dunford's.
She held her breath. He stepped down, looking very elegant and, as always, extremely handsome. She exhaled with an irritated sigh. His mistress wasn't going to want to let him go when he looked like that.
"Is that the person yer waitin' for?" the driver asked.
"Not really," she hedged. "I'm going to have to wait a bit longer."
He shrugged. "It's yer money."
Dunford ascended the steps and rapped on the door. The sound of the heavy brass knocker echoed down the street, straining Henry's already jangled nerves. She pressed her face to the window. Christine Fowler would probably have a manservant to answer the door, but Henry wanted to get a good look just in case.
The door opened to reveal a startlingly lovely woman with thick, black hair that cascaded down her back in rippling curls. She obviously wasn't dressed to receive ordinary visitors. Henry looked down, taking in her own decidedly unfeminine attire, and tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach.