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“I don’t think I’ve been to this part of town before,” said Miss Waters as their hackney cab pulled up to the neat row of townhouses.

Jacob pulled himself back from his thoughts to look up towards her.

He tried to put on his most encouraging smile.

Given that it was Betsy, Mrs. Wilmark’s housemaid, who swooned instead of the woman seated next to her, Jacob rather thought his chosen way of comforting rather ineffective, and he quickly dropped back to a more neutral expression.

“I confirmed the address with another source yesterday afternoon,” he assured her. “Sir George was last known to be visiting his friends Mr. and Mrs. Thornton.”

“And this is their house.” Miss Waters peeked outside. Her hands trembled in her gloves. Jacob felt an odd stirring to reach for them.

He squelched the stirring. “Yes.”

His initial attraction towards Miss Waters, something he’d filed away as a passing appreciation for her unconventional features, had somehow managed to linger in the last few days.

He’d never been the sort to get his head turned easily by a pretty face.

His life had always revolved around learning and working and doing his share to manage the Hawthorne enterprise.

Even the times he’d interacted with women, charming them with a smile or a wink or two, he’d always been more the recipient of interest than the giver of it.

But after three days spent tracking down the elusive Sir George Staunton, wondering at the baronet’s possible connection with Miss Amelia Waters, and looking forward to seeing Miss Amelia Waters herself after he’d done his sleuthing each day, Jacob was fast finding himself more permanently attached to the brown-eyed, dark-haired runaway—whoever she truly was.

There were very few things more compelling than seeing her soften under Mrs. Wilmark’s motherly touch, her face lighting up in a beautiful smile.

And there was something entrancing about seeing her genteel manners lending a soft little touch as she began to offer more help around the house.

In short, Jacob liked her.

And it was a very inconvenient situation for a supposedly engaged man to be in.

Jacob cleared his throat, and his mind, as he descended the hackney cab first. He turned to assist Miss Waters down, enjoying the fleeting touch of her hands a trifle more than was strictly appropriate .

But it was the look in her eyes that caught his attention.

Frowning, Jacob leaned closer. Betsy shuffled behind them, appearing rather disproportionately disappointed that Jacob hadn’t helped her down as solicitously as he had Miss Waters.

“Is something wrong? I can assure you it is Sir George Staunton’s last known residence.

It appears that the man comes and goes so much that he does not keep permanent lodgings in London,” Jacob said under his voice.

The clean streets were a far cry from the chaos of the London docks, but this conversation somehow felt more exposed than the last one they’d conducted in public.

“And the Thorntons may not be titled, but I have been told that they have plenty of connected friends, the famous Lord Rodworth among them.”

“But what if Sir George—” Miss Waters frowned. Jacob watched a long, low breath escape between her pink lips. “Never mind me. It is a silly thought.”

He pressed her hand. “I would not think it so if you find yourself with misgivings.”

“Sir George was always my father’s friend. I have never had a formal acquaintance with the man himself.”

“And would that be a hindrance to his helping you?”

She seemed to consider. “I suppose not.”

“We all begin as strangers at some point, do we not?”

This time, she met his eyes with a smile. “I suppose we do.”

“And then we become acquaintances.”

“Or friends.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes lit up prettily.

Jacob cleared his throat, let go of her hand, and offered his arm more formally. “Then shall we?”

Miss Waters nodded, before slipping her arm around Jacob’s.

It was not, by any means, much different from what he would do for any other lady—but it did make Jacob feel a strange mixture of pride and giddiness.

At least, with Miss Waters, he played the role of a gallant gentleman, rather than a pawn in a marriage contract.

Father had just written this morning, his note still fresh in Jacob’s pocket, reminding him of his dwindling days of freedom.

Every stroke oozed with command and condescension, going so far as to boast of future connections to this lord or another, to anticipate visits to this manor or that abbey or various other country estates.

It was shameless ambition, plain and simple.

And while Jacob might have preferred to rise through society gradually, through education and diplomacy, his father clearly had no such scruples.

Alastor Hawthorne had never been a patient man.

And this time, instead of a delinquent client, it was his own son on the clock.

Jacob swallowed as they walked up the Thornton steps together, determined to set aside his other worries for the day.

If Sir George did indeed have the answers Miss Waters sought about her family, then she would no longer need to stay with Mrs. Wilmark, and Jacob himself would no longer need to be responsible for her well-being.

Somehow, the thought brought less satisfaction than it ought to.

“Sir.” A well-dressed, relatively young, yet by no means haughty, butler answered the door.

“Mr. Jacob Hawthorne to see Sir George Staunton.” Jacob handed over his card. His name might not amount to much amongst gentry, but money had its way of buying some respect, upon occasion. “In the company of Miss Amelia Waters.”

The woman beside him inhaled sharply under her breath at the name he offered, confirming Jacob’s suspicions that she went by a different name in reality. But there was nothing for it until they met Sir George himself.

The butler studied the card, as butlers were wont to do, while Miss Waters’ fingers tightened on Jacob’s arm. He reached over and lay a reassuring hand over hers, the fabric of their gloves caught against each other.

The butler looked down. “I’m afraid Sir George Staunton is not in residence.”

Jacob frowned as Miss Waters trembled. He hadn’t expected to be received with open arms, but he’d hardly expected to be brushed off entirely without the master of the house even seeing his name.

His sources had mentioned that the Thorntons were not high in the instep, despite close friendships with a viscount or two. His sources must have been wrong.

“I understand that our call is not expected,” Jacob said, his words as crisp as Mr. Terrance had drilled them to be. “However, Miss Waters is a family friend of Sir George; and seeing that she needs his help over a personal matter, it would hardly be appropriate to turn away a gentlewoman.”

“I’m afraid there is nothing I can do about it, Mr. Hawthorne,” said the butler. “Sir George Staunton is not in residence.”

Miss Waters lowered her face. The last thing Jacob wanted was to have her crying in the middle of a whole street of curious London residents .

“Perhaps Mr. Thornton?—”

“Larson, what is it?” A woman’s voice floated over from the corridor behind the butler. Jacob watched with bated breath as a middle-aged, pleasant-faced woman walked into view. “Do we have visitors? You can stop puffing your chest so much. It is unseemly.”

The butler stepped to the side to address his mistress. “A Mr. Hawthorne and Miss Waters to see Sir George Staunton, ma’am.”

“Oh dear,” the woman—Mrs. Thornton, Jacob assumed—said with a sigh. “I’m afraid you have just missed him.”

“He was here then?” Jacob found himself asking, relieved to know his sources hadn’t been entirely wrong.

“He stayed with us, yes.” Mrs. Thornton eyed the two of them, her eyes lingering slightly longer on Miss Waters, who returned the gaze briefly before lowering her face once more. “But he’s been gone these three days.”

Disappointment dropped like a rock in Jacob’s stomach. “I see.”

“I didn’t know he was expecting visitors.”

“Miss Waters has—personal matters to consult with him.”

A hint of suspicion crept into Mrs. Thornton’s voice this time. “Is that so?”

“That is—not that she is—” Jacob stuttered over the realization of what he might have sounded like, parading a young woman around and knocking on doors looking for a baronet.

“Sir George is an associate of my father’s,” Miss Waters said this time, her eyes and voice clear. Whatever had distracted her all day must have finally been set aside. “They travelled together on the Macartney Embassy.”

Mrs. Thornton softened slightly. “I see.”

“There are a few pressing matters that I wish to consult Sir George about, and if he can spare a moment of his time?—”

“Even if he can, there is little I can do about it.” Mrs. Thornton smiled gently at Miss Waters. There was something about her that seemed to evoke tenderness easily—from matronly women, and from Jacob, alike. “I’m afraid his mother’s poor health called him to the country three days ago.”

Miss Waters let loose what sounded like a sigh of relief. “Not to China then?”

“Oh, no—although Lord knows he undertakes the journey far more often than is necessary.” Mrs. Thornton chuckled. “Sir George was called to his mother’s this time. I do hope the poor dear is not in a bad way.”

“Oh,” said Jacob and Miss Waters together.

“I do have his solicitor’s address, I believe. Perhaps you can ask about him there?”

It was not much of a lead, but it was perhaps better than nothing.

“And that’s all they said?” Mrs. Wilmark asked, her eyes full of gentle concern, as Amelia sipped her tea.

It was remarkably good tea for such a humble household, better than the tea back home and certainly much better than what had been served last week in Cavendish Square, but the quality of her beverage was hardly Amelia’s greatest concern at the moment.