Page 70 of To Seduce a Stranger

“I have a—a friend there. Sister to a butcher.”

Disbelief sketched across his face, but he shrugged and turned back to his team. “Whatever you say, missus.”

Clerkenwell was a part of town through which she had never traveled, and she had no idea, really, what she was looking for. It was, at least, a more respectable area than she had been led to believe. Mostly the cramped but decent homes of craftspeople and men of business, with shops—a watchmaker, a milliner, a bookstore—scattered about. Aunt Penhurst would have called it noisy and crowded. To Charlotte, it looked like the sort of place in which a person might simply disappear, for better or worse.

On the edge of the district, as they drew closer to Smithfield, the wares in the storefronts were no less eye-catching, albeit slightly more stomach churning. An array of bulging-eyed sturgeon were spread out beneath the fishmonger’s sign. Hastily plucked geese hung by their scrawny, web-toed feet at the poulterer’s.

“Here’s your shop, maybe, missus,” Sykes called out, stopping the coach at the mouth of a narrow alleyway that must lead down to the shambles. Here, the metallic tang of blood was so sharp in the air she could almost taste it when she stepped uncertainly from the coach. “Leastways, I can’t take you no further.” Before she could protest, he had chirruped to his horses and was rattling away down the street.

With a heavy heart, she entered a butcher’s shop and asked after the family of Jane Hamilton. Her question was met with a cold stare from the woman behind the counter, whether for her now shabby dress or for the accent with which she spoke, Charlotte could not be certain. The only reply was a prim shake of the head.

She emerged into the midday heat of the alley, shook the sawdust from her hems, and marched farther down the street. Around her, voices jabbered in something that might as well have been another language.

“Coo. Where to, ma’am?” The boy who spoke at her elbow couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, scrawny, with a dirt-smudged face. But he tugged respectfully at his woolen cap.

She knew his offer of help might well disguise a plan to lead her down a blind alley to rob her. Well, he had chosen his victim poorly, then, for she had nothing. “I’m looking for the family of Jane Hamilton,” she said, doing her best to disguise her accent. “They have a butcher shop.”

He gave an eager nod. “Aye. This way, ma’am.”

And, as she was out of options, she followed.

By the time he had led her down two more streets and around several corners, her feet ached and she was thoroughly disoriented. Why had she ever imagined this would be better, safer, than going to Blakemore House? If that gossip columnist could see the Disappearing Duchess now, he would certainly have a story to tell.

“Your Grace?”

Although she heard the words, they did not immediately register as being addressed to her. She was so intent on not losing sight of the boy, she brushed aside the hand that had touched her arm, to hurry after him.

But the hand was persistent. “Your Grace? Is that you?”

Charlotte turned and by some miracle found herself face-to-face with Jane.

“Why, ma’am! You’re white as a sheet. Are you harmed?”

“No, Jane. No. Is there—is there somewhere I could sit down?”

Jane led her a few yards farther, to a short flight of soot-stained steps, and Charlotte sank gratefully onto the middle one. “My sister’s house is just here, ma’am. Come up, once you’ve caught your breath.”

The boy was leaning against the area railing. “There y’ are, Miss Jane.”

“An’ what mischief are you up to this fine day, Jem?”

“Why, none ’t all,” he insisted, laying his hand across his chest as if swearing an oath. “Jus’ helpin’ this ’ere lady what’s been lookin’ for you.”

“Yes,” Charlotte managed to say. “That’s right. Thank you. But I’m afraid I haven’t anything with which to pay you for your assistance.”

“Cor, missus. Tweren’t nothin’,” he said with a wide grin and went scampering on his way.

Jane put a hand beneath Charlotte’s elbow and helped her to rise. “Do come inside, Your Grace, or people will begin to wonder.”

Far from eager to draw more attention her way, Charlotte followed Jane into the house. “It really isn’t necessary for you to keep calling me Your Grace.” It would only add to the speculation.

“But, ma’am! It’s only proper. That wicked duke hasn’t succeeded in taking away your due just yet. Sally, fetch your mother.” The last remark was addressed to a girl of perhaps four or five who was staring wide-eyed at Charlotte from around the newel post. When she didn’t immediately move, Jane spoke more sharply. “Sally!”

“Yes, Aunt Jane.” With a toss of her dark ringlets, the child swung onto the stairs and ascended them with frequent backward glances.

In a few moments, she returned, clutching the hand of a woman with the same brown hair and eyes as Jane. “What’s happened? Sally said—”

“Your Grace, may I present my sister, Catherine Yates? Kitty, this”—she accented the word with a sweep of her arm, as if Charlotte were an item on display—“is the Duchess of Langerton.”