Chapter 1

WITH STERN FACE AND TREMBLING HANDS, MISS FLORENCE FAIRLEIGH stepped from the stuffy railway carriage and into a scene from Bedlam. A dizzying population of males—workmen, clerks, and here and there a gentleman in top hat—jostled each other in haste to reach the train she had lately vacated. Above her the roof of Euston Station yawned in two barnlike peaks, its smutted glass filtering a watery species of sunshine more appropriate to dusk than noon. Beneath her . . . well, beneath her the ground did not yet seem quite solid.

Frowning, she smoothed her crumpled black bombazine skirts. None of these observations were to the purpose. Her purpose was her future and her future would not wait on missish fears. She turned to her companion. Lizzie, the Fairleighs' maid-of-all-work, still clung to the carriage door, its grime putting her mistress's best white gloves at risk. Florence's old pink day dress, another loan, hung on Lizzie's slender frame. Though sixteen, and nearly grown, the maid looked all of twelve.

Truly, Florence thought, the only advantage to traveling with a person more timid than oneself was that it served to stiffen up one's spine. She stiffened it now and gestured for Lizzie to come down.

"It is safe," she said with all the firmness she could muster.

Face filled with trepidation, Lizzie tottered down the steps as if the train were a dragon that had momentarily, and perhaps not reliably, agreed to cough her out.

"Oh, miss," she breathed in awestruck tones, "isn't London grand?"

"You must call me Miss Fairleigh," Florence corrected, taking Lizzie's arm to guide her through the crowded train shed. "As is proper for a young lady towards her governess."

This was the fiction they had agreed upon, since Florence could not travel without a chaperone, and a less imposing chaperone than Lizzie Thomas could hardly be imagined. In her dull black gown, Florence thought she looked very much a governess, though not—due to the width of her sleeves and the lumpishness of her bustle—a particularly fashionable one. The ruse had worked well in the dimness of the carriage. When they disembarked at the various watering stations between Lancashire and London, however, Florence had been the subject of interested stares.

Even a governess, it seemed, was not immune to male attention.

"Oh, miss," said Lizzie, calling Florence to the present, "I mean, Miss Fairleigh. However shall we find our way?"

"We shall follow these others," said Florence. "They must be heading towards the street."

A brief argument was required to convince Lizzie she was not to carry Florence's portmanteau. That settled, they soon found themselves under the station's monumental Doric entry arch. To Florence's dismay, the bedlam inside the station merely increased in the out-of-doors. Here the confusion was multiplied by carriages and drays, by costermongers shouting their wares, and by a pungent smell which was half stableyard, half day-old fire. Florence did not have the least idea how to fight through the snarl.

She was swallowing back tears by the time a ragged urchin tugged on the hem of her mantelet. His eyes were huge in his dirty face, but so canny Florence felt a moment's fear. She put her hand on her reticule.

"Need a cab?" he offered. "I'll call one for a penny."

"A penny!" Lizzie exclaimed, her temper restored by this proposed raid on their resources. "You'll do it for a farthing, you scamp."

Florence smiled at her outrage. "A penny is fine," she said, "but we'll pay you after we get in."

This was agreeable to the young man, who proved capable at his task. Within minutes she and Lizzie were climbing into a smart black hansom cab. Florence gave their direction to the driver, which fortunately he knew. After another delay to ease into traffic, they joined the stream of broughams and carts and rumbling double-decked omnibuses. Since the cabbie sat on a high seat at the back of the two-wheeled carriage, his passengers had a clear view of all they passed.

Florence tried to maintain her dignity, but Lizzie was openly agog.

"Look, miss!" she exclaimed, pointing at the distinguished terraces of Bedford Square. "Look at that nursemaid in her apron! Isn't she the grandest thing you've ever seen!"

Copyright © 2006 by Emma Holly