Page 45

Viv sank down on the ottoman. “She certainly is. She’s determined to spread misery wherever she goes. I am heartily sorry I took so long this morning.”

Lady Melforth smiled. “You don’t secretly admire her? I’m sure she quite rules Arthur.”

Viv grinned. “Adding domestic tyranny to her other offenses does not raise her in my estimation.”

“Ah, well, thank you for seeing them off.”

“I will not abandon you again.”

“Yes, but I still need you to deal with Dodsley. What was the problem today?”

“Dodsley wants to change our title, and we had a go-round about it. A note from you will help, I think.” Viv explained Dodsley’s alternative titles, pleased to see Lady Melforth taking more of the doctor’s draught and even smiling a little.

“And after Dodsley’s?” Lady Melforth peered at Viv over the brim of her cup. “You could not have been at his office all morning. You’ve changed your gown.”

Viv plucked at her skirts. Under them, the damp petticoat stuck to her knees. “I confess, I took a quick look at a possible entry for our guide, and got a soaking.”

“Oh, where is this?”

“It’s a house on Weymouth Street, quite unremarkable from the outside, but it was once the residence of Marie Christophe, the former queen of Haiti.”

“And that’s what kept you?”

Viv hesitated. Now was the moment to confess that she’d met Lark and that it was he, who had led her to Marie Christophe’s house. The outing was harmless after all, completely respectable, with everything public and permitted to a betrothed couple, until the scene in the stillroom.

She leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “There’s a woman who comes to the house every day to leave a bouquet of flowers. I’d like to question her about her story and the queen’s. It’s a rare opportunity for us to present a pair of living women to our readers, models of female independence.”

Lady Melforth shook her head. “I don’t think so, Viv. I think it’s time to finish the book.”

“Finish? Without the full number of entries we planned?” Viv tried to contain her shock. Lady Melforth appeared tired, all her zeal for the book gone.

“How many do we have?”

“Eleven.”

“And you have your notes from the other day, do you not?”

Viv nodded. She had only herself to blame for her ladyship’s loss of interest in their book. While Viv had lingered in Lark’s company, the Strydes had wearied and discouraged her ladyship. Worse still, Viv reproached herself, she had let herself be seduced, not in the vulgar sense of popular melodrama, but in her mind. In Lark’s presence, she had not spared a thought for Lady Melforth, for the person on whom she depended, the person who had been generous and supportive, and who had made Viv a writer.

She offered her employer a bright smile. “I do have my notes. Twelve entries might work very well, an even dozen. Shall I put together what we have this week for you to look at?”

“Yes, that will do nicely. I think we could be wise to finish in the next fortnight.”