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I write to thank you for your kindness to me. From the time you brought me to Bath and introduced me to Lady Melforth. I have had opportunities I little dreamed of in Weymouth. Today, I am especially grateful to you as the publisher’s proofs of our London guide are expected this afternoon. It is not possible for me to exaggerate the benefits of Lady Melforth’s guidance and generous support. As her companion, I have learned so much about the course I long to pursue as a writer, and remain eager to continue the work.

I am glad, too, that you could meet Mr. Larkin. In his own way, he has contributed to my writing. Nevertheless, Aunt, I must tell you that we have decided to end our betrothal….

Viv put down her pen. Some explanation was needed, one that would not lead to further inquiry or further deception. And yet Viv did not know what to say. The ruse was not entirely her secret, but Lark’s, as well. She could hardly reveal that they had been complete strangers, and that she’d shot him as he tried to help her. Or that, in the event, she had felt a particular duty to bring him to a doctor, as her purse, for which he’d endured an injury to his clothes and his person, had been full of gravel.

She might write that she and Mr. Larkin had decided they did not suit. Her aunt would accept such an explanation, but not without feeling wounded that Viv was concealing something. Aunt Louisa and Uncle Oswald had seen how Lark routed the Strydes. And unfortunately, Aunt Louisa had now met the Duke of Wenlocke and heard him proclaim his gladness to be a part of the match.

That was another wrinkle in Viv’s plan to undeceive her aunt. She twisted the ring on her finger. She had no idea what Lark had said about their engagement to—she still had to call the duke—his employer. The duke’s appearance at the Penitent Women’s Hospital had deepened the mystery of Lark’s connection to him. By stealing a glance at her, the duke’s companion, Mr. Finch, seemed to confirm that he, too, knew of the betrothal. Viv could not believe that their meeting there had been a mere coincidence. From the building, Lark had gone directly to the duke in great distress of mind. Her instinct said that the duke was now helping her absent fiancé in some way.

A soft knock on her door interrupted her worried thoughts. She tucked her letter away, and went to the door. Jenny stood there, looking unsettled. “The Strydes are here, miss. No one could keep them out. They’re waiting in the upstairs drawing room to take tea with Lady Melforth.”

“Is her ladyship awake, Jenny? Does she know they’re here?” Viv’s letter would have to wait. She would simply send it in the morning directed to her aunt at Atwood in the country.

“Yes, miss.” Jenny hesitated. “’er ladyship is that flustered, miss.”

“I’ll go to her directly, Jenny.”

Jenny bobbed a curtsy and turned to go. Then stopped. “Oh, and, miss, there’s a package for ye from the printer. Shall I bring it up?”

Viv nodded and gave her appearance a quick glance to make sure she was equal to the Strydes’ scrutiny. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the hall.

*

Neither the Strydes’ encounter with the London police nor the seriousness of Lady Melforth’s condition lessened their determination to secure their place as her near relations. For half an hour, Mrs. Stryde made insistent inquiries about the consulting doctor and the level of care her ladyship was receiving. Even in the face of such an onslaught, Lady Melforth’s tremor was gone for the moment, and her eyes were bright. And Viv was glad of their earlier carriage ride.

“Eustacia, do stop,” said Lady Melforth. “I am quite able to judge a physician’s skill, and of course, I have Newberry, on whom I may rely without doubt.”

“But, Aurora.” Mrs. Stryde cleared her throat. “Don’t you think, propriety calls for a skilled nurse, rather than a male doctor?”

“I have Sarah and…Viv.”

“To be sure, but won’t Miss Bradish be leaving you soon to marry?”

All eyes in the small party turned to Viv.

“We have set no date,” she said.

“Your young man is still dillydallying, is he?” said Mrs. Stryde. “No announcement, no word to your parents? One wonders whether you mean to marry at all, Miss Bradish.”

“I am simply glad to be of use to Lady Melforth while I can be.”

“Yes, well, Aurora,” said Mrs. Stryde turning, “we have done some looking and some careful screening of potential candidates, and we believe we’ve found the very nurse for you, a Mrs. Coates.”

“Thank you, Eustacia. If I find myself looking about for a nurse, I will consider your candidate. For now, I shall go on as I have been doing. Viv, will you ring for Sarah? I should like to return to my room. Oh, and please see my cousins out.”

Viv rose and crossed to ring the bell, with only a little pang at being left out of her ladyship’s confidence once again. Her ladyship was and was not herself. She could be imperious and strong when facing the Strydes, but the former warmth of understanding and friendship between her and Viv had cooled.

In the hall as the Strydes prepared to leave, Mrs. Stryde turned to Viv. “Your days here are numbered, Miss Bradish. You had best make your conjugal arrangements while you can.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stryde. I will take your advice to heart.”

When they were actually out the door, and in the carriage, and when it began to pull away, Viv breathed again. The Strydes were a very good reminder that if Viv did not wish to be ruined, she would be wise never to reveal the nature of the deception she and Mr. Larkin had practiced. She would tell her aunt that they had decided they did not suit.

She returned to her room to take up her letter and found the printer’s package on her desk, wrapped in string and brown paper and addressed to her in a hand that was not Dodsley’s, the printer’s, she thought. For a moment she simply rested her hands on the package. She had imagined weeks earlier that she would open it with Lady Melforth and share some celebratory cake from Mrs. Brandle or perhaps even champagne. But now Viv merely wanted to see that the book existed, that unlike her betrothal and her tie to her ladyship, the work had not vanished.

She pulled the ends of the strings and unfolded the paper. The book had come from the printer with a dark-green cloth binding and a gold-edged square of paper with a sepia-toned print of a London street on the cover. She paused to admire the handsome binding, feeling the thrill that notes and jottings could be transformed into such an object. She opened to the title page, and sat down hard, her heart hammering, her breath sucked out of her. It had been changed.

A LADY’S GUIDE TO LONDON IN TWELVE SELF-GUIDED WALKS