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They walked off to take their places at the end of the queue.

They were talking about her book! She stared in disbelief at the growing queue of patrons on the pavement. They couldn’t possibly be queuing to buy her book… could they? After all, she’d had two books published before this one, and nothing at all like this had happened.

Of course, Mr. Wynde had told her that The Specter of Venice would make a sensation. And he'd also told her that he would advertise the book in advance of its publication. But she'd scarcely been out of the house in weeks, and hadn't noticed anything herself.

She stared up at the tufted ceiling of the carriage and tried to force herself to take slow breaths. The words that she’d labored over… the days of feeling sluggish and stupid… the two dozen chapters that she’d had to re-write when she’d learned that Venice had no caves or tunnels… somehow, all of it had led to this moment. So it ought to have been a moment of triumph. And yet right now all she could feel was terror that the people waiting to buy it might not like it. What if the young ladies she'd just overheard were disappointed?

And under that fear was another, worse fear. For months, she’d told herself that she couldn’t think about the other problems in her life until the book was finally finished. Because—well, somewhere in the back of her mind she’d believed that when the book finally was finished, she would know what to do. Only she didn't. And the book was undeniably finished. It was so finished that seven or eight dozen people were waiting on a City pavement to buy it.

And she had no more idea about how to fix everything that was wrong than she’d had all those months ago. In fact, things were worse. Now she was trapped in a marriage to a man who’d been gone for weeks and had written her only one brief letter. And her mother was waiting at home for her to return and spend the rest of the day talking about tile, or some other nonsense.

She must stop thinking about this. Right now, what she must do was compose herself, get out of the carriage, walk past the dozens… it might even be a hundred… of chattering patrons waiting on the pavement to buy her book, persuade the clerk guarding the door to allow her inside so that she could go upstairs to meet with Mr. Wynde…

How could she do that? She’d have to give her name, and the clerk would repeat it, and someone might overhear... and this carriage really was stiflingly warm, and she was lightheaded, and suddenly she felt as though she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs… Was she dying?

She remembered that Charles had told her that this sort of panic used to happen to him. He’d said that walking seemed to help.

She fumbled with the door latch, flung it open, and took a long step down onto the pavement. “Your grace!” Jones almost vaulted off the box. “Please! I ought to have opened the door for you!”

She took gulps of air, one hand on the hot black paint, hoping that none of the fashionable ladies and gentlemen queueing impatiently on the pavement looked in her direction.

“Your grace?” Jones’ concerned face seemed to loom toward her. “Are you unwell?”

She shook her head and struggled to clear her throat. “No… no. Thank you. I wish only to… walk.”

Jones glanced around the busy City street. “Walk, your grace?”

She was desperate for space. “Yes. I shall walk. I shall be perfectly safe, with you following with the carriage.”

He hesitated a moment. “Very good, your grace.” He shut the door, climbed back onto the box and took up the reins again.

She took one last glance at the queue on the pavement. If anything, there were even more people than before. She would send Mr. Wynde a note when she returned home, telling him that she must come at a different time.

She took a breath, turned and began walking toward Cornhill and the Stock Exchange. After a quarter mile or so she realized that Charles was right: The worst of the panic had faded a little. Or at least, she could breathe again, as long as she didn't think about breathing. Score one for the Alford siblings and their ability to put a good face on things, she supposed.

If only Lady Theodosia were in London! But Pomona hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell her about the crisis with West. Besides, she didn't want to spoil her great aunt's visits with her friends. Instead, she'd hinted that she was simply too busy with the project of refurbishing March House to think of anything else, and told her, truthfully, that the place was a building site. She'd been enough of a burden on Lady Theodosia already.

She reached Cheapside. Despite the fact that it was August, the pavements were crowded with fashionable shoppers. Jones was still following patiently. She forced herself to take a deep breath. Could she do it? Could she get back into the carriage, go home, and face whatever wallpaper crisis had developed in the hour or so that she’d been out?

She must. But just as she was about to cross back to the carriage, she saw an advertisement in a stationer’s window. “The Most Sensational Novel Ever Published! Mrs. Brown’s terrifying The Specter of Venice sold here!” Someone had added a hand-written note in front of it: “Sold out.” She paused. Well, she would simply have to get used to seeing her pseudonym, and the title of her book, in random places.

She was about to walk on when the caricature pasted next to the advertisement caught her eye. The man in it looked familiar for some reason. Well, of course he did—he must be someone famous. New caricatures skewering politicians and royalty and their many scandals were pasted in stationers’ windows all over the country all the time.

But… No. It couldn’t be. But it was.

In a few strokes of the pen the caricaturist had managed to capture West’s high cheekbones and the way that his dark hair fell across his forehead. He was pictured in a ducal coronet and ermine-trimmed red court robes. In case that wasn’t enough to make his identity clear, the crown’s points bore letters spelling out M-A-R-C-H. The caricaturist had added a sash slung across his chest which read, “The Poor Man’s Duke Am I.” What? What could this be about? As she leaned closer, the details of the caricature piled upon each other. Sketched lines suggested a backdrop of miserable, tumbledown houses. Thin, dirty-faced men and children in the crowd glowered at the cartoon West.

And he—his nose in the air, oblivious to the squalor and poverty—had a speech bubble coming from his mouth that read, “‘I propose that no child be sent underground to work in my neighbours’ mines!” The words “my neighbours” were underlined for emphasis.

A woman in the crowd brandished a rolling pin above her head as she answered, “Aye, your grace! They will be underground soon enough now!”

In the foreground were three small coffins containing… the bodies of children. The fine lines somehow suggested their pained expressions. Whoever had tinted the black and white print with watercolors had made their lips blue.

Pomona’s hand was over her mouth. Something dreadful must have happened. But West had told her nothing. He’d only written once. He didn't want her love and support. She was more ignorant of his life—and whatever dreadful tragedy had occurred—than the stranger who’d drawn this cartoon.

Someone exited the stationer’s shop. The jingle of bells on the door brought her back to herself. She realized that she was standing on a Cheapside pavement with tears welling up in her eyes.

The carriage. She turned—half blinded—and nearly ran straight into a gentleman’s expensively-upholstered chest.