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Martha spoke for almost the first time since they had set out from the docks nearly an hour before. The sound of her voice jerked Cathy back to the present. She leaned forward to peer out the near side window, using her bare hand to wipe a little circle of glass clear of condensation. From the outside, her Aunt Elizabeth’s, Lady Stanhope’s, fashionable Grosvenor Square townhouse looked exactly the same as it had two years before. Three stories tall, made of red brick with a delicately wrought, black-painted iron fence separating it from the street, it was as imposing as the lady herself. And as Cathy remembered only too well from her one previous visit, the house was as strictly correct inside as out. Formality was the unbending rule in manners as well as furnishings. Cathy had stayed there for nearly three months while she was pregnant with Cray and had thought herself deserted by her husband. That visit had been distinguished only by its sheer misery.
    “You gettin’ out, lady?” The truculent tone of the cabbie as he stood holding open the carriage door, rain dripping from the brim of his hat, pulled Cathy from her reverie. She passed Cray, who had finally fallen asleep, to Martha and stood up. Martha was visibly bristling at the man’s rudeness. Cathy, who didn’t think that she could bear any additional unpleasantness, quelled her with a stern look.
    “Cover your head, lovey, it’s raining,” Martha advised as Cathy prepared to descend, contenting herself with fixing the cabbie with one long, contemptuous stare. Cathy did as she was told, pulling the hood of her pelisse over her head as she stepped lightly from the carriage. Martha followed, a thick silk shawl draped over herself and Cray. The cabbie, having insisted on being paid in advance, barely took time to throw their baggage into the street before remounting his seat and driving away. Cathy looked with some dismay at the piles of luggage left standing onthe curb, slowly becoming drenched. Then, with a resigned shrug, she turned her back on the depressing sight and marched firmly up to the door.
    “Good afternoon, my lady,” said Sims the butler, as he opened the door to her brief knock. He didn’t sound at all surprised to see her. Cathy supposed that her aunt must have assumed she would come, and so informed her servants. There had been no time to reply to that fateful letter before setting out.
    “Good afternoon, Sims.” Cathy’s reply was equally matter-
of-fact. As the butler held the door wide she walked past him into the marble-floored foyer, closely followed by Martha with Cray. Martha exchanged cold glances with Sims as she passed him. They had been at war throughout the one previous time Cathy had stayed in this house.
    “Lady Stanhope is in the small drawing room, my lady,” Sims informed her in his funereal voice.
    “And my father?” Cathy questioned softly.
    “He is upstairs, in the green bedroom, my lady. I am sorry to tell you that his condition is not much improved. May I say how sorry we all are that such a thing should happen to Sir Thomas, my lady.”
    “Thank you, Sims. I will go up to him at once. Please show Martha where we are to sleep, and have someone bring in our things. I fear they are getting sadly wet.”
    “Very good, my lady.” Not by so much as the flicker of an eyelash did Sims betray his surprise at Cathy’s lack of manners. The correct thing would have been for her to greet her aunt, who was, after all, her hostess, and perhaps drink a cup of tea before going upstairs. Cathy was perfectly aware of her breach of etiquette, but truthfully she did not feel up to facing her aunt at the moment. She had not seen Lady Stanhope since Jon had stolen her away from this house in the middle of one snowy January night nearly two years ago, and she did not imagine that her aunt was overly eager to welcome her. Left obviously pregnant afterher notorious abduction by pirates, Cathy’s first appearance in London society