The second sheet he unfolded was his brother's hateful letter announcing the betrothal. He glimpsed it front and back but there was no address; it was the wrong paper. He was just folding it back into the stack when a word caught his eye. It was a name, in fact: Morely-Tate. What name had she given for her grandfather, in the carriage? Patrick dropped the hatbox square in the dirt, and unfolded his brother's letter again, to take the name in context.

'She is a descendent of the Derbyshire Tates and will bring a handsome sum, her grandsire being old Morely-Tate of Fairfield…'

What had Amelia said to him about their meeting being a sign?

He snatched up the hatbox and ran for St. Thomas Street.

* * *

Amelia wished that her ride home had been longer, dabbing at her nose and eyes with a hopelessly limp handkerchief. It wasn't like her to cry, an event usually reserved for the most heartrending scenes in A Patient Heart, but she wasn't used to so much upheaval. It was natural, even healthy, she reasoned, after so many tumultuous days, and a good long cry might have done her well. That reasoning didn't help a curious pang in her heart, or her poor little blue handkerchief.

There was something melancholy about giving up her dream, no matter how silly it had been. There would be other adventures, as Patrick had reminded her, better thought-out and certainly more grown-up. But they wouldn't be the same, because he wouldn't be there to share them.

She snuffled one last time, for good measure, and then pulled a deep breath when the coachman opened her door. That almost started the crying all over again. London air tasted gray and smoggy, not at all like the air at Gretna Green. Amelia, deciding that she needed a nap, let the driver help her down.

He joined the footman to help take her belongings to the step, while she fished in her reticule for her key, not certain of even having it anymore. It was during the raking and shuffling of the contents of her purse that she became aware of a noise. She heard it distinctly, but a tickle in her brain hinted it had been happening, just beneath a hum of London crowds, for some seconds before hand. Shouting; she recognized the pitch and cadence but not the words.

"Goodness!" she exclaimed to the footman, posted and waiting at her gate, "What is that racket?"

He cocked his wiry body and scrunched more wrinkles into his long, leathery face. "Amelia?" He frowned. "No, that's not right. Mayhap he kens what it is." The footman jabbed a finger and she turned around.




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