neighborhood had been an ecclesiastical stronghold, home of the Whitefriars and the Carmelites, the Knights Templar and the Bishops of Salisbury. Later it had been beloved of actors and authors and poets who frequented its many taverns and coffeehouses. Now it was home to newsmongers and journalists. But the viscount could not just stand and gape at such alien surroundings. Though he would much rather have not, he proceeded along the street.
No appreciation of the past revisited brightened the viscount’s somewhat bloodshot eyes. The ancient church of Saint Dunstan’s failed to catch his interest, as did Wren’s fairest creation, beautiful Saint Bride’s; as did even the Old Metre tavern, which Dr. Johnson had once patronized. For what ailed Laurie, no tavern could provide a cure. Then he espied a vision that did cause his eye to brighten, albeit resentfully.
She stood outside Childs Bank, clutching numerous pamphlets and sheaves of paper to her bosom while she tossed with a pieman for his wares. “Here’s all ‘ot! Toss or buy! Up and win ‘em!” cried the pieman. Quickly, a small crowd gathered to watch the fun. If the pieman won, he’d receive a penny and keep his pie. If he lost, the pie was forfeit. Miss Phyfe spun the coin and won. Then she espied Laurie and waved. “You came.”
“I was not aware that I had an alternative, Miss Phyfe. The note you sent around hinted that matters were in a very sad case. I am very sorry to hear it—but just what matters are you referring to?”
She cast him a cautionary glance. “I will explain all as soon as we are private.”
Private with Miss Phyfe? The notion did not appeal. Viscount English watched her attempt to retain hold of her papers and pamphlets while at the same time devouring her pie. She was not wholly successful, in the process dropping several papers and smearing pastry on her gown.
Miss Phyfe seemed very much at home with lavender-girls and organ-grinders, thought Viscount English as he stooped to retrieve the fallen sheets; certainly more so than with the ton. He should not be surprised to discover that she patronized Childs, the oldest private bank in England and the most illustrious. Childs now dealt with women of dangerous convictions where once it had dealt with kings.
How dangerous those convictions were, the viscount had not previously realized. He stared at the sheet of paper which he held. Ravening flesh? Drinking blood? “Miss Phyfe! You—This—Good God!”
Cheeks aflame, Miss Phyfe snatched back the sheet. “Pray exercise some of your fabled discretion, sir!” she snapped. “Lest you wish to read in the next addition of the newssheets that you have kept an assignation with me in Fleet Street.”
What the world would say to such a bizarre on-dit boggled the viscount’s imagination. Meekly, he trailed after Miss Phyfe past the Temple Bar, where the heads of executed persons had been exhibited until late in the previous century; patiently, he retrieved the seditious literature strewn in her wake; desperately, he wondered how to affect a polite retreat. If only he had not acknowledged receipt of her missive. No doubt she meant to try once more to enlist him in the cause of parliamentary reform.
She paused opposite Chancery Lane, in front of Saint Dunstan’s. For a startled moment, Viscount English thought she intended their conversation to take place within the church. Instead she indicated a ramshackle structure on the other side of the road. The viscount was not at all enthusiastic about venturing into a building thus verging on collapse.
“Fiddlestick!” responded Miss Phyfe, when introduced to this viewpoint. “I promise your precious aristocratic person will be quite safe. Gracious God, English, you have never heard of Prince Henry’s Room? It dates from 1611 and was the old council chamber of the Duke of Cornwall, son of James I. It is also” —and she smiled somewhat satirically—”the home of Mrs. Salmon’s
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