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down the hallway a full minute before her sister entered the room. She marveled again at the girl’s seemingly miraculous recovery since reaching London. Meredith couldn’t begin to describe her own sense of relief, but she still puzzled over the extraordinary changes in her sister’s behavior.
    Why had Annabel been so ill at Swallow Hill? Their uncle had maintained that she would never regain her health at home, and Meredith grudgingly admitted he was right. But she also had no doubt that committing the girl to a private asylum would have killed Annabel. Clearly Dr. Leeds was sadly mistaken, and Meredith had no regrets she had fled with her sister to London.
    Annabel skipped into the breakfast room, waving several brightly colored fabric swatches in her hand. “Meredith, Miss Noyes wants you to come to the drawing room and pick out the new draperies for that room and the dining room. She says so many choices are likely to give her a spasm if someone doesn’t help her.” She laughed again.
    Meredith’s chest constricted with an almost painful love. The girl looked so delicate and beautiful in a dainty primrose morning gown, her fashionable new haircut swept back off her neck with matching ribbons. She, in contrast, was wearing her oldest gown and had pulled her hair back into a simple knot at the nape of her neck in order to keep her hair out of her face as she worked.
    There were times when her sister’s youth and beauty forcibly reminded Meredith of her own rapid advance into spinsterhood. Annabel meant the world to her, but never had she felt so keenly the differences between them.
    She put down her basket of linens and forced herself to smile. “Yes, darling. Tell Miss Noyes I’ll be with her in a few minutes. I just need to organize the mending and give Cook the shopping list for the next few days.”
    â€œAll right, Meredith, but please don’t be long. You promised we could go for a walk in the park this afternoon. It’s been ages since we’ve been able to go outside.”
    Annabel whirled around and dashed out of the room, her eager steps fading down the hallway to the front of the house. Meredith shook her head at the girl’s exuberant energy, contrasting it with her own sense of exhaustion after the tumultuous move to their new townhouse near Berkeley Square.
    She hated to admit it, but Lord Silverton had found exactly what they required. Discreetly situated on a quiet street, removed from the noise and bustle of the city, the house afforded them the privacy and security they needed until Annabel was ready to make her debut.
    Meredith turned a critical eye on the small, cheerful breakfast parlor situated at the back of the house. It was flooded with sunlight for a good part of the day and just far enough from the other main rooms to be private. She had decided to convert it into a studio where she could paint and Annabel could draw and read her novels without being disturbed by the rest of their small household.
    She inspected the contents of the wooden chest beneath the south-facing window. Meredith grimaced at the meager collection of brushes and paints she had managed to acquire in the mad rush of the last few days. It had pained her greatly to leave her supplies and sketchbooks behind when they had fled their home. And she didn’t even want to think about what her aunt and uncle might do to her work—the precious paintings that had given her so much comfort during the dreary years after her father’s death.
    In the depths of her soul, Meredith was an artist. She knew she had talent. As a child, her father and stepmother had always encouraged her, allowing her to spend hours on end in a tiny, makeshift studio next to the schoolroom. But although they had approved of her passion for her art, they had often deplored the subject matter.
    Meredith sighed as she reflected on the fate of one of her favorite pictures. Just before her father’s