Primrose didn’t know which of her senses assailed her the most. She flinched at the grating sound of the woman’s East End accent and struggled against the urge to avert her gaze from the soot-covered face, the soiled and gaping bodice of a threadbare frock, the almost maniacal gap-toothed grin. The bitter-almond stench and brown smoke of opium hung heavy in the air, compelling Primrose to plunge her hand into her reticule and retrieve a handkerchief with which to cover her nose. “Wotch yerself, Trudy!” a second woman blared and then raked her hand under her nose as she sniffed mightily. “That’s a regular lady yer addressin’.” Trudy scoffed. The fetid air she huffed set a strand of her greasy brown hair in motion. “She ain’t no lady, Betsy. By the sound of her she’s an American!” Betsy slapped at her compatriot to shush her. “Don’t mind her none, ma’am.” She grinned with pride. “I knows a lady when I sees one.” Primrose straightened, refusing to retreat behind the two burly stable hands she’d brought from Scarborough Hall.
