Roads were full of potholes that delayed their time abominably. A violent megrim took possession of her head, and just outside of London a buck forced their rig off the road in a game of hunt-the-squirrel. It took John Groom half an hour to haul the team out the ditch and make sure the carriage was sound enough to continue their journey. Informing Harrup of the loss of his letters was so urgent that she had the carriage driven straight to his house in Belgrave Square. In the lengthening shadows of twilight, stately brick homes glared down at their passing, like dowagers at a ball, stiffly disapproving of parvenues. It was with a tremor of apprehension that Peabody lifted her hand and sounded the brass knocker. She didn’t recognize Harrup’s butler, who looked as imposing as a duke as he stared down his Turkish nose at them and announced in lofty accents that his lordship was not at home. Peabody cast a stymied frown at Diana, who edged forward and said in a loud, clear voice, “We shall wait for him,”
