The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

She was rambling, and her sentences lacked coherence.

“Nicole, I understand your reason for wanting to hide from your brother and for not mentioning Lord Mosgrove’s involvement. Indeed, had you told me I would have felt compelled to intervene.”

She appeared mildly appeased. “There is more to it than that.”

The sound of a door slamming dragged their attention back to the theatre. Two ladies stood on the pavement. One of them fiddled with the ribbons on her bonnet. Her companion batted the woman’s hands away and laughed. Then she removed the straw hat and brushed back the stray ebony locks before repositioning it and tying the ribbons.

Nicole nudged Oliver in the ribs. “Either Miss Flint has a twin sister, or that is the lady we met in Mr Jameson’s office.”

“Yes. As I suspected, she is Charlotte Brooke’s maid.” He had been in the same room as her on more than one occasion, though she had hovered in the background as maids do. “I cannot recall her name, although I have an inkling it could be Matilda.”

What he was yet to determine was how she knew to use the name Miss Flint. And if she used the alias to acquire Morton Manor fraudulently, then someone else knew that his father had hired a paid companion.

“Perhaps we should follow her.” Nicole nudged him. “See where she’s going.”

“Is it not a little cold for you to be walking the streets? And silk slippers are made for ballrooms, not pavements.” The carriage was parked on Norris Street, a two-minute walk away. “Wait with Jackson, and I shall return promptly.”

Miss Flint glared at him. “My lord,” she began, and he knew he was about to feel the sharp edge of her tongue. “I have been tied to a bedpost by my own kin. Assaulted in my garden by a vain prig with both the breath and logic of a mule. Locked in a haunted manor for six months with no hope of reprieve. I think I can walk a mile in a pair of silk slippers.”

Despite admiration filling his chest, all thoughts grew dark. “Are you saying that your brother kept you a prisoner, too?”

“Not exactly, but I was taught to be a dutiful sister, taught to know my place,” she lamented. “But now is not the time to discuss it further.” She gestured to the ladies across the street. “It appears our imposter is on the move.”

The ladies parted company. Matilda walked a few paces and turned to glance over her shoulder when the theatre door opened and slammed shut. A man doffed his hat and called out, “Goodnight, Miss Murray.”

“Goodnight, Mr Brown.” Matilda waved and continued on her way.

The fake Miss Flint, or Miss Murray as they decided to call her to avoid any confusion, hurried along Haymarket, past Charing Cross, to a coffeehouse on the Strand that opened late because it shared the premises with a hotel. A faint orange glow emanated from the tiny square panes on the bow window. People inside sat huddled in groups, sipping their drinks. One candle per table was all the proprietor permitted. The white mist covering the glass made it impossible to identify anyone in particular. Water droplets trickled down to the sill, but no one bothered to wipe them clean.

“We’ve no hope of watching Miss Murray through these windows.” Oliver cupped his hands to his face and pressed his nose to the glass. “For all we know, she has a room upstairs. We could be waiting out here till dawn.”

“Let’s go inside,” Nicole suggested. “It’s quite dark in there. I doubt they can see anything other than those seated opposite.”

“We don’t want Matilda to know we’re following her, not until we discover how she knew my father. We cannot risk rousing her suspicion.”

“Here,” Nicole slipped his coat off her shoulders. “Take this. It would not do to draw attention to ourselves and snooping through the window in your shirtsleeves is bound to cause a stir.”

As usual, she was right.

With some reluctance, Oliver took his coat and shrugged into the garment. She could always huddle into him if she needed to keep warm.

They were still standing outside the door, debating what to do, when a stage coach rolled to a stop beside them. Two gentlemen jumped down from the box seat. Covered in road dust, they appeared tired and dishevelled. The two seated behind handed down their luggage: a small trunk, leather satchel and case, before climbing down to the pavement to join their friends.

“Let’s follow them inside,” Oliver said as all four men entered the coffeehouse.

With no time to waste, Nicole gripped Oliver’s arm and, with heads bowed, they joined the group.

They meandered through the room, scanning the dark interior. One gentleman summoned a serving girl while the others moved to the only empty table in the house and dropped onto the bench.

“May we sit here?” Oliver gestured to the empty place at the end. With room to seat ten men, he expected no objection.

The men glanced at each other. One shrugged. One nodded.

Nicole slid onto the bench, and Oliver sat opposite.

“Keep your head bowed slightly.” He brushed his leg against Nicole’s to attract her attention. And because the subdued lighting gave him an opportunity to tease her. “Scan the crowd behind me. Tell me if you see Miss Murray.”

Beneath hooded lids, her gaze moved between the rows of tables. Though the fire in the stone hearth provided a modicum of warmth, she drew her wrap tightly across her chest. Oliver cursed his stupidity. He should have taken her back to the carriage to fetch her travelling cloak. All this running about at night would give her a chill.