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Bookshop, Woburn Walk, Bloomsbury.”
    He hadn’t known what to expect on his first visit—that she owned the bookshop or lived on the floor above it? He’d soon come to see that Pritchard’s was not only a bookshop but also a letter box for people who either worked in the area or did not wish their mail to be sent to their own homes. It made him wonder what Faith had to hide.
    Mr. Pritchard was a canny man and could not be made to divulge one scrap of information on Faith. Hence James’s encounter with her today. Now that Pritchard knew that Faith and he were acquainted, however, the old man might be more forthcoming. Leastways, that was what James hoped. He had no wish to spend another morning patrolling back and forth along Woburn Walk on the odd chance that he might catch a glimpse of Faith. Besides, he doubted she would show her face in Pritchard’s for a long time to come. In all likelihood, she would send a friend to collect her letters, and he would be none the wiser.
    Pritchard counted out a customer’s change, waited a moment until he was at the door and out of earshot, then turned to James with an anxious frown. “How is Miss McBride?”
    “Much better,” James returned. “I took her outside for a breath of fresh air, and she decided to return home at once.”
    Pritchard’s bushy eyebrows snapped together. Bristling, he said, “And you did not go with her to see her safe to her own door?”
    “She wouldn’t allow it.”
    The old man’s frown gradually relaxed. “School rules,” he said and shook his head. “She’d find herself mired in trouble if she returned to the school in the company of a gentleman.”
    “She’s a teacher, then?”
    Pritchard’s look was frankly suspicious. “I thought you and Miss McBride were friends.”
    James saw his mistake and quickly corrected it. “And so we were, a long time ago, when she was a . . .” He searched for the right word. “A debutante. I was surprised to see her today, surprised and dismayed. She seems to have . . .” He let his words hang, inviting a response.
    Pritchard sighed and finished the sentence for him. “Fallen on hard times? That was my impression, too. A debutante, you say? I can well believe it. She’s a lady, all right. Always a pleasant word from her, never forgets to ask after my grandchildren. Breeding, it always tells, you know.” He sighed again.
    The silence stretched. Finally, James said, “I’d like to help her. Oh, not personally, but I’m sure my aunt, who is the soul of tact, would be more than happy to make Miss McBride’s acquaintance.”
    Pritchard scratched his chin and studied James thoughtfully, taking in the cut of his tailoring, his pristine neckcloth, the quality of his leather gloves. Finally, he nodded. “The school is round the corner from Tavistock Square. You can’t miss it. There’s a sign out front, St. Winnifred’s School for Girls. It’s a big building on extensive grounds.”
    He broke off when two customers appeared at the counter. James thanked Pritchard for his assistance and promptly left. At the end of the street, he hailed a hansom to take him to his club in St. James’s, and he settled back on the banquette to review what he’d learned from Pritchard.
    He had, of course, lied to Mr. Pritchard. Faith had not been a debutante when he’d first met her, though in his eyes, no debutante could have held a candle to her. She was Lady Beale’s paid companion, serenely beautiful, well-bred, and though her gowns were modest and Faith never pushed herself forward, she was the girl all the debutantes loved to hate. Envy was at the root of their dislike, of course, because Faith was the girl all the young bucks loved to moon over.
    At nineteen, she’d been tall and slender, with glossy copper hair pinned in a simple chignon, a flawless complexion, and a cool-eyed stare that could depress any ardent young man who overstepped the line of gentlemanly conduct.
    He’d watched the performance