Jocelyn was contemplating a tempting display of baked goods in a window when his attention was caught by a lumbering navy-blue form clinging to the elbow of a young woman. The lumbering form was heavily veiled. But he recognised it in an instant. Catherine.
He watched as they laboured to make their way down the street. The bustling crowds paid no attention to them. They stopped once, twice, and Lydia murmured something to Catherine. Was Catherine in pain? Was she ill? He was tempted, so tempted, to rush over and offer assistance. But something, some poisonous inner voice, forced him to stay put.
They climbed into a hackney and sped away. Jocelyn turned away, the baked goods forgotten. Catherine knew his direction in London. She could find him if she chose to do so. She had not mentioned
