Anthea Armstrong was never fond of travelling, but this journey had been a plague upon her patience from start to finish. The roads were often challenging in the winter, but the heavy rains in the north of England this year had turned many of them to mire. They had poor luck with inns and had seldom been able to book the better rooms—one fateful night in York, they had not found a room at all. This had occurred even though Findlay had abandoned Airdfinnan to guarantee her safe passage to London, and Anthea was convinced her brother’s butler was better than most at seeing matters resolved with satisfaction. The weather had been miserable, her maid Connaught had come down with a cold, and the combination had left Anthea exhausted.
On the one hand, she had never been so glad to arrive in Lon
