Page 12 of The Marriage Method

Nell refused to accept that.

She turned back to Miles. “How long do you expect it will take you to find Reverend Pettiman?”

“With luck? Not long. When I return to my offices, I’ll send a man to inquire at a few of the nearby hotels. If Pettiman’s taken rooms in one of them, it shouldn’t be difficult to track him down.”

“You might have done so immediately if you hadn’t insisted on accompanying me,” she remarked, a touch ungratefully.

“I didn’t realize you wanted him found until we were already approaching the street,” Miles said.

Neither had Nell. In the aftermath of being compromised, her first concern had been to get to the hotel. She’d sent her bags ahead from the station. She couldn’t depart London without retrieving them.

“Given the fall you took,” Miles continued pragmatically, “and the fact that you were overset, it seemed more important that I escort you to your lodgings.”

Overset!

Nell bristled at the description. She didn’t get overset.

Then again, it wasn’t every day that one’s reputation was effectively ruined.

“You needn’t have,” she grumbled.

“On that,” he said, “we’ll have to disagree.”

Nell subsided into silence. There was no point in quarreling with him. She didn’t require his agreement any more than she required his chaperonage. She had greater concerns weighing on her mind.

As the carriage turned down Commercial Street, her thoughts began to coalesce into something like rational order. She reminded herself that when Effie had encountered an obstacle to her first mission it was Nell she had turned to for advice. It didn’t matter one whit that Nell had never been outside the school. She was still intelligent, resourceful, generally unflappable. Why else would Miss Corvus have appointed her as deputy headmistress?

There was no reason Nell couldn’t handle this situation as capably as she handled every other crisis that had come her way. All she had to do was approach things sensibly, and she may yet avoid returning to the Academy empty-handed.

The carriage came to a halt outside a crooked black building squeezed between a greengrocer’s establishment and a forlorn-looking chandler’s shop. A paint-chipped placard proclaimed its name: Mrs. Marigold’s Hotel for Women.

Miles gave the place a doubtful look. “Are you certain I can’t convince you to remove to a more reputable establishment? It would be safer.”

“I’ll be safe enough, thank you,” she said. “I’m only remaining long enough to collect my luggage.”

“You mean to return to the charity school?” he asked.

“I believe I must,” she replied. “I shall catch the next train from Shoreditch.”

Miles didn’t argue with her, though it looked as though he very much wanted to. He opened the door and climbed out. “I’ll walk you in,” he said as he handed her down from the carriage.

Nell stepped onto the pavement. She gave her skirts a shake. “You may escort me to the lobby. I expect it’s the only place gentlemen are allowed.”

“Fair enough.” He offered her his arm and she reluctantly took it, allowing him to walk her inside.

She was painfully conscious of her limp. It was far more noticeable than it had been when she’d arrived at the Courant this morning. The fact didn’t escape Miles’s attention. He cast her more than one troubled glance as he escorted her through the front doors of the hotel.

As it transpired, there was no lobby, only a small—and presently empty—foyer. It stood adjacent to a cramped visitors lounge, furnished with worn couches and chairs, and two strategically placed potted palms.

Miles drew Nell to the lounge’s entrance. The air was stale, with a lingering aroma of dampness and rot. “There will be several trains leaving from Shoreditch this afternoon,” he said. “You would do better to take a later one.”

She stilled. “Oh, would I?”

“You already have a room reserved. Allow me to summon a doctor for you. There’s time enough, if you’ll take it.”

Nell recoiled at the suggestion. She’d had her fill of medical men as a girl. Officious imbeciles all, with their leeches and lancets, and their endless poking and prodding. They inevitably made things worse. “I don’t require a doctor,” she said. “Whatever you might think.”

“I think you worsened your injury when you fell,” he said. “It would set my mind at ease if you would have it looked at.”