“How do you do, Mr. Lenox. My name is Bess Telford. You’ve met my niece?”

“Once, yes, but only very briefly, as I recall, and I’m ashamed to say I don’t remember her name. Your name, ma’am?” he said, turning to Clara.

“This is Clara Woodward,” said Bess, simpering a little. The Earls of Houghton, after all. And now she seemed to recall something about an older brother, too. Was it Edward Lenox? Edmund Lenox? A leading man in Parliament.

“As I say, I must apologize for presuming upon our very brief first meeting, but I was wondering whether either of you had seen my wife here. I was five minutes late to meet her, and now it’s been fifteen minutes. The clerks didn’t spy her, but I thought you might have.”

“Oh! How worrisome! I haven’t seen her, I’m sorry to say, and in this city what might happen to an honest Englishwoman is anybody’s-”

“I haven’t seen her either,” said Clara to save her aunt’s solecism. For her efforts she earned a reproving look from her relation. “Did you see the Robinsons before you left London?”

This was their mutual acquaintance. “I did, yes, they-”

Determined not to be superseded by her niece, however, Bess said, “Remind me, Mr. Lenox, about the affair at the Mint-wasn’t it you who sent that wicked man Barnard away to prison, and saved all of our money?”

Lenox turned red, and Clara felt she could have sunk into the ground. “Ah-I remember-I recall the incident to which I believe you’re referring, ma’am, but it was not I, it was Scotland Yard, that apprehended the criminal.”

“And that September Society-”

Thankfully for Lenox, at that moment Lady Jane Grey burst into the lobby, trailed by a small French girl in a dressmaker’s uniform, some sort of apprentice, carrying a parcel under her arm.

“Charles!” cried out Lady Jane. “There you are! Whatever punctuality I ever could claim has been stolen from me by this city. I’m so sorry. But do introduce me, please, to your friends.”