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a small writing desk.
    No.
    She would not slink home only to be cast aside again. She had left on her own terms and it would remain that way. No more apologizing. No more humbling herself when she wasn’t really and truly sorry for her actions. She’d spent her life answering to others. First there was Nurse and then a series of governesses and always — always — there had been Papa blustering and ordering her about. Aunt Hetty. Two older sisters. Yes, she had been bossed enough for two lifetimes.
    Begging for forgiveness would be the final blow.
    “No.” She said the word quietly, but firmly.
    “Miss Wemberly…”
    “You have no idea what you are asking.”
    “I can’t believe you would be so cruel to your father.”
    “Cruel? I am the wronged party in this! Papa meant to throw me into the street.”
    “Miss Wemberly, even the most hard-hearted man would be in a terrible state to find his daughter has run away. He must be so worried.”
    “I won’t go back to him,” she said and crossed her arms.
    “I didn’t say you should.” Hatterly looked puzzled. “You don’t have to tell Sir Algernon where you are, just that you are unharmed. I was not suggesting you return and throw yourself on his mercy.” He retook her hand after coaxing her crossed arms open. “I’m not ready to give up my future wife yet. But do set his mind at ease. It’s likely he’s scouring the city for you. I don’t envy being arrested as a kidnapper.”
    “Yet he hasn’t raised a hue and cry, has he?”
    She felt like a petulant child. Another minute and she would stamp her foot and demand a pony. It didn’t help that Hatterly was right. Papa would be sick with worry. Good , thought a nasty little part of her. She’d felt nothing but sick for two weeks now. Let Papa have a taste of fear for a change. She would not budge on this. Hatterly couldn’t force her to. He made every effort, but Prudence remained resolute.
    She would not write to her father.

    True to his word, Hatterly’s friend had matters well arranged. He seemed more than simply pleased to be helping his friend with a hasty marriage. He seemed amused.
    “Tell me again how you met,” Mr. Parson said with a sparkle in his eye.
    “Didn’t I say in my message?” Hatterly said. “Private party of a friend.”
    “Anyone I know?”
    “I doubt it.”
    Mr. Parson leaned on his desk, chin in hand. “Remarkable.”
    “Yes, it is. Look, can we get on with it?”
    “I never thought I would see the day. What have you done to him?” Mr. Parson turned his twinkling eyes on Prudence.
    “We’ve reached a satisfactory arrangement,” she said.
    “Apparently. I had no idea Hatterly would ever find a young lady who shared his interests. Are you mad for birds as well?” She shook her head. “Some other creature perhaps? Botany?” She shook her head again. “Do you even garden?” With each shake of her head he looked more perplexed. “Your father is a member of the Royal Society then? Maybe the new Zoological Society?”
    “I’ve never been to the zoo,” she confessed.
    Hatterly made a strangled noise in his throat.
    “Yes, well…” Mr. Parson shuffled the papers in front of him. “I assume you are both of sound mind and all that. If you’re ready?”
    The paperwork was not onerous and soon they were ready to leave. Mr. Hatterly was due in Hanover Square to deliver his lecture and she needed to visit her modiste.

    Pru was anxious about the visit to Madame Roquefort, but Madame had replied to her message with a promise of a private fitting. Since Madame was undoubtedly English, her word was good. Madame Marie-Evangeline Roquefort — née Miss Mary Elizabeth Rollins — was a tiny, round woman whose exuberant hair was barely contained by a cap and whose French accent was known to slip at times of great stress. But it was de rigueur for modistes to be French and the woman had been trained in Paris, so the ton conspired to ignore her slips.
    Pru slipped inside