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concerned. Now that she thought about it, it seemed a bit odd. Temple’s coughing had been very noticeable, and he’d attracted a lot of attention. At one point, a uniformed airline representative had even approached him, but Temple had produced his inhaler and apparently assured the official that he would be all right.
    Of course, thought Lucy, embarrassment had no doubt played a part in Temple’s refusal to accept assistance. She knew how silly she’d felt that afternoon, when she nearly fainted at the Portobello Market. The last thing she’d wanted was to make a scene.
    Sighing, Lucy checked her watch. Three in the morning. Hours to go before it was time to get up. She should have accepted Sue’s offer of a sleeping pill. Sue, who’d taken two, was sound asleep while Lucy was tossing and turning and burping up chicken korma. She rolled over, closed her eyes, and suddenly remembered Sue telling her the pills were on the sink in case she changed her mind. She had indeed changed her mind, she decided, throwing back the covers.

Chapter Four
    W hen Lucy and Sue descended six flights of stairs to the little hotel’s basement breakfast room on Sunday morning, they found that everyone from the group was already there, as were a smattering of other guests, sitting in twos and threes at little tables covered with red and white checked cloths. They nodded and smiled as they wound their way through the dining room to the table for four where Pam and Rachel were waiting for them. As soon as they sat down, a young waitress arrived with pots of coffee and tea, and they both chose coffee, craving the caffeine. While they were drinking, Pam stood up and tapped her juice glass with a spoon.
    “I have an announcement,” she began in an official tone. “I received an e-mail from President Chapman this morning, and she sends her condolences to all of us. She was also able to find a substitute for George Temple—she is sending Professor Quentin Rea to take over the tour.”
    The name caught Lucy by surprise, and her empty cup rolled onto its side with a rattle as she set it on the saucer. She had taken a class in Victorian literature from Professor Rea some years ago and had found him terribly attractive. Of course, he was much younger then—they both were—but she’d always been a sucker for that preppy look of worn tweed jackets, frayed button-down shirts, and sun-streaked hair. She wondered if she’d still be attracted to him, not that she planned to do anything about it, she vowed, straightening the cup.
    She hadn’t done anything then, but she had been tempted, and she was sure that he had also found her attractive and smiled at the memory.
    “Lucy! Stop daydreaming!” It was Sue, hissing at her. “Our server wants to know if you want cereal.”
    Lucy blushed and turned to the girl who offered bran flakes, corn flakes, or Cheerios. Cheerios, here in England. Who knew? But Lucy chose bran flakes, taking the state of her digestion into account.
    Pam was continuing her speech to the group. “Professor Rea won’t arrive until tomorrow morning, so Dr. Chapman suggests we follow the itinerary George planned on our own. That means we go to the Tower of London this morning, break for lunch, and visit St. Paul’s Cathedral in the afternoon. I suggest those who are interested gather in front of the hotel at nine-thirty and we’ll go together on the Tube.”
    Pam was seating herself when the server arrived with Lucy’s bowl of cereal. “This morning’s breakfast is egg, bacon, and beans,” said the girl.
    “Okay,” said Lucy, figuring that she might as well try the traditional English breakfast. Pam and Rachel declined the beans and Sue opted for nothing but toast.
    The Smith family was seated at the table next to Pam, and Ann reached across and tapped her on the arm. “Since it’s Sunday, I think we’ll opt out of visiting the Tower,” she said. She had dark circles under her eyes, and the gray sweater she was