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Mr. Whitlatch.
    Still, the idea of hiding in a shop had
been a good one. She could get warm, at least, while she decided
what to do. She desperately needed a period of calm reflection.
Perhaps she could purchase it for the price of a dish of tea. She
would search for a pastry-cook.
    Clarissa wondered nervously how long
Mr. Whitlatch would search for her. Once Trevor Whitlatch had made
his mind up to something, she guessed, he was not one who would
easily change course. Never in her life had she heard a man express
himself so bluntly. He seemed to have an extremely direct nature;
she supposed he would have tenacity of purpose to go with it. And
he apparently thought of her as his property.
    He was physically strong, too. She
remembered how easily he had lifted her off the ground and swung
her into his curricle. It had given her an odd, weightless
sensation. That had frightened her, but not because she was afraid
of him dropping her. She had felt, for that instant, completely
overpowered and yet completely safe. The illusion was dangerous. It
had also been strangely seductive.
    A new thought occurred to her: such a
masterful man might scorn to pursue a reluctant mistress. Was that
possible? Her experience of the male sex was not vast—in fact, she
was acquainted with very few men—but it was common knowledge that
they were prideful creatures, and touchy about their dignity. For
all she knew, men considered it undignified to chase a girl who had
spurned one's advances. In that event, her supposed danger might be
entirely imaginary. Mr. Whitlatch might not pursue her at
all.
    Why, of course—that would account for
his not finding her yet. He was not trying!
    Relief flooded her. If there was no
pursuit, she need not fly. She could slow her pace, take her time.
Think.
    The fear that had been driving her
forward lessened, and she was suddenly aware that she was tired.
The London streets were hard and cold as winter iron, and her
leather half-boots had thin soles. Her feet were almost numb. She
wondered how long she had been walking.
    The scent of coffee and something
frying lured her to a low door set in a side street. A cheerful
hubbub of conversation accompanied the inviting smells. There was
no sign above the door, which was puzzling, but Clarissa supposed
it must be the back entrance of a public house. The sign would be
over the front door.
    Her fingers curled protectively round
the reticule she had tucked in her muff. It felt so small, now that
it was all she owned in the world! Bread and tea would not set her
back more than a shilling, would it? Actually, she had no idea. But
she longed to sit down in a warm room, drink a cup of something
steaming, and think. She could not continue in this aimless way,
wandering from street to street with no set purpose. She needed a
plan.
    She must think of a way to instantly
remove from the streets to a safe place, obtain respectable
employment, and secure her future. And these necessary events must
take place today. Before sundown, in fact. How to obtain these
essentials with no references, no acquaintances, and not even a
change of clothing to her name, was yet to be determined. Yes, this
would certainly require some serious thought.
    As she hesitated, a sharp gust of wind
whistled round the corner, rattling her bonnet and whipping her
redingote across her chilled ankles. There was no sense in standing
in the street, she decided, shivering. Whatever this place was, she
would get out of the cold and beg or buy a dish of tea.
    Clarissa approached the door, which was
ajar, and entered. She found herself in a low-ceilinged, firelit
room redolent of savory smells and filled with a set of extremely
busy persons. It was not a tavern or public house, however, for
there was no dining area to be seen. She had entered what was
apparently just a large, well-staffed, beautifully organized
kitchen.
    Confused, Clarissa halted in the
doorway. A stout matron in a mob cap approached, addressing her in
a