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as her father jerked around, spoon in hand. “What?”
    “Remember the hansom cab that nearly ran me down in the Strand?”
    “Bless my soul, yes.” The spoon clattered to the floor. “The two incidents can’t possibly be related,” he said, as if trying to convince himself. “They just can’t be.”
    “Of course not. I wasn’t trying to suggest they were — I was only commenting on the peculiarity of the coincidence.”
    Owen’s brow remained furrowed as he stared at the marks on her throat. “Great God, you might have been killed tonight.”
    Seeing his horror brought a resurgence of that helpless terror, that dreadful panic. Elizabeth quivered, tears pricking her eyes. “Oh, Papa,” she cried, rushing into his arms. “I was so frightened. If Lord Nicholas hadn’t come along…”
    “Hush, little one. Try not to think about it anymore.”
    Burying her face against the solid warmth of his chest, she breathed in his familiar rye whiskey scent, rubbed her cheek against his rough coat. With the soothing stroke of his hand on her hair, the tide of fear inside her began to ebb. He had always been there to shield her from harm, but her mother’s death the previous autumn had ended that. Grief made her father seek solace in drink, and Elizabeth became the strength in the family. When he expressed homesickness for England, she readily agreed to the trip, hoping the change in surroundings would cheer him. Since their arrival a month ago, though, he had sunk into deeper despair.
    His arms tightened. “This is all my fault, Libby. I should have been there to protect you, both times.”
    The anguish in his voice shot to her heart. Elizabeth drew back to study the familiar sad lines on his whiskered face. “Please don’t blame yourself, Papa. I should have known better than to stay at Westminster until almost dark.”
    “Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you here. Perhaps we should have stayed in New York.”
    “But then I wouldn’t have been able to see all the old monuments and churches here, to visit all the art museums. You’ve given me a wonderful opportunity, Papa.”
    “I’m glad for that. If only…”
    “If only, what?”
    Sighing heavily, he shook his head. “If only I had the money to find us lodgings in a safer neighborhood.”
    Elizabeth had the odd feeling that was not what he’d started to say. “We’ll have the money in a few months,” she said. “You’ll soon secure a teaching position, I’m sure of it. And who knows? Perhaps I shall land a grand commission… to sculpt Gladstone or maybe even Queen Victoria herself.”
    He smiled with a ghost of his former cheer. “That’s my Libby, always full of hope, always looking on the bright side. I’m proud of you, girl.”
    He left to finish fixing his tea and Elizabeth wandered to the worktable. On the untidy surface her copybook lay open to the sketch she’d started of Lord Nicholas. Even in those few quick strokes, the splendor of his profile was unmistakable. Yet something about him looked not quite right.
    Sitting, she took the pencil and began to fill in the details from memory. His essence evaded her… that force of character she had seen from the moment she’d regained consciousness in his arms. Elizabeth flushed, recalling how she’d condemned him as nothing but a handsome face. Now that the heat of anger had passed, she was not so certain of her judgment. It took a strong and sensitive man to tender an apology, didn’t it?
    Then again, maybe her father was right. Maybe she was too trusting, too ready to believe the best of people.
    Absently she reached for the ball of clay lying heavily in her pocket. With a shock Elizabeth saw that unintentionally she’d begun sculpting the earl’s face… the firm line of his jaw, the haughty tilt of his chin. She moistened the drying clay in a bowl of water and began to refine the rudimentary image. The familiar earthy scent of the clay soothed her.
    Hours later, long after her father