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enough the next morning to eat a hearty meal. Clarissa’s mouth had watered at the idea. In the last year she had not been able to afford to eat her fill, and she knew that she had lost weight since her father’s death. If she could put a little more meat on her bones, as Mrs. Butterford had put it, she would be more convincing as Mr. Ford.
    In the half-light she smoothed the coverlet, washed, wrapped her chest, and pinned up her hair, taking care that no stray tresses stuck out from under the cap. She slipped on the wig and spread the gum onto the false moustache, centering it carefully before pressing it to her upper lip. Then she got dressed, feeling a surge of wry gratitude that her father had been terrible at tying cravats. She had been forced to learn the art, and had spent many hours practicing on herself, which made it easy now to form the simple knot. She pulled on her trousers and buttoned her waistcoat. Yesterday morning she had repaired the loose button and taken in the sides a little so the garment fit more like the earl’s, tight against her sides. She had noticed him eyeing her wardrobe, of course, but there was little she could do about her threadbare clothes until she had some free time to visit a few shops.
    It was not yet seven when she locked the door and made her way down the narrow stairs. She checked the alley before leaving her building to be sure no one was about—it had crossed her mind that anyone who was familiar with her would notice a man leaving her flat each morning and entering it at night.
    It was a crisp morning. Clarissa clutched her case tightly in her chilled fingers, making a mental note that when she did have an opportunity to seek out some new clothes, she should also purchase some gloves to add to the protection of her overcoat. It would be warmer later in the day, but this fine weather would not last, and there was still much of the winter to be got through.
    It didn’t take her long to reach Stowe House, which sat in its own little space of park and lawn, like an oasis in the center of the city. She could see the edges of Belgrave Square down the street. At this early hour, the square was empty, but soon there would be children playing beneath the trees and gentlemen riding their horses along the lane despite the February chill.
    Clarissa opened the gate and slipped inside, her boots crunching on the gravel drive. When she reached the house she turned to the side, heading for the kitchen entrance. Mrs. Butterford was already bustling about, preparing the earl’s breakfast, but she paused to greet “Mr. Ford” warmly.
    “There you are, young man! Come and have some eggs and soldiers. There’ll be rashers and kippers in a moment.”
    “Mrs. Butterford, you are a treasure,” Clarissa said in the low-pitched voice she had carefully practiced. It was near enough to her own that she didn’t have to strain, but deep enough that it seemed to convince others. She sat down at the wide block table and Mrs. Butterford set a mug of coffee before her, quickly following it with a soft-cooked egg and toast. Clarissa didn’t have to be told to tuck in. She devoured the food eagerly, and when the cook returned with bacon and sausages she ate those as well.
    “You’ll fill those trousers out yet, young sir,” Mrs. Butterford laughed. “Don’t you have someone at home to feed you?”
    “No, Mrs. Butterford, I live alone.”
    “Do you, now? Where are your people?”
    “My mother died when I was young, and my father last year,” Clarissa said honestly. “I’m an only child. My father’s people were from York, but they’re all gone now, too.”
    “You’re young to be all alone in the world.”
    “I manage, Mrs. Butterford,” Clarissa said, hoping her voice didn’t sound too defensive. She pushed away from the table, brushing a few crumbs from her lapel. “Thank you for the excellent breakfast.”
    “Come back again tomorrow, love,” Mrs. Butterford called after her.