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“Admires your spirit, at the very least. And you admitted to Granny he’s a handsome man.”

She flushed. “You called me a liar when I tried to deny it!”

“Because he is,” her sister retorted. “And even if you think you’re not lovely, or that he’s not interested in you, it’s still not proper to go away with a man.”

She sighed. “Reputations are for wealthy, eligible ladies, not for plain spinsters of twenty-seven on the brink of poverty.” Even if the major did have his wicked way with her, no one would care. Except her.

Callie’s face changed. “Don’t say that,” she whispered. “Don’t slight us so.”

Cressida cringed. “Not you! You’re beautiful! And kind, and gentle, and respectable! Not. . . like me.”

“You say that because you’ve had to be harsher.” Callie blinked rapidly. “To take care of me and Granny. If only I’d been stronger⁠—”

She pulled her sister into her arms. “Never say that! It’s not your fault.” It was Papa’s fault, she thought disloyally. “I’m suited to it, and I’m going to London in case the major finds Papa. You know him,” she said with a roll of her eyes, trying to cheer Callie. “He won’t listen to a stranger, even Major Hayes. If I’m there, I can ensure he comes right home.”

“I’m sorry, Cressy,” said Callie, her voice muffled against Cressida’s shoulder. “I wish I could help more.”

“Take care of Granny,” she said. “And don’t tell her I’ve gone to London at all. Tell her I’m visiting Julia. She’ll only work herself into a state if she thinks I’m fetching Papa home,” she added as her sister gave her a worried look.

“That’s true.” Callie forced a smile. “Good luck, then. I hope it’s a successful trip.”

“So do I,” she said honestly.

Callie left. Cressida fussed with the valise, unable to block her sister’s words out of her mind. Did she and the major look well together? Had he noticed such a thing? Would he even care? Could he ever consider ravishing her?

“Of course not,” she said under her breath, and went out to pull weeds from the garden to make herself forget everything Callie had said.

Chapter Fourteen

As promised, the major called for her early. Thankfully Granny felt a chill and stayed in bed, so Cressida was able to slip out quietly. He was driving a larger carriage than the gig he’d driven into Marston, and she felt only a moment of awkwardness as she settled herself on the seat beside him.

It was twenty miles to London, but seemed half that on a fine day in a well-sprung carriage with a good horse. As they drew near to the city, the major began pointing out sights, to her delight. They passed the magnificent St. Paul’s cathedral, and maneuvered through the bustle of Fleet Street. A large, austere building loomed to one side, and when she asked, he told her it was Fleet Prison. That sobered her considerably, and as they turned into an inn courtyard a short distance away, she couldn’t help glancing back at the prison.

“Papa couldn’t be in there, could he?”

“He wasn’t when I last checked.” He jumped down from the carriage and handed the reins to the stable hand who came running.

“You checked?” She gathered her skirts and took the hand he held out to help her down. “When?”

“The day after I spoke to Colonel Pickering, Miss Turner.” He flipped the boy a coin and offered his arm to her.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Sergeant Turner wasn't there, so I saw no reason to alarm you by mentioning it.”

Cressida took his arm and let him lead her into the inn, silenced by his calm reply. The day he drove her into Marston, he had said she needed someone who would ask the terrible questions; apparently he asked them of everyone, not just of her, and now she saw the wisdom and value in it.

Inside the inn, he engaged two rooms for the night and arranged for dinner later. Cressida sat in the taproom and had tea while he saw to the baggage, then they set off on foot for the print shop, just a few streets away. This time she avoided looking toward the prison, and tried not to think what other dreadful possibilities Major Hayes might have already considered and investigated. Obviously none of them had been fulfilled, since he was still searching.

Prenner’s shop was a small one, squeezed between a florist and a hatter along the bustling street. The windows were filled to shoulder height with various images for sale. They were mostly the satirical prints popular now, many mocking the new King or lauding Queen Caroline, who had become something of a heroine since her return to England. Major Hayes opened the door for her, and she went in, her heart accelerating in anxiety and hope.

"Can I help you, madam?" An obsequious little clerk smirked up at her, rubbing his hands.

"I would like a word with Mr. Prenner," Cressida said with a polite smile. The major stayed a step behind her, as silent as a servant. They had arranged between them that he would act that part while she inquired, since it was her father. Neither of them knew what business Mr. Prenner had with Papa, and the major agreed that her story might appeal to the printer’s sympathies more than direct questioning.

The clerk's gaze darted over her. "Of course, of course. I’ll let him know." He hurried off to the rear of the shop and disappeared. Cressida exchanged a hopeful look with Major Hayes, and they waited in silence until the man returned to usher them into the back office.

It was tiny, crowded with a desk under a dirty window and several bookcases groaning with books and papers. An armchair prevented the door from opening fully, but she squeezed through, the major close behind her, and the clerk shut the door.