Pamela Carrington-Jones studied her reflection in the drawing-room’s gilt-edged mirror. Fine, pale skin – porcelain even, if one was feeling poetic – hazel eyes which could, if one was moved, be described as sparkling, and shining, raven-black hair, braided perfectly as befitted a lady.
All rather pleasing, she thought, without vanity, considering how very old she was. Just two weeks previously she had celebrated her 27th birthday which, by all the normal rules of polite society, suggested she might be too old to catch a husband.
‘Does that sadden me?’ she mused. ‘On the whole, I think not.’ And she laughed. ‘What self-respecting gentleman would let me live my life the way I want to? And what gentleman would consent to be my husband if he knew where I originally came from?’
Perhaps one day things would be different. Who knew? It was the 1860s after all, the Modern Age, as Prince Albert was so fond of saying.
Her musings were cut short by the sound of carriage wheels. Easing aside a heavy curtain, Pamela peeked out.
A very smart hansom cab had pulled up in front of her house. She noted the crest on its door – what looked like three snakes over a motto she couldn’t read from that distance. Then the door opened and a man got out.
Pamela stepped back from the window, smoothed the satin of her dark-green gown, and gave her hair a pat. She wasn’t married, and she didn’t especially want to
