“The youngest two are Lady Covington’s son and daughter from her first marriage.” Miss Townsend was at my elbow, her low voice in my ear. “The elder are her stepson and stepdaughter—the late Lord Covington’s children from his first marriage. The stepson, George, is now Baron Covington and lets no one forget it. Jonathan Morris, Lady Covington’s son, is a wild young man. Gets himself into scrapes, runs up debts.”

And yet, Lady Covington had spoken of him as “dear Jonathan” and said what a help he was. Affection could make one blind to another’s faults, I well knew. Perhaps Lady Covington did not realize the extent of Jonathan’s misdeeds.

“The younger daughter, Harriet Morris, is very much on the shelf and feels it keenly,” Miss Townsend went on. “The stepdaughter, Erica Hume, is the widow of a rather feckless MP. He left her penniless, and she’s entirely dependent on her brother and Lady Covington.”

Erica held herself rigidly, her parasol at a precise angle. So unmoving was she that I envisioned a blow breaking her into a thousand brittle shards.

The younger woman, Harriet, seemed more at ease, her blue plaid gown rippling in the breeze. Though she must be well into her twenties, she swiveled back and forth, like a child who longed to be elsewhere.

“Why tell me this, Miss Townsend?” I glanced into her shrewd brown eyes and wondered if she’d seen me having the tête-à-tête with Lady Covington.

“You like to know about people,” Miss Townsend replied smoothly. “And they are an interesting family. The lot of them live together in the house in Park Lane, as well as on an estate in Kent. Though George is now the baron and could heave them all, including his stepmother, to the pavement, it is Lady Covington who rules the roost.”

“Perhaps the new Lord Covington is showing kindness to his stepmother and siblings.” I did not believe this was the case, but I always attempted to find good where none seemed to lie.

“There is no kindness in George Broadhurst. He once asked me to marry him, as a matter of fact. I turned him down flat—I shudder to think what life would be, shackled to the likes of him. Now he sneers at me, as though I made the wrong choice. I had my chance to be Lady Covington, his contempt says, but ah well.”

I did not press Miss Townsend for further details. Lady Cynthia and Mr. Thanos, who had been discussing a towering specimen of tree that I believed came from the Americas, joined us, and we turned for the railway station.

The Crystal Palace had two stations—the High Level Station, which first-class passengers could reach through a tunnel from the Palace’s main entrance, and the Low Level Station, a short walk through the park. Miss Townsend, who’d booked the tickets, had chosen the Low Level, as it was a fine day, and we enjoyed the stroll through the gardens.

As our train skimmed out of the station past the lakes, Grace pressed her face to the windows to gaze at the models of ancient beasts that inhabited the islands. The giant reptiles glowered at their human observers, though children ran among them fearlessly. We’d not had time to visit the islands today, but I would bring her back another time so we could explore them thoroughly.

At Victoria Station, Grace and I took a hansom, generously provided by Miss Townsend, to house where she lived with my friends. I hugged Grace good-bye and ascended the hansom once more to return to Mayfair.

I wiped my eyes as we went—dratted soot in the air. My chest felt hollow, as it always did when leaving my daughter.

I alighted from the hansom in South Audley Street and walked around the corner to Mount Street. It would never do for the mistress to look out the window and see me emerge from a cab—she’d lecture me, as usual, on me getting above myself.

The sky darkened with the coming evening as I tramped heavily down the outside steps to the kitchen door. I entered to find Elsie singing in the scullery as she washed a stack of dishes, and the kitchen abuzz with activity.

Tess, my assistant, vigorously stirred something burbling on the stove, sweat dripping down her freckled face. She’d come a long way in the last year from the impertinent waif who’d never chopped a carrot to a competent cook I could leave in charge on my days out.

Mr. Davis, the butler, was lecturing a footman in the servants’ hall—from the words that floated to the kitchen, I gathered the new footman had made some sort of gaffe while serving at table during luncheon.

Tess called out a cheerful good evening to me. “Happy to see you, Mrs. H. This sauce ain’t thickening for nothing. It needs your touch, it does.”

I unwound myself from coat and hat, though I’d need to change my frock before I began cooking. I could not afford to let this one be stained.

Mrs. Redfern, our housekeeper, strode from the passageway into the kitchen, though she halted just inside the doorway. She would never presume to impede meal preparations.

“I feel I must warn you.” Mrs. Redfern’s preamble made Tess spin in alarm, the spoon with which she’d been stirring the recalcitrant sauce dripping white stock to the floor.

“Warn me of what, Mrs. Redfern?” I asked, a trifle impatiently. I was tired and had much work to do before I could rest.

“Of what is happening upstairs—”

“It’s a devil of a thing,” Mr. Davis cut in as he joined her, having finished his lecturing. “The Earl and Countess of Clifford have arrived.”

Mr. Davis’s words made me stop in astonishment. “Good heavens.” Lord and Lady Clifford were Lady Cynthia’s parents. They lived on an estate in Hertfordshire and seldom left it.

“Good heavens, indeed,” Mr. Davis said. “They’ve declared they’re here to fetch our Lady Cynthia home.”