When his dumbfounded silence continued, she went on. "If you had a wife, perhaps you'd be able to sleep properly again, and you'd have someone to manage your household, and make sure you were comfortable. And if she had a fortune, of course, it would be perfect… since you don't seem to have much money." She regarded him, her head on one side, assessing his reaction to her diagnosis and prescription.

"And just where am I going to find this paragon?" He didn't know whether to laugh or scold her for impertinence.

"In London," Chloe said as if it were self-evident. "Where I shall find a husband, so that I can have my freedom. I've decided that I'm going to keep control of my fortune myself when I marry. Can that be done?"

The sudden switch of topic was so confusing, Hugo found himself responding as if the question were a sensible one, which it most certainly was not. "Under the law, your husband has control of your fortune," he said. "But exceptions are made."

"And as my guardian, you could make sure that happened?"

Where did she get these quaint notions from? He replied with some amusement, "Yes, I could. Always assuming this putative husband was still willing to many you."

"Oh, I expect he will be," she said airily. "I'll share my fortune with him. And if he's anything like the curate or the butcher's boy or Miss Anne's nephew, nothing will put him off."

Hugo's lip quivered at this matter-of-fact statement. If her previous swains had lost their heads over her when she was camouflaged in ill-fitting brown serge, it required little imagination to guess the effect she would have when properly presented. It seemed that Miss Gresham was not quite as naive as he'd thought her… or as she had chosen to present herself hitherto.

Now, that was an interesting thought.

"Anyway, my plan is that we shall both go to London, and I can have my come-out, and you shall find a wife and I shall find a convenient husband," she finished.

"Leaving aside any plans /might have for my life," he said, still humorously, "just how do you intend we should establish ourselves in London?"

"In your house, of course. We can use my fortune to make it habitable and to pay for my come-out, which I believe is excessively expensive, what with a court dress and a come-out ball and everything."

Hugo took a deep breath. "My child, there is an extremely unpleasant word for a man who helps himself to his ward's fortune."

"But that's not what would be happening at all!" she exclaimed. "We would be using my money to benefit me. I have to have somewhere to live and a come-out. This is the simplest way of doing it, and if it benefits you, too, then all the better."

Hugo's patience ran out with his sense of humor. "I have never heard such arrant nonsense," he stated. "I have absolutely no intention of going to London, and if you wish to do so, then you will have to find yourself a suitable chaperone."

"But you are a suitable chaperone."

"I am not. Even If I wanted to be, it's absurd. You need a respectable lady with entrees into the first circles."

"Don't you have entrees?"

"Not anymore," he said shortly. "And if I hear another word of this idiocy, you'll spend the rest of your wardship in brown serge."

Chloe closed her lips tightly. She had planted the seed, and maybe that was as far as she could expect to go in one day.

Back in the courtyard, Dante continued to howl. He'd been tied to the pump to keep him from following his mistress and strained desperately at the leash, nearly choking himself.

A man in laborer's smock sauntered into the courtyard. "What's the matter with 'im?"

"Oh, 'e can't abide being wi'out Miss," Billy said. "You want summat?"

"Casual work," the man said, continuing to look at the dog with interest. "What'd 'appen if you let 'im go?"

"Reckon 'e'd be off afta 'er, like as not. Should've 'eard him 'owling last night, when Master wouldn't let 'im in the 'ouse."

"Powerful attachment that'd be," the laborer mused. " 'Appens like that sometimes, though."

"Aye," agreed Billy. "Ifn you want work, ye'd best talk to Samuel. 'E'll be in the kitchen, I reckon. Back door's thataway." He gestured with his chin toward the back of the house.

"Thankee, lad." The man followed the directions.

When they entered the city of Manchester, Hugo led his ward to the George and Dragon, where they left their horses.

"We'll go to the bankers first," Hugo said as their horses were led off to the stables.

"Immediately?" Chloe looked wistfully toward the open door of the inn, from whence emanated the most enticing aromas.

"Yes… why, what's the matter?"

"I'm hungry," she said. "And something smells wonderful."

Hugo sighed. "Of course, you didn't have your eggs, did you? We'll find you a meat pie or something in a minute." He chivvied her ahead of him out of the inn yard and into the street.

A troop of men in the jerkin and britches of the laborer were gathered in the town square, marching and wheeling to the orders of a drill sergeant. A crowd had gathered to watch, shouting encouragement and good-humored jeers as the marchers stepped on one another's feet, lost tempo and straggled out of line, or skipped to catch up with their neighbors.

Chloe jumped on her toes, looking over the heads of the spectators. "What's it for?"

A man wearing an unusual white top hat turned toward her. "They're preparing for Orator Hunt, miss," he said in cultured accents. "The reformers have invited him to address a meeting on manhood suffrage next month. They're expecting a big crowd and the organizers reckon it'll be more orderly if they drill groups of participants in advance."

"Such militancy is more likely to alarm the magistrates," Hugo said somberly, taking a hip flask from his coat pocket. "It looks more as if the men are being drilled to offer armed resistance than anything else." He took a swig of his emergency supply of brandy.

The man's clear gray eyes sharpened. "It's to be hoped there'll be nothing to resist, sir. If the magistrates are sensible, it'll go off as peaceably as a Christmas mass."

"I have little faith in the common sense of magistrates when it comes to fear of a radical mob," Hugo said, thrusting the flask back into his pocket. "Come along, Chloe." Taking her arm, he led her away from the crowd.

"Who's Orator Hunt?"

"Henry Hunt-a fire-breathing radical," Hugo told her. "He's a professional political agitator and as far as civil authorities are concerned, every meeting he addresses brings the country one step closer to revolution and the guillotine."

"Oh, I see." Chloe frowned. "Maybe they should listen, then, and do something about it."

Hugo laughed. "Sweet child, that's a Utopian viewpoint if ever I heard one."

There was nothing unkind about his laughter, and Chloe couldn't be offended. Instead, she smiled at him, tucking her hand into his arm.

Hugo glanced down at her upturned face and felt as if something had punched into his solar plexus. It was absurd. How could she possibly have such an effect on him? She was just a pretty child hovering on the verge of womanhood. And wouldn't it be wonderful to take her over that verge? Dear God, he was heading for Bedlam!

"Is that boy selling pies?"

The prosaic question returned him to reality. Thankfully, he dragged his eyes away from her and looked around.

A boy pushing a wheelbarrow was calling out his wares in an indistinct singsong. However, the smells were enough to identify his produce, warming on a rack over a bed of hot coals.

Hugo bought a steaming meat pie, and then, all thoughts of seduction banished, watched with some amusement as Chloe, standing on the street corner, bit into it. "Good?"

"Delicious. I was about to faint away with hunger."

"Well, perhaps you can eat it while we resume our walk."