Please, let this work, Jenna prayed. And let Ianira be all right . . .
After three weeks in Dr. Lachley’s mad care, Jenna didn’t see how she could be.
* * *
Malcolm Moore enjoyed dressing to the nines, particularly when Margo was able to dress the part as his lady companion. She looked stunning in watered silk the color of pale lilacs, with several yards of skirt trailing down over a swaying bustle and her fiery hair augmented by a hairpiece from Connie Logan, which allowed her to imitate the upswept coiffeurs popular with stylish ladies.
“My dear,” he murmured as he handed her down from the gatehouse carriage to the pavement of Picadilly, “I shall be the envy of every gentleman who sees you.”
She blushed. “Nonsense, sir,” she said, glancing toward Shahdi Feroz.
Behind them, Inspector Conroy Melvyn was handing down the Ripper scholar, whose exotic beauty was so striking, she captured the attention of several passing gentlemen; but Dr. Feroz held far less appeal for Malcolm than Margo’s fresh enthusiasm and sparkling, lively green eyes. “Nevertheless,” he offered his arm, escorting her toward the Egyptian Hall, which stood opposite Bond Street’s terminus, where their carriage had dropped them, “you are quite a fetching sight. Inspector,” he turned to the policeman, “Madame Feroz, the lecture awaits.”
“Well,” Margo smiled, glancing at Shahdi Feroz as they crossed Picadilly through heavy carriage traffic, “it is a relief from East End rags, isn’t it?”
Dr. Feroz chuckled. “Indeed, Miss Smith. A welcome relief.”