”I’m sorry, Malcolm. I didn’t know.”
He managed a smile. “How could you? Don’t dwell on it. I don’t. Now, what were we saying? Oh yeah, my background. The people I know down time think I’m a gentleman from British Honduras, with no visible means of support and no daily job to distract me from gentlemanly pursuits. -I just happen to have a lot of wealthy, scatterbrained friends who pay me visits from the other side of the water, particularly America..” He grinned. “That way it’s natural for my tourists to gawk at the sights. Londoners in the 1880’s considered Americans boorish provincials just this side of savagery.”
Margo sniffed. “How rude.”
Connie laughed “Honey, you don’t know the half of it. Victorian Londoners took class consciousness to new extremes.” She gestured to the Britannia section of her shop. “It’s why I carry such a varied line of costumes for the Britannia Gate. Clothes said everything about our station in life. Wear the wrong thing and you make me a laughingstock–”
”Or worse,” Kit put in.
”–or you just blend into the background and become invisible.”
Malcolm nodded “Yes. But you have to be careful. The wrong clothing could get you hauled off to jail or Bedlam Hospital to be locked in with the other madwomen.”
Margo shivered. “What about this charity girl stuff, then?”
”Well,” Malcolm said, glancing at Kit, “given my reputation as something of an eccentric, it wouldn’t be out of character for me to sponsor a young girl who’d been orphaned in a cholera epidemic, say, or by one of the tropical fevers that laid so many Europeans low in Honduras. You could be the child of some friend or even a relative. A niece, maybe, brought back to England for schooling.”