”It’s delightful. Could I see the whole costume?”
Margo dimpled and set down her teacup, then slipped off the cape and pirouetted.
”Oh, look!” exclaimed another tourist. “It’s darling!”
”Where did you get it?”
”Connie Logan, Clothes and Stuff.”
”I wish I’d thought to dress Louisa like that,” one lady laughed. Her daughter, looking dowdy in a plain grey morning dress, was pouting under a stylish hat decorated rather hideously with dead birds.
”And look at that brooch. What an intriguing design. Is that the school’s crest?”
”Yes. It’s a badge. All the charity schools issued them to identify their pupils.”
”Ladies,” Malcolm smiled, bowing slightly, “if I might rescue my ward, our cabriolet is waiting. Here, let me help you on with that cape, my dear. The night is dreadfully chilly and John neglected to bring along our lap rug.”
A flutter of excited laughter ran through the room.
”Who is that gentleman?”
”Oh, I wish our guide sounded like that!”
”Or looked like him …”
”I don’t care what Time Tours says, the next time I come here, I’m going to hire him. I don’t care what it costs!”
Malcolm smiled, murmured, “A moment, my dear,” and handed around business cards with a polite bow and smile to each lady. He then offered Margo his arm. “A moment’s attention to business works wonders, don’t you agree?”
Margo laughed, waved goodbye to her brief acquaintances, then strolled out into the London night on Malcolms capable arm.
By the time their cab had swayed through five dark streets, thick fog had left them blind. Swirling, foul yellow drifts blanketed the streets. Even the horse vanished from view. Only the soft clip-clop of its hooves assured Margo they weren’t drifting along by magic.