Margo didn't dare admit that she wanted -- desperately to say "I'm scared." So she shook her head gave him a bright smile.
"Very good, then. I shall see you at breakfast." He bent and kissed her forehead "Good night, my dear. Lock your door."
Then he stepped down the hall and entered his room. His door clicked softly shut. A key turned in the lock. Margo stood gazing down the dimly lit corridor for several moments while her brow tingled under the remembered feel of Malcolm Moore's lips.
Oh, don't be ridiculous! All you need is to pull some stupid schoolgirl stunt like falling for a poverty-stricken time guide. He's too old for you, anyway, and thinks you're silly into the bargain. Besides, you had enough heartache from Billy Pandropolous to swear off men for all time.
She closed her door and locked it, experiencing a swift prickle of tears behind her eyelids. She didn't want Malcolm Moore to think she was silly. She wanted to prove to him-and everyone else-that she could do this job. Do it and be good at it.
She lay awake far into the night, listening to the rumble of carriages and wagons through London's filthy streets and wincing at the shriek of steam locomotives. And the whole time she lay there, Margo wondered miserably what that kiss would have felt like against her lips.
Workaday London enthralled.
Malcolm made arrangements for a small flat in western London, sever streets east of Grosvenor Square, which was itself just east of the ultrafashionable Hyde Park in Mayfair. The West End was where, according to Malcolm-Britain's ten thousand or so members of "Society' (some fifteen hundred families) made their London homes. The houses were splendid, but their construction surprised Margo. Most of them were more like condos than individual houses. Immensely long stone and brick facades took up entire city blocks, subdivided into individual "houses" that each wealthy family owned.
"Its a law," Malcolm explained, "passed after the Great Fire of 1666. Not only fewer combustible materials, but this construction plan was adopted to help combat the spread of another disastrous fire."
"How bad was it?"
Malcolm said quietly, "Most of London burned. Only a tiny corner of the city was spared. One of its blessings , of course, was that the fire evidently destroyed the plague, since there haven't been any outbreaks since then. Cholera, on the other hand, remains a serious difficulty."
Margo gazed in rapt fascination at the long, mellow facades, the immaculately clean walks, the ladies being assisted by liveried footmen into carriages for their round of "morning calls." They were gorgeous in heavy silks, furs, and luxuriant feathered hats. Margo sighed, acutely conscious of her charity-school costume and short, dyed hair; but she didn't let that spoil the fun of watching the "quality" pass by.
"We're far enough from the heart of Mayfair," Malcolm told her once they had settled into the six room flat, "to go unnoticed in our seedier disguises, but close enough to avoid the filth and crime of the East End and allow me to continue my persona as independent gentleman."
"Have you been here before?"
"Not this particular flat, no; but this general area, yes. I bring my tourists here rather than to a hotel, unless they insist otherwise. Living in a flat and buying vegetables and fish from the markets gives one rather a better feel for life here. Unpack your things, Miss Smythe, and we'll begin our work."
He had John hire a carriage and horses for the week while they unpacked. Malcolm arranged with the landlady for deliveries to be made from a reputable chandler to victual them with staples. Once the food arrived, he showed Margo how to prepare a British style luncheon for a country outing.
"A country outing?" Margo asked excitedly. "Really?"
Malcolm smiled. "I doubt it's what you have in mind. Pack that set of tweeds for me, would you? That's a dear. And bring along that loose shirt, those trousers, and that pair of boots for yourself. Yes, those. As a scout, one of the most important things you'll need to know is how to handle horses. I'm going to teach you to ride."
The closest thing to a horse Margo had ever ridden was a carousel at the state fair. And only then because her neighbors had taken her with their kids, pitying a child whose father spent most of what he had on liquor and, eventually, worse.
"I don't know anything about horses," she said dubiously.
"You will." Malcolms cheerful smile removed the hint of threat.
The horses John hired-four altogether-came in two distinct pairs. As John shook out the reins over the carriage horses, Malcolm explained
"Those are cobs, sturdy draft horses used for pulling loads. This isn't the fanciest carriage available, although it's smart and very up-to-date in keeping with my persona here."
"What's it called?"
"It's a four-wheeled brougham, with a hard top," he rapped the ceiling with his knuckles, "which will make it easier for you to change your attire without being noticed. This is the family vehicle of the 1880's, very respectable."
"And the horses tied behind?" They were much sleeker than the stocky carriage horses.
"Hacks. General riding animals, not nearly as expensive or handsome as hunters, but much easier to manage and cheaper to rent for those who don't care to feed a horse year-round, pay for its stabling, a groomsman, a blacksmith..."
"Expensive, huh?"
"Very. That's why livery stables do such a brisk business hiring animals and carriages."
Margo thought about what Connie had said on the subject of class distinction and decided to risk a question. "What do the really rich people think about people who hire carriages and horses?"
Malcolm's mobile features lit up. "Very good, Miss Smythe! Generally, we're snubbed, of course. Anyone with pretensions to society keeps a carriage and horses of his own. I am absolved through the eccentricity of my comings and goings from Honduras. Providing I ever acquire the capital, I intend to take out a long-term lease on a small house where I might entertain guests: All my down-time acquaintances urge me to do so, in order to keep a permanent staff rather than relying on the vagaries of agency people."
Margo wondered how much that would cost, but didn't quite dare ask. That seemed like an awfully personal question and she was still feeling very uncertain in the aftermath of that harmless kiss last night.
"Speaking of money, do you remember my lecture on currency?"
Oh, no...
"I, uh..." Margo tried frantically to recall what Malcolm had taught her during their visit to Goldie Morran, one of TT-86's money changers. "The basic unit's the pound. It's abbreviated with that little `L'; thing."
"And a pound is made up of ..."
She cast back through the confusion of foreign terms. "Twenty shillings."
Twenty-one shillings being called?"
Oh, God, it was some sort of bird..."A hen?"
Malcolm sat back and covered his eyes, stricken with helpless laughter. "The association," he wheezed, "is flawlessly logical, I'll have to credit you that much. A guinea, Margo. A guinea."
"A guinea," she repeated grimly. "Twenty-one shillings is a guinea."
"Now, what else do we call twenty shillings, other than a pound?"
Margo screwed shut her eyes and tried to remember. Not a king, there was a queen on the throne. "A sovereign."
"Or quid, in slang terms. What's it made of?"
"Gold. So's a half-sovereign!" she finished triumphantly.
"And half of that?"
Something else to do with royalty. But what, she couldn't remember. She lifted her hands helplessly.
"A crown. Five shillings is a crown, or a `bull' in slang usage."
Margo took a deep breath. "A crown. A quarter sovereign is a crown. Then there's the half-crown, or two-and-a-half shillings." Her head hurt.