Chapter Eighteen
Mordecai had told Eleanor Wrotham that he trusted her judgment, and he did—but that didn’t stop him being hugely relieved when he saw her waiting in the private parlor. “How was the cathedral?” he asked, as they sat down to eat luncheon.
“Very handsome,” she said politely, serving herself from the platters laid before them.
He glanced at her face. “Were you bored?”
She glanced up, met his eyes, and nodded.
“I’m sorry.” Mordecai served himself: slices of cold sirloin, mustard, bread-and-butter.
“Did you have any trouble in West Quarter?”
“Not much.” Mordecai gave a grunt of amusement. “Walter fell victim to a fogle hunter.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows lifted. “A fogle hunter? What on earth is that?”
“A stealer of handkerchiefs.”
Her eyebrows rose even higher. “There are pe
