The heavy oak doors of Hamilton House closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the London streets. The foyer was cool, smelling of beeswax and lilies. It was a sanctuary of silence, usually a relief after the chaos of the city.
Today, however, the silence felt less like a sanctuary and more like a graveyard.
Rowan Hamilton handed his hat to Mr. Simmons. He pulled off his white gloves, finger by finger, with a slow, deliberate motion. He looked at Delaney.
She was standing near the console table, already rummaging through her bag. She didn't look at him. She didn't look at the grand staircase. She was looking at a small silver pocket watch she had pulled from her reticule.
"Twelve o'clock," Delaney announced. Her voice was brisk, stripped of any inflection. "You have exactly one hour and forty-five minutes before you must depart for the park. The drive to the Serpentine will take fifteen minutes in the phaeton if the traffic is light. I won't be following you this time."
