Death In Hyde Park by Robin Paige

wonder if you know him.”
    “As it happens, Charles and I met him just last week,” Kate said, “at a party given by his British publisher.” She smiled at Nellie’s excitement. “He’s certainly a charming man, and extraordinarily good-looking.”
    “He’s a Greek god,” Nellie said, rolling her eyes. “Sent from heaven.”
    Kate wasn’t quite sure of that. She had certainly felt the magnetism of London’s charismatic charm—not a woman at the party could have escaped the allure of his personality—but she couldn’t help feeling that there was something of the rogue about him. She wondered if Nellie knew that he had a wife and young child back in California, but she didn’t like to interfere. Whatever lessons about life and love Nellie was to learn through her attraction to Jack London, they would have to be her lessons.
    Kate stood. “Ask Hodge to bring the pony cart round to take you to the station,” she said. She put her arms around the girl in a warm embrace. “I wish you would visit more often, Nellie. It’s always a great pleasure to see you, and to hear about all your success.”
    “It’s all due to you, Kate,” Nellie said simply, returning Kate’s embrace. She put out her hand to her friend. “I hope things work out, Lottie. You must let me know if I can help further.”
    When Nellie had gone, Miss Conway stood too. “Thank you, Lady Sheridan,” she said soberly. “If I’m to stay, I’ll try my best not to be any trouble. I’m afraid I don’t have any money to give you, but I’ll be glad to work for my room and board.”
    “There’s always plenty of work to be done around here,” Kate replied. She smiled. “Do you happen to know anything about doctoring sick calves?” When the girl shook her head, she said briskly, “Not to worry. But do come upstairs and I’ll find you something to wear. We don’t want to spoil that delicious white linen suit.”
     
 
Charlotte Conway’s father had been an engineer and her mother the daughter of a wealthy Lancaster button manufacturer. Her father had died when she was quite young, her mother had never taken much notice of her, and Charlotte had grown up in a large, well-appointed house in Fitzroy Square with all the comforts that money could buy and a squad of servants to maintain them. She found nothing intimidating, then, about Bishop’s Keep, either the imposing house and staff of servants, or the fine furnishings, or the surrounding park. And of course, a true Anarchist would never be at all impressed by the trappings of wealth, no matter how grand.
    She was, however, reluctantly impressed by Lady Sheridan herself, for the woman was both self-confident and unselfconscious, seemingly without regard for her own wealth and possessions. Although she was not conventionally beautiful, she had a strong, striking Pre-Raphaelite face, with a resolute mouth, heavy brows, and decisive chin. Her eyes were an intense hazel-green that seemed to take nothing for granted, her thick auburn hair straggled untidily out of its knot on top of her head, and her hands were square cut and capable-looking, the nails rather the worse for wear—certainly not the hands of a titled lady or a famous writer. To tell the truth, they looked very much like the hands of a farmer.
    And then there was the surprising business of Lady Sheridan’s School for the Useful Arts. For one thing, Charlotte had assumed that Bishop’s Keep, so convenient to the city, was merely a weekend country home, and she was taken aback to discover that it was a working farm, an extensive one, at that—and entirely under Lady Sheridan’s management. For another thing, she had no idea that a woman of such a high social standing would have any interest at all in the plight of the working woman. But there were more surprises in store.
    After Charlotte had been outfitted in what her ladyship called a “working costume”—a simple, short-skirted blue dress topped with a smock, and a pair