Dust still clung to the air from the removal wagon that had just trundled off.

Number Five, Bloomsbury Square sat quiet and unfamiliar—a new cage of brick and mortar, waiting to be filled.

You hauled another trunk up the front steps, the leather handle biting into your palm.

Across the street, a carriage rolled to a halt before Number Eight—the Bridgerton residence. The door swung open, and a man stepped out, stretching his arms above his head like a cat waking from a long nap.