A Strange Likeness Read Free

dignity, either. Kind Sir Hart might be, but he was also firm, and what he decreed was law.
    â€˜You may go, Granddaughter. Tomorrow you must prepare to leave.’
    Eleanor rose and walked to the door, where she turned and looked at him. Her face was white but the tears had stopped falling.
    â€˜I will be good, I promise. I don’t want to be a fine lady, I despise them, but I will become one for your sake, Grandfather.’
    â€˜And for yours, too, Eleanor. For yours, too.’

Chapter One
    London, 1841: Monde and demi-monde
    M r Alan Dilhorne, ‘the person from Australia’, as some butlers were later to call him, stood in the foyer of the Haymarket Theatre, London, on his second night in the capital.
    Tired after the long journey from Sydney, he had gone straight to bed at Brown’s Hotel when he had arrived there, but a day’s sleep had restored him to full vigour and a desire to explore the land which had exiled his father. He looked eagerly about him at the fashionable crowd, many of whom stared at his clothing which, however suitable it had been in Sydney, branded him an outsider here.
    Curious stares never troubled Alan. His confidence in himself, helped by his superb physique and his handsome face, was profound. It was backed by the advice offered him by his devious and exacting father.
    â€˜Work hard and play hard’ was his maxim, which Alan had no difficulty in following. He had come to London to carry out a mission for his family which promised hima busy time in the old country. He was not going to allow that to prevent him from enjoying life to the full while he executed it.
    He had walked through the demi-monde on his way to the theatre, and it was obviously much larger and livelier than its counterpart in Sydney.
    A hand fell on his shoulder and spun him half around. A man of his own age, the late twenties, fashionably dressed, slightly drunk already, was laughing in his face.
    â€˜Ned! What the devil are you doing here so early, and in those dam’d awful clothes, too?’
    â€˜Yes,’ chimed his companion. ‘Not like you, Ned, not at all. Fancy dress, is it?’
    â€˜Ned?’ said Alan slowly. ‘I’m not Ned.’
    The small group of young gentlemen before him looked suitably taken aback.
    â€˜Come on, Ned. Stop roasting us. What’s the game tonight, eh?’
    â€˜Not roasting you,’ said Alan firmly. ‘I’m Alan Dilhorne, from Sydney, New South Wales. Don’t know any Neds, I’m afraid.’
    He had deepened his slight Australian accent and saw eyes widen.
    â€˜Good God, I do believe you’re not Ned,’ said his first accoster.
    â€˜Bigger in the shoulders,’ offered one young fellow, who was already half supported by his friends. ‘Strip better than Ned, for sure. Bit soft, Ned.’ Other heads nodded at this, to Alan’s amusement.
    The first speaker put out a hand. ‘Well, Not Ned, I’m Frank Gresham, and you’re like enough to Ned to deceive anyone. I’d have taken you for him on a fine day with the hounds running.’
    Alan liked the look of the handsome young man beforehim, whom he took to be younger than he was—in contrast to himself; he looked more mature than his years.
    â€˜I’d like to see Ned. Ned who?’
    â€˜Ned Hatton. Not here yet, obviously. Always late, Ned. Look here, Dilhorne, is it? Meet us in the foyer in the first interval and you shall see him. And if this play is as dam’d boring as I expect it will be, we’ll make a night of it together.’
    Most of them looked as though they had made more than a night of it already.
    â€˜You got that shocking bad hat and coat in Australia, I suppose?’ said Gresham’s half-drunk companion, introduced as Bob Manners. ‘Better get Ned to introduce you to his tailor—won’t want his face walking around in that!’
    â€˜Shame on you, Bob,’ said Gresham genially.