The story of a Fleet marriage was a concoction to bait the trap.

She flung herself in the corner, turned her back upon her captor and pulled her hood over her face.
She knew that for the time being she was helpless.

What was the good of wasting her strength in struggles, her spirit in remonstrance and be laughed at for her pains?
So she sat sullenly and turned a deaf ear to Dorrimore's triumphant endearments.
That wrestle with the window strap had done one thing.

It had told her where she was.

Lavinia knew her London well.