“This is a farce,” said Firebaugh. His eyes glinted with what Matthew considered to be the cunning of a trapped animal, though from time to time the animal shivered from the chill. “If you need me to concoct a potion, then surely you’re not going to use that pistol. I don’t think you’d shoot Miss Mulloy, either. You’re not the type. So what is there to stop either one of us from jumping out of this coach at the very minute? We might have a rough landing, but I think we’d survive.”

“Damage would be done, snow or not,” Matthew replied. “You wouldn’t get far with a broken leg, and I can tell you that you’d receive rougher treatment from Julian than you would care to experience. So again I advise you to settle back and don’t consider anything stupid.”

“What is stupid is this entire enterprise.” Firebaugh’s upper lip curled in a sneer of disgust. “Thinking you could get away with this?” He leaned forward slightly. “You have begun a game of squirrels and cats, you and your accomplice being the squirrels. You can run all you please, but the cats are on the prowl and when they get their claws into you it will seal your graves. But then again, the vice admiral might save you and your driver for his pit.” He shrugged and settled back against his seat once more. “Didn’t you witness the entertainment provided by the lovely RakeHell Lizzie?”

“Please, Doctor,” said Elizabeth. Her countenance had darkened. “Don’t.”

“Oh, but I must,” Firebaugh answered. “It is my duty, to explain to this young fool that sitting before him in these close quarters is a far superior killer to the ones who now are likely coming after him with blood in their eyes. Mr. Corbett, haven’t you heard of the Spitalfields Murderess?”

“Please,” Elizabeth repeated.

“The Spitalfields Murderess,” said Firebaugh, who spoke with an expression of sadistic delight. “Otherwise known as RakeHell Lizzie or her Christian name, Elizabeth Mulloy. Yes, here she is, right before you.” He frowned at Matthew’s blank stare. “Don’t you read Lord Puffery’s Pin? It was a featured story for almost four months!”

“I’m not a regular reader of that publication.”

“Well, you missed it then! All the gory details of how a young woman who has been victimized for years by unscrupulous and conniving—and brutal, I would say—men finally toppled over the edge from disturbance into madness. And forming her leather gloves with the extended razors—as she is actually and has been a very talented seamstress—she began to go out at night into the heart of Spitalfields to lure men into alleyways from which they did not return. Am I giving you fair enough credit, dear Elizabeth?”

“I want you,” she said evenly, “to stop talking.”