Jack shook his head. “Better if we don’t, for a time. You aren’t having any shortbread?”

Pammie took the other seat, settling into her chair and wrapping her shawl about her. “I had some earlier.”

“I could pop up to York with you, look in on the elders.”

“They’d tell you to bide here, so Ellie’s not all alone.”

Not what she’d said the last time they’d conversed. Jack took a sip of tea, the heat alone a benediction. “Ellie wants no parts of me.”

“She wants no parts of your schemes, no parts of you trying to get under her skirts.”

Jack leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His feet were thawing for a change, he had a hot cup of tea, he was out of the elements. Sleep dragged at him, as did a weariness of the heart. He’d seen the gin-drunks snoring their last in the city streets. At the end, there was no shivering, no cold, nothing but peace.

“I am not trying to get under her damned skirts. I am trying to make her smile. Those bloody nobs she works for have starched all the joy from her. She used to laugh with us, Pammie. Now, she acts as if we’re not fit to touch her hem.”

“That is not fair, Jackson Naylor, and you know it. She calls on me and the brats regularly, but she can’t afford to risk her job for scapegrace ne’er-do-wells like you and Mick.”

Old ground, which they’d plowed before. “I have looked for work with every agency and service in London. I have worn my bum numb in the taverns by the City, listening for word of an opening, a new venture, anybody who would take on a man who can keep honest books. Nobody wants that kind of help, not from me, not at any price.”

Jack had returned to the Bull and Baron in hopes of sharing another pint with Mr. Edwards, but to no avail. The publican reported that Edwards had been in again twice, but had left in the company of Beveridge Larson, a fellow of less than sterling reputation.

“You sit about in pubs because you like to swill ale,” Pammie said. “If you were truly interested in finding honest work, you’d do the obvious.”

Jack had to eat the shortbread. He’d asked for it, and to slip it into his pocket would be pathetic. He bit the sweet in half and chewed slowly, the buttery texture as much a pleasure as the sweetness.

“What’s the obvious?” Jack could find work in the brothels—he wasn’t bad-looking—but it wasn’t in him to put up with what a molly boy did to earn his keep.