He laughed. “Don’t judge me by the company you’ve seen me keep. There’s more to me than that, I promise.”

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” Margaret asked ten minutes later.

“There’s a place on Canal Street. It’s not too far if you don’t mind walking. Just watch your purse, though I guess you know to do that if you’ve been working here for a while.”

“Since the start of the year, though to be honest, aside from my route from the streetcar stop to the mission, I don’t venture far. I’ve never been on this street, for example.”

“This is Bowery. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe enough in daylight. It’s been cleaned up quite a bit in the last twenty years. It’s where people come to shop who can’t afford Broadway prices.”

“Like the market in Lambeth.” Margaret eyed the plethora of small stores, stalls, street vendors. “Only on a huge scale.”

“Lambeth?”

“It’s a district near London. Poor but hard-working.”

“Yeah, same here by day, but you’d encounter a very different atmosphere if you came here after dark. Which I wouldn’t recommend.”

“You seem to know it well.”

“I was raised not far from here, in the Kleindeutschland—the district known as Little Germany. I’m a second-generation immigrant.”

“Oh. I had no idea.”

“You thought I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth? My father was a clerk. I’m an only child, which is why he could afford to put me through college and then law school. I told you not to judge me too hastily. Although I’m guessing that you get judged regularly yourself, being a member of the aristocracy and all.”

“A little, though not nearly so much as back home.”

“What brought you here in the first place?”

“Lots of reasons.”

“In other words, it’s none of my business.”

“To be fair, Mr. Mueller, we have only just met.”

“True, but I have a good feeling about you. I reckon we’re going to be friends, don’t you?”

He smiled down at her, a frank smile that met his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners, and her planned equivocal response died on her lips. “Do you know,” she said, “I think you might be right.”

“I usually am, Lady Margaret. So if we’re to be friends, do you think we can dispense with the formalities. Could you call me Randolph?”

“I could if you will call me plain Margaret.”

“Plain Margaret! That’s a misnomer if ever I heard one. Now, let’s eat.”

“Here? Isn’t this a theatre?”

“Yes, the Old Bowery, and next door is the Atlantic Garden beer hall, but we’re going here, to the lunch counter. Or wait, did I read you wrong?” Randolph asked, for the first time looking uncertain. “I thought you’d enjoy something a bit different, but if you’d prefer . . .”