The modiste’s studio was near Union Square, not too far from the Mechanics’ headquarters, and that gave me the perfect opportunity to deliver my intelligence. My hopes sank, though, when Flora continued, “And if I must wear an old dress, I need some new ribbons for it. I should go with Miss Newton and purchase the ribbons. There’s one shop in the city that has what I want, and it is near the modiste’s.”

This time, I owed my thanks to Lord Henry. “I won’t have you going down there,” he said. “Miss Newton can purchase the ribbons if you write a note for the shopkeeper. I will call for a cab and provide a pass for Miss Newton to reenter our neighborhood.”

He came down the front steps with me when the cab arrived, and for a moment I feared he would insist on coming with me, but instead he glanced around as though making sure no one was listening, then said softly, “I hope I’m not imposing on you if I ask you to carry out an errand for me, as well.”

“Of course not. I would be only too happy to help.”

He handed me a small parcel. “Please deliver this to a bookshop near the university for me. The address is on the tag.”

“This person is expecting it?”

“Yes.” He shifted uncomfortably, then didn’t quite look me in the eye as he added, “But he doesn’t know who’s sending it. The transaction is rather, um, under the table, so to speak. Not illegal, though. The discretion is more due to, uh, class divides.” He leaned closer to me. “I appreciate your assistance, but I also trust your good sense. Don’t take any unnecessary chances. If it seems dangerous there, don’t worry about either my errand or Flora’s ribbons.” He handed me up into the cab, negotiated a fare with the driver and paid it in advance, then gave me money for the return fare.

The modiste called herself Madame Flambeau, but she only smiled nervously when I greeted her in French, so I switched to English without comment. Her speech was accented heavily with Irish, with the occasional French word thrown in, not always used in a way that made sense, and her hair matched her name. Even if she wasn’t truly French, she did seem to know her craft.

“A chaperone’s gown should be simple, not showy, no?” she said. “No lace for you.” She lowered her voice like she was sharing a secret. “There’s too much lace being used in this city, if you ask me, but that’s what they want, and they’re the ones paying the bills, so lace I give them. You are not a lady for lace, I think. Far too practical.”