May was derby month and, with Epsom drawing closer, Gabriel had his hands full at the betting shop. It was there he could be found the day after the musicale, laying odds, calculating wins and losses, and dealing with the endless procession of men crowding the floor to examine the lists.

There was no help for it. Business must come first. But even as Gabriel dealt with the chaos that accompanied the spring racing meets, Effie Flite was never far from his mind.

On returning from his house in Sloane Street that morning, he summoned Bill Walsh to his office. Walsh was, like Murphy, one of Gabriel’s chief enforcers—a big, ugly bruiser of a fellow, accustomed to using his fists. But unlike Murphy, Walsh possessed a modicum of intelligence.

“I have a job for you,” Gabriel said from behind his desk, barely looking up from calculating figures in his ledger. “And I want no violence, only results.”

“Anything, Mr. Royce,” Walsh replied.

“Go to Church Lane. Go to Devil’s Acre. Find me a fair-haired woman by the name of Grace who lived above a rag-and-bone shop in the Rookery seventeen or eighteen years ago. If you can’t discover her outright, then find someone who remembers her. When you do, bring them to me.”

“Is that all, sir?”

Gabriel flicked him a cool glance through the lenses of his round, gold-rimmed spectacles. “For now.”

Effie had claimed that this Grace person was someone her family had known long ago. A servant, Gabriel suspected, or some old retainer whose fate was a matter of sentiment. Regardless of the person’s status, she was important enough that Effie had risked a visit to the Rookery to find her. Important enough that Effie had asked Gabriel for help.

He recalled the queer, lost look in her eyes that day when he’d told her the slum had been cleared and its residents scattered to the four winds. Her face had fallen and her footsteps had faltered. She’d stared about the alley with a vague expression of devastation.

This Grace woman meant something to Effie. She may not be a key in herself, but if she could provide the smallest insight into Effie’s past, or offer any illumination on her present aims, Gabriel planned to find her. And he intended to find her first.

It wasn’t the only action Gabriel had contemplated after his and Effie’s interlude in the garden. He’d seriously considered having her followed for a second time, if not by Ollie or Walsh, then by another of his men. He’d nearly done it, too, for no other reason than to ensure her safety. The devil only knew what mischief she might be getting herself into. Another venture into Compton’s bedchamber? Another balcony? Another roof, by God?