Compton emerged, the high collar of his wool overcoat pulled up to shield his face, and the brim of his gray silk top hat tugged down over his eyes. Despite his efforts to obscure his identity, it was indeed the viscount. Even a glimpse of his profile was enough for Effie to identify him.

Like his manservant, Compton cast a glance up and down the street.

In the same moment, Effie opened her parasol and, tilting it to camouflage her upper body, turned toward the brick residence next to her. It was but five houses away from where Compton stood. A young footman holding a broom was at the top of the steps. A cloud of dust billowed around him.

“Did I get you, ma’am?” he asked anxiously.

Effie smiled up at him from behind her veil. “Only a little,” she lied. “My skirts can withstand it.” As she spoke, she tipped her parasol back an inch, just far enough to watch Compton walk to the door of the house.

“I didn’t see you there,” the footman said, “or I’d never have swept at you.”

Compton rapped on the door. It was at once opened—and not by a servant. A striking lady in a lace-trimmed peach morning gown leaned out to greet him. Her hair was black and her skin porcelain pale. She grasped the lapel of his coat with one ruffle-draped hand, drawing him into the house. The door shut behind them. Parker returned to the carriage, still surveying the street with a scowl.

“Pray don’t regard it,” Effie replied to the footman absently. She turned her head to him. “Indeed, perhaps you might help me.”

The young footman came down the steps to join her, still holding his broom. He was in his shirtsleeves. An intelligent-looking lad, but rather young for his position. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I fear I’ve got my street numbers turned around. Does the house at the end of the street not belong to Mrs. Gibbons?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I was sure the lady I just observed was she.”

“No, ma’am,” the footman said again. “That’s Mrs. Naismith.”

“Not Debra Naismith?” Effie asked, taking a stab in the dark.

“Can’t say for certain,” he replied, chewing his lip. “But I think it’s Dora, not Debra. I can ask the housekeeper—”

“No, no,” Effie said hurriedly. “It’s my mistake.” She cast a lost look back at the hackney. “I seem to be at the wrong end of Cadogan Place.”

The young man’s face lit with understanding. “There’s your trouble, ma’am. This is Ellis Street. Cadogan Place is that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction.

“Good heavens,” Effie said. “My driver must have misunderstood my directions.” She withdrew a coin from her reticule, placing it into his hand. “I’m obliged to you.”

“Happy to help.” He doffed his cap to her.