Effie felt Parker’s gaze burning into her back as she returned to the corner. It wasn’t because he knew her, she told herself; it was merely that she was an object of curiosity. Her pulse nevertheless jumped with every step, fully expecting that Parker would overtake her and—

She knew not what.

All she knew was that she had no desire to find out.

She could defend herself well enough, it was true, but even so…Parker was a large man, and despite her exhortations to Gabriel about the value of inventiveness and the power of surprise, brute strength at its utmost was still a force to be reckoned with.

The jarvey awaited her ahead, hunched on his perch. He appeared to be dozing.

Effie strode up to the door of the hackney. She was just about to open it when she caught sight of a familiar figure strolling past on Sloane Street. It was that odious boy! The one who had followed her to the Rookery that day.

Her temper flared.

“Another moment,” she said to the jarvey. He snuffled in reply as she marched off after the lad.

He was wearing dark trousers and a neatly buttoned dark coat, and held a brown paper–wrapped parcel in his hand. He wasn’t doing a very good job of following her this time. If he were, she wouldn’t have been able to get behind him.

“Well, well,” she said quietly, overtaking him halfway down Sloane Street. “If it isn’t my chivalrous St. Giles shadow.”

The lad spun around with a start. He gaped at her. “Miss Flite!”

“I thought it was you,” she said. “No, don’t run. I’m not going to hurt you. Though I do have a mind to box your ears.”

He flinched, backing up a step.

Effie closed the distance. “How dare your master send you to follow me again? I should have thought he’d learned his lesson.”

“I’m not following you! I swear it. I work here.” He jerked his head in the direction of a handsome red brick house with a black-painted door. “I’ve just come from fetching a new pair of gloves for Mr. Royce in Bond Street. I didn’t even know you was anywhere near here!”

A dawning suspicion came over Effie. She stared up at the tall house. “That isn’t…?”

“Mr. Royce’s residence in town,” the lad confirmed. “He ain’t there now, but he’ll be back this evening.”

Effie’s gaze drifted over the elegant brick facade. A strange tremor went through her—the slightest trilling of butterfly wings. It was an odd sensation, and one totally incongruous to her present occupation. But to think that this was his home. Where he entertained his friends. Where he dined. Where he slept.