“I don’t mean to publish her story,” Miles said. He’d promised Gabriel he wouldn’t. He hadn’t, however, promised to forego further inquiry. The mystery of Miss Corvus and her charity school was the single loose thread in his investigation into Lord Compton’s crimes. And Miles couldn’t abide a loose thread.

“Then what does it matter?” Miss Trewlove asked.

“Call it professional curiosity,” he said.

Disapproval darkened her gaze. “At a lady’s expense? That isn’t very gentlemanly.”

Across the office, the fringe on the bottom of the sofa twitched. Shadow poked her gray striped head out to listen to their conversation.

Miles cast an absent glance in the little tabby’s direction. He had found her only last week here in Fleet Street. Small and thin, with a battered ear and weeping eye, she had summoned up the bravery to eat from one of the dishes he regularly put out for the other street cats. He’d really had no choice but to rescue her.

She’d been living in his office ever since, spending most of her time hiding while she healed from her wounds. Miles intended to remove her to his house in Chelsea as soon as she was stronger. He had six strays already in residence. Cats were his weakness.

His only weakness.

“Not just any lady,” he said. “The lady who Compton jilted and defrauded. His crimes against her are what ultimately led to his downfall.”

“Elizabeth Wingard,” Miss Trewlove mused. She adjusted her voluminous skirts. “Yes, I read your articles. She was treated abominably, as far as I can tell.”

“She was,” Miles acknowledged. “Rumor has it that she died abroad. Instead, as I discovered, she returned to England, armed with a new identity and a new purpose.”

“This is all quite fascinating—”

“She founded a charity school for girls. One of those girls—now Mrs. Royce—played a role in bringing about Compton’s political demise. Do you dispute that there was a relationship between her actions and the mission of Miss Corvus’s Academy?”

“I’m sorry, are you implying that Miss Corvus founded a school solely to raise up a generation of girls to settle a score with her former fiancé?” Miss Trewlove smiled, revealing a startling glimpse of a crooked front tooth. The unexpected flaw lent a roguish quality to her expression. “I am not a worldly woman, Mr. Quincey, but that does seem excessive.”

“Not only Compton,” Miles said. “All men who have wronged women.”

“All men? How very ambitious of her.”

“You don’t deny it?”

“On the contrary, it sounds an admirable goal.” Her face reverted to somber lines. “Truly, sir, in all seriousness, if that is what you believe, your imagination has run away with you.”