He extracted a cream-laid note card from the envelope. It was a printed invitation to a musicale at Compton’s home next Monday evening. The same musicale to which Gabriel had overheard Lady Compton inviting Lady Belwood and Miss Flite. The viscount had appended the card in black ink:

Lord Haverford will be in attendance. He is a gentleman worth knowing.—C

Gabriel chuckled. “That’s more like it.” He addressed the footman. “I’ll be returning to Sloane Street on Sunday. Tell Kilby to have all in readiness.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman retreated. As he exited the office, another, much smaller figure pushed passed him to gain entry.

Murphy grabbed the lad by the back of his coat.

Ollie slipped free of the garment without losing a step. “Mr. Royce!” he panted. “Beg pardon, but—”

“O’Cleary.” Gabriel tucked Compton’s invitation back in its envelope. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know, sir, but—”

Murphy caught hold of Ollie’s shoulder. “Out you go, runt.”

Gabriel flashed Murphy a look. Murphy immediately released the lad, backing out of the room and shutting the door.

“When I give you a job,” Gabriel said to Ollie, “I expect you to do it.”

“I am doing it, sir.”

“You’re supposed to be following Miss Flite.”

“I did,” Ollie said, harried. “I am.” He pointed wildly to the closed door of the office. “She’s here!”

Gabriel stared at him for a split second, uncomprehending. And then he surged to his feet. “In my bleeding betting shop?”

Ollie followed Gabriel to the door. “Not in the betting shop, sir. In St. Giles. She’s at Mother Comfort’s.”

“The devil she is.” Gabriel pushed through the crowd of men outside. “With an escort?”

“She don’t have any servants with her, only a fluffy little dog,” Ollie said, running after him.

Gabriel muttered a violent oath. Mother Comfort’s gin shop had once been a thriving concern. But not anymore. Now, it was a desperate place, one of the lowest and most disreputable gathering spots in St. Giles.

Miss Flite hadn’t struck him as a stupid woman, but she must be lacking something in the upper story if she’d come to the Rookery alone. A well-to-do young lady like her would be easy prey for every rogue, pickpocket, and procurer.

Pushing open the door of his shop, Gabriel bounded down the steps to the alleyway. He belatedly realized he’d left his coat and necktie in his office. It mattered little. This wasn’t a social call in Mayfair. Indeed, he’d be lucky if this wasn’t Miss Flite’s funeral.