“Is that what’s brought you here today? The impertinence of this young lad?”

Ollie flinched to hear Gabriel’s Birmingham accent emerge, knowing that it never boded well.

Ned, the barman, was equally aware. He took a step back from the counter, holding his hands up in apology. “She were asking about the old days, Mr. Royce, some two decades past, long before I took up shop. I meant no disrespect. I didn’t know she were one of yours.”

“The old days,” Gabriel repeated. “Ah. But they’re dead and gone, aren’t they, Ned?”

“That’s what I told her, sir.”

“She’s looking for someone named Grace,” the man on the right said. “Knew a whore named Grace once.” He craned his head around Gabriel to leer at Miss Flite. “Not as pretty a whore as you are, but—”

In one lightning-fast movement, Gabriel grabbed the man by his greasy hair and slammed his face down on the bar. There was a crunching sound, followed by a vigorous spurt of blood.

“My nose!” the man bellowed.

Ned rushed to the man’s aid, dirty bar cloth in hand. “Shut up,” he growled as he cleaned up the blood. “You want it to be your neck?”

“That’s Gabriel Royce, you lummox!” one of the drunkards called out from a table nearby. “Him who runs St. Giles. Best shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

Miss Flite gave Gabriel an interested look. One would never guess by her expression that there was a man bleeding copiously not six feet away. “Is it true?” she asked. “Do you run St. Giles?”

Gabriel motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

“I don’t mind a little blood.”

“Nor do I. But I do recall your aversion to smoke.”

Her lips compressed. For a moment it seemed she would refuse. “Very well,” she said at last. “How could I refuse such gentlemanly consideration?”

With that, she picked up her little dog—a black, curly-coated bit of fluff with a red satin ribbon bow on its head. The tiny beast fixed Gabriel with a surprisingly fearsome glare as Miss Flite conveyed it from the shop.

Gabriel strode after her. When Ollie moved to follow, Gabriel jerked his head back to the bar. “Drink your drink,” he commanded.

Outside, Miss Flite continued carrying her dog as she proceeded down the refuse-strewn alleyway. The skirts of her plain, black silk day dress were nearly as wide as the skirts of her ball gown had been. They swayed about her in a seductive swish of fabric, at once protective and provocative.