“What can I say? I’m a fascinating creature.”

Another smile threatened. He ruthlessly suppressed it. “Why were you visiting a school near the Epping Forest? I thought you’d been finished in Paris, not educated in some British girls’ academy.”

She didn’t bat an eye. “I was finished in Paris. That place near the Epping Forest isn’t a school. It’s an orphanage. I’m charity minded—a laudable inclination. It’s the same reason I came to St. Giles today.”

“Not because of Compton?” he asked. An endless pause. “And not because of me?”

She gave him a sidelong look. “I didn’t know you were from here, did I?”

“I’m not originally. I was born in the Black Country. In Birmingham. I came here when I was a lad.” Gabriel heard the gruff-edged words emerge as though they’d been uttered by another person. It was far too much information to share with a female. Personal, and nonessential. His jaw tightened, mouth clamping shut before he could give in to the unaccountable impulse to tell her anything more.

“Now you rule over everyone, is that the story? How enthralling.” She paused before adding, “And no, my visit here hasn’t anything to do with Compton. It’s a benevolent concern, merely. Someone my family knew long ago. I’d like to discover what happened to her.”

“Her given name was Grace? What was her surname?”

“I can’t recall. But I believe she had fair hair, and that she at one time lodged over a rag-and-bone shop. Surely, someone must remember her. It would only have been seventeen or eighteen years ago.”

“Only that?” He scoffed. “The slums were cleared in the forties to make room for expanding the road. Thousands were evicted. Many others left for Church Lane or Devil’s Acre. Even if you could find someone who remembered her, the likelihood of them still being in St. Giles is next to nothing.”

Euphemia’s face fell. Her footsteps slowed as they turned down another alleyway. Franc pulled impatiently at his lead, urging his mistress forward. She didn’t attend him. “I hadn’t any idea.”

Gabriel regarded her with nagging concern. She’d shown little authentic emotion since the night they’d first met. Not a flinch when he’d caught her at Compton’s desk, and not a start when Gabriel had bloodied the scoundrel’s nose in front of her at Mother Comfort’s. But this—this was genuine.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said.

She didn’t appear to hear him. She lapsed into silence for several seconds. And then: “Are Church Lane and Devil’s Acre very far from here?”

He frowned, discerning her intention. “If you’ve got any idea of turning up there as you did here today, you’ll do me the courtesy of putting it straight out of your head. I’ve no interest in you being murdered.”