There was no dignity in it, this glorified begging. Especially for Gabriel, who scorned to ask anyone for anything. He’d had to swallow his rancor to talk with Haverford. Whether or not the sacrifice had been worth it, Gabriel didn’t yet know. Haverford hadn’t spoken in terms of swift reforms. He’d approached the matter legally and theoretically, referencing scholarly reports, parliamentary opinions, and possible amendments to the 1855 Metropolis Management Act.

Haverford had also discussed the upcoming elections to the St. Giles District Board of Works. The character and opinions of the newly elected board members would have an outsize impact on the Rookery’s future. As much of an impact as that of Compton and politicians like him.

Whatever action was taken, it would depend on them to implement it. Which meant that, soon, Gabriel would be even more reliant on Compton than he was already. And Compton would know it.

Gabriel took a scowling drag of his cigarette. He was in a foul mood, that was the trouble. He had been ever since dinner, when he’d been obliged to tell Euphemia that his lofty position in St. Giles had originated not by order of his birth or connection or honest hard work, but by virtue of being a bookmaker—a glorified Rookery villain, who had risen to his current status through violence and intimidation.

He wasn’t ashamed of what he was or where he came from. But in that moment, seated next to her in the candlelight, he’d felt something resembling regret. An earnest, elegant young lady like her—one who had been finished in Paris, by God—was so far removed from a man like him she practically existed on another planet. It didn’t matter that she had the heart of an adventuress. That he’d seen in her eyes, that night in Compton’s library, a spirit as fierce and formidable as his own. He could still never hope to reach her. To touch her. Not if he made another fortune for himself and bought half a dozen properties in Mayfair.

That didn’t mean he relished the idea of her enjoying the remainder of the musicale with a witless arse like Lord Mannering or a self-righteous hypocrite like Lord Powell.

Better it should be Gabriel sitting beside her.

With that in mind, he finished his cigarette and headed back. The enormous white stucco house loomed ahead, towering over the neatly trimmed rosebushes and perfectly manicured grass of the formal gardens. A massive wisteria climbed up the walls, thick, woody, and drooping with heavy clusters of pale lilac flowers. Its branches stretched up to the high windows above where shadows moved and lights glimmered.