Sitting at a small table near the back of his sister’s tavern, Benedict Trewlove—known throughout Whitechapel as Beast—knew that assessment to be true with absolute conviction, just as he knew he’d never planned to be a brothel owner.

But when he was seventeen, working the docks, with fists the size of ham hocks, sixteen-year-old Sally Greene had asked him to look out for her as she plied her wares on the streets. A gang boss was extorting protection money from her. She’d decided Beast wouldn’t insist on taking most of her earnings like Three-Fingered Bill. She’d been correct.

Beast hadn’t wanted any payment at all, but from time to time he’d found extra coins tucked here and there in his clothing. Sally was skilled not only at lifting her skirts but at picking pockets as well, often doing both at the same time. He suspected it had gone against the grain for her to be stuffing coins into pockets. But he never embarrassed her by confronting her about it. He accepted the copper and silver with grace.

When a few of her friends asked the same of him, he’d found it easier to watch them if they were in the same spot, so he’d let a few rooms. Doing so had the added benefit of keeping them warm in winter so they seldom took ill, which in turn increased their earnings. Eventually, he was leasing an entire building for his girls. Now he owned it.

God always rewards a man for doing good, his mum had often told him. But in his experience, rewards came when a man applied himself—even if what he applied himself to was sometimes frowned upon by those with a higher moral standard.

The woman he now observed would no doubt do quite a bit of frowning. She looked the type. Sounded the type. Her posh, distinct diction indicated nobility born, bred, and raised.

Her clothing, as well. The fabric, cut, and workmanship of her simple gray frock was exquisite, although he’d wager that she’d lost a little weight since it had been purchased. While the other serving maids bared a good bit of their cleavage in hopes the customers would leave a few extra coins, she was done up as tight as a drum, buttoned up to her chin, down to her wrists. Her hair, pale as moonbeams, gathered up in a rather untidy knot that had failed to keep several strands secure, so they now teased her delicate cheekbones, was the only thing about her that appeared inelegant. Her posture was perfect, her stride graceful as she made her way back to his table after asking what she could bring him a few minutes earlier.