He headed for the stairs. On his way up, he crossed paths with Lily escorting one of the gents down. The man looked so proud of himself that Beast briefly wondered if it had been his first time. It was none of his concern. He did not care. He was weary of the gentlemen lounging about, the women entertaining them. The need to protect them.

He finally reached the top floor that served as their main living quarters. He and all the ladies who worked within these walls had private rooms along this hallway. He went into the library, poured himself a scotch, dropped into the comfortable wing-backed chair near the roaring fire, and tried not to think of the serving wench who was as fair as an angel, a beauty who would tempt a saint into sinning.

Just the memory of her was enough to cause his body to tighten with need as though she sat across from him.

Everything within him had gone on heightened alert when he’d seen the man approaching her after she’d left the tavern. It hadn’t been his intent to spy on her but because she didn’t appear to belong in Whitechapel, he’d wanted to assure himself that she wasn’t fool enough to walk the streets alone late at night. But it seemed she had a protector—a husband or a beau—and once Beast had acknowledged that she was in no danger, he’d slipped farther into the shadows and headed home.

Home. A strange word for a place where women earned their keep on their backs. Over the years he’d managed to find other employment for many of them, until he had only half a dozen remaining. But they needed to learn other skills and to be buffed to a polish if they had any hope of leaving this life behind.

Until they left it behind, he couldn’t leave it behind.

Because he wouldn’t abandon the women who’d been under his care, wouldn’t leave them at the mercy of men who had no fear of harming them. He owed it to Sally Greene. She’d put her faith in him, and in the end, he’d let her down.

After tossing back his drink, he set the glass aside and stared at the flames writhing on the hearth. The last of his charges needed to be as poised as the tavern maid who had served him tonight—although she was no doubt the product of a lifetime of refining that had begun the moment she was placed in the cradle. Every single aspect of her indicated that the minutest detail of her had warranted attention; no facet of her had been left to chance. If he had to guess, he’d say she’d had dozens of tutors. The elegant way she moved her hands, the calm with which she set down his glass, her hair—