We alighted, the hackney clattering away as soon as we both made the footpath. Some of the inmates of the workhouse were already outside chopping wood, the thud of the axes a counterpoint to the sound of children chanting their catechism in the airing grounds beyond. The gates were open, ready for visitors, for it was not a prison, or so the authorities insisted. Still, it was possible I had made a mistake fetching up outside a workhouse where so many had links to the criminal world. Any one of the people milling around the entrance could be in the pay of Mulholland or the Runners.

“Come on,” I said to Evan.

We crossed the road and made our way up Charles Street to the mews.

“Wait here,” I said, and jogged along to the entrance to Grosvenor Square. A quick look around the corner of the last terrace confirmed what I half hoped and half feared to see: a black horse tied to the rails of the central garden opposite our house.

I returned to Evan.

“Kent is here,” I said.

•   •   •

I ripped off my side whiskers—a somewhat painful process—and took off my hat as we entered the house via the kitchen yard. I did not want Cook and her scullery maids to think they were being invaded by ruffians. Although to be honest, I would pity any ruffian who tried to enter Cook’s domain without a pass.

“Good morning, my lady. Good morning, sir,” that formidable individual said, curtsying alongside her girls as we entered the steamy kitchen. “Lady Julia has ordered a full breakfast to be served at eight o’clock, but would you like me to send up something beforehand?”

A full breakfast so early? Unusual, but the smell of frying bacon, fragrant kedgeree, and freshly baked bread was welcome. Lord, I was hungry.

“Yes, excellent,” I said. “As soon as possible.”

We made our way along the hallway, its warmth, the smell of wax polish and newly lit hearths, and Julia’s huge vases of flowers a welcoming order that I had not realized I needed. Weatherly met us in the hallway at the foot of the stairs, our arrival heralded, no doubt, by one of the maids who had heard us enter the kitchen. He bowed, patently relieved to see me safe, for his mouth was almost curled into a smile.

“Good morning, my lady, good morning, Lord Evan,” he said. “Lady Julia is in the drawing room with Mr. Kent.”

“Good,” I said. I handed him my hat and my side-whiskers, which he took with equanimity. “Lord Evan will need a loaded firearm and may require a quick exit. Can you organize that, please?”

“Of course, my lady.”

“I wish to see my sister first,” Evan said, handing over his own battered hat. “In case Mr. Kent does not look favorably upon our proof and I need to make that quick exit.”