Yesterday, in London, I had received a note delivered by a small boy who had run off before I could question him. The note was brief and unsigned:

Last night, 2 Bedford Street suffered a catastrophic fire. The house is destroyed. Fortunately, no one was injured within the house or in the dwellings on either side.

May your travels be safe and successful.

As we departed London, I asked John Driver to take us past Bedford Street; a little out of our way, but I had to ensure Whitmore was telling the truth. Sure enough, the home of the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin was now, ironically, completely ruined. Perhaps it was a little ghoulish to take delight in such destruction, but I reveled in the sight of its blackened beams and crumbling bricks. The club would, I knew, eventually open its doors elsewhere. Still, if the delay of their hideous activities saved just one woman from a terrible death, then that was a victory. Just as importantly, its destruction proved Whitmore was a man of his word. And a rather creative thinker.

“I believe we have arrived,” Julia said, as we turned onto Walmer’s wider esplanade.

I looked out upon the long, flat sand beach, the white-capped sea and an indigo night sky lit by a bright waxing gibbous moon. A good moon to sail by. Some of the boats of the Walmer sailors—luggers and galleys, according to the seaside resorts guide I had consulted—were hauled up on the beach. Beyond them stood a distant forest of masts: ships waiting in the Downs, the area between Walmer and the treacherous Goodwin Sands, for safe passage. Even through the closed carriage windows I smelled the pungent odors of seaweed and salt and heard the screeching night call of gulls wheeling above.

The carriage traveled on a rough road alongside the beach for a distance, passing what was clearly the more legitimate side of the town’s activities. Finally, we drew to a halt near a cliff. The carriage rocked; then Weatherly appeared at the door, huddled in his French-style greatcoat. Beyond him, Tully stood muffled in a new cloak and looking out upon the sea, one of my smaller travel boxes cradled in her arms.

“This is where we were instructed to stop, my ladies,” Weatherly said, opening the carriage door.

“I must admit, I feel rather underprepared,” Julia said to me as she took Weatherly’s hand to descend the carriage step. “This may not be the wisest decision on our part.”

“It is not wise in the slightest, dearheart,” I said. “Are you regretting your choice?”

“I suppose there is no use for that now.” She looked out upon the beach and the small group of men awaiting us next to a galley boat hauled up on the sand. Her face brightened into a beaming smile. “Look, there are Mr. Kent and Lord Evan.”