I took a sip of my own drink and watched my sister over the brim. She did not often admit to fatigue nor in such an irritated manner. Had she truly spoken to Dr. McLeod? Maybe I could ask the good doctor if she had consulted him. No, he would not tell me. He was the very model of medical discretion, which, after all, was the very reason Evan had recommended him to us.

“I think it would be prudent to visit the street beforehand,” I said. “To get the lay of the land.”

“How do you propose to do that without being followed by Mulholland or becoming another on-dit?”

“By having a legitimate reason to be there,” I said. “I thought we could see a play at the Lyceum. If you are feeling up to it. We could then drive through Bedford Street—very slowly—on the way home.”

“So you need me for respectability?”

“Always, my dear,” I said, raising my glass.

She looked at me, eyes narrowed. “I am not sure I want to be the respectable sister.”

Now, that was a surprise; reputation had always been important to my twin. Ever since childhood, she and Duffy had been the most upright and virtuous members of our family. Was she beginning to enjoy our unsavory adventures? Or was it something or someone else exacting this change? A certain Runner, perhaps; a man who would be seen by the ton as barely one step up from the ruffians he brought to justice. A man who Lady Julia Colebrook should not know even existed.

“Do not worry, I know the truth,” I said lightly, to cover my disquiet. “I’ve seen you storm a brothel brandishing a blunderbuss. You are barely respectable and totally disreputable.”

Reluctantly, she smiled. “Very well, then, what is playing at the Lyceum? Heaven forbid it is Sheridan. I’m not sure I could sit through another one, even for Lord Evan’s sake.”

•   •   •

Fortunately the play was not a Sheridan, but a rather clumsily abridged Hamlet. At the final curtain, Julia and I slipped out the little-used side entrance and made our way to the end of Exeter Street, where John Driver waited with the carriage. The hope was that our exit would be obscured by the surge of departing theater patrons and their carriages at the front entrance. As it was, I saw no one watching us with any particular interest as I ascended the carriage steps behind Julia.

“I thought the Ophelia was rather good,” Julia said as I took my seat opposite her and rapped upon the wall for John Driver to walk on. “A pretty girl with some skill.”

I did not answer immediately, for my attention was upon the road as we jerked into motion. Still no watchful eyes upon us.