Julia huffed an irritated breath. “Frankly, if we walked up and down the whole length of Bedford Street, we would have no way of knowing.” She leaned across and opened the door. The carriage rocked as Samuel immediately descended from his position at the back and appeared alongside, ready to help us down. “We need local knowledge,” she said over her shoulder as she took his hand and alighted.

“From whom?” I asked as I arrived behind her on the cobbled pavement.

I shivered, my silk evening cloak and gown not adequate for gallivanting on a cold night. Was Julia thinking of knocking on the door of one of the houses? How on earth would we explain a request for information about a gentlemen’s club?

“From her,” Julia said, nodding toward a hunched shape sitting beside a basket on the corner of Maiden Lane.

An old flower seller.

I had not even seen her there. One of the truly invisible.

“I would lay odds that she has sat in the same spot for years selling her flowers, just like Peggy in our square,” Julia said. Peggy? But of course my sister knew the name of the flower seller near us. “She will have sat there unregarded, watching the world walk by. That is the local knowledge we need,” Julia added.

“Brilliant,” I said.

Julia acknowledged the accolade with a nod, then turned to our footman. “Samuel, bring the lamp.”

Samuel unhooked the carriage lamp and followed us across the road. He still walked a little stiffly from his beating from Mulholland’s man but otherwise seemed to have recovered from the ordeal.

The old woman looked up as we approached, immediately holding out a raggedy bunch of snowdrops. The tiny white bell blooms trembled in her hold. “Flowers, milady? Flowers? Penny a posy.”

In the light of the lamp, I could make out a deeply lined face with inflamed, crusted eyes and a sunken mouth. She wore an old knitted shawl tied over a threadbare coat, and a straw bonnet sporting a large hole and a frayed ribbon around the crown.

“I will take all that you have left,” Julia said, peering into the basket. She worked open the drawstrings of her reticule and dug her fingers inside.

“All?” the old woman echoed. She peered into her basket too. “I got this many.” She held up her other hand—wrapped in rags for warmth—and splayed her fingers. Four posies.

Julia withdrew a shilling and crouched beside her, holding out the coin. The old woman stared at it. “That’s a shillin’, that is. I ain’t got the wherewithal to give back the difference, my lady.”

Julia dropped the coin into her hand. “The shilling is yours. What is your name?”

“They call me Weepy Iris,” she said, inflamed eyes fixed upon the coin cupped in her palm.

“What is your real name?” Julia asked gently.