The Russell Street entrance into Covent Garden was little more than a narrow laneway between Carpenter’s Coffee House—one of the ramshackle permanent buildings that bordered the square—and a higgledy-piggledy collection of stalls, lean-tos, baskets, and carts. Some of the vendors were packing up their wares for the day, but a good number were still selling in the last of the light.

Through the rumble of carts, shouted instructions, and hum of chatter, I warded off calls to buy the last bushel of potatoes—patently not the last bushel—a pound of nuts, and a rabbit ready to be skinned for the pot. One of the basket women, a broad-shouldered amazon even taller than me, stepped into my path, offering to carry my goods for “penny o’ mile” in a broad Irish brogue. I shook my head with a smile and received a gap-toothed grin in return as I headed alongside Carpenter’s into the market proper.

If the entrance was a shambles, then the market itself was complete mayhem. I paused, looking for a way into the crowd, the noise and colors and clashing smells like a chaotic opera surging across every sense. Here was a world Lady Augusta would never experience, and the exhilaration of it sang through my blood.

“Get on, man.” An impatient voice from behind chivvied me into action.

I waded in, threading my way past a secondhand shoe seller, half-empty baskets of glassy-eyed fish, and a collection of pungent oyster barrels surrounded by diners tipping their heads back to eat from the shell. A rug seller, stacking his intricate wares back into his cart, stepped back into me and touched his forehead in hurried apology. I showed him my palms—no harm done—and continued on past eels being fried over coals, the rich, meaty fish smell striking my innards. Ahead, four women called to a raucous group of young men. One of their number, a tall redhead in a grubby green gown that showed bony shoulders and a good deal of meager breast, mimed an offering with her mouth and hand, then laughed at the appreciative hoots from the men. As I approached, her attention swung to me.

“Fancy a fumble, love?” she called, flashing a surprisingly intact smile. “How about a tug for a penny?”

My face heated: I was not sure what she meant, but it was clearly obscene. I quickened my step, but amid my alarm, a thought occurred. We knew the whereabouts of the club, but maybe one of these women had actually been inside it or at least heard more about its activities. Indeed, maybe this woman. Surely she would prefer to take a coin for information than…whatever she was offering.

“Where?” I called back.

She jerked her head to one of the alleys between the permanent buildings.

Did I dare?

I gave a nod; apparently, I did.

She beckoned. “Let’s see your coin, then.”