Ahead, the Covent Garden St. Paul’s Church rose above the stall and tent rooftops, my landmark in this sea of busy, noisy industry. Beyond it was Bedford Street and Lord Evan. With one last wave at Long Sal, I skirted a stack of baskets full of hazelnuts and headed for the church.

St. Paul’s portico was littered with empty baskets and discarded crates, guarded by two threadbare little girls and an indignant brown terrier. The little girls each held up a hand as I approached but had no hope in their eyes. Long Sal’s resignation still rang in my ears: We all stay where God puts us. I dug my hand into my pocket, found two farthings, and dropped one into each palm as I passed, then took the steps down to the yard behind the church. A sudden oasis of quiet amid the chaos. I nodded to an old man who sat upon a bench and crossed the cobbles to the narrow laneway that led to Bedford Street.

The lane smelled of cooked onions and cat piss. Ahead, a couple leaned up against the laneway wall, locked in what looked to be far more than an embrace. Should I retreat? I looked back at the church, but this was the quickest way through and I did not fancy trying to fight my way back across the market. I tucked in my chin and strode past the entangled pair, catching a shocking glimpse of grinding hips, pale thighs, and thrusting buttocks. I quickened my stride, trying to outpace the sound of skin slapping skin and gasping rhythmic cries.

I emerged onto Bedford Street, breathless, my skin hot with an odd shame. Good God, was that the Act? My friend Charlotte, Countess Davenport, had on my request described the mechanics of it, but I had never thought it to be so naked, so vigorous, so…loud. Part of me wanted to look back. No, such an urge offended all decency.

Eyes forward, I forged on, legs trembling, across Henrietta Street and toward Dorothy’s corner, the old flower seller crouched as usual upon the pavement.

Across the road, at the junction of Maiden Lane, a figure rose from a doorway, holding a flagon. I recognized the broad shoulders and laconic tilt of the head, and my heart quickened in an entirely new way.

Evan.

12

I took a steadying breath and raised my hand. He lifted his in quick response and I crossed the road to join him.

“How is my sister?” he asked in greeting, his anxiety plain upon his face. He had still not shaved—the stubble thicker than when I had last seen him—and had donned an old, patched greatcoat and a frayed hat. Even with such a shabby appearance, the very fact of his presence intensified the disquiet still surging through me.