Men were exiting the building, still wearing their masks and clearly the worse for wear. Some of them staggered down the front steps or clung to the railing as they descended; others had cravats untied or waistcoats undone. They were eerily silent, none of the songs or laughter of their entrance, not even any conversation among them. I counted twenty-two members departing, ten making their way to Maiden Lane and twelve to Chandos. Our devil and king left together, while Mr. Whitmore hurried along Maiden Lane by himself.

After them, three women came down the steps. They moved wearily, but from this distance, they did not seem injured. Two had their arms around each other, and the other walked alone, all of them heading up Maiden Lane toward the Garden.

“Where are the others?” I asked. All sleep bleariness had disappeared, chased away by the realization that two women had not departed.

“Perhaps we missed them coming out. Or maybe they went out the back way,” Evan said.

“I did not see them come out.” We watched the front door for another minute, but no one else emerged. “I think it is time to take a look inside the club,” I said. And not only for the sake of our own investigation.

Evan gave a nod—my own unease reflected in his face—and pushed himself upright, making a low sound of discomfort as he stretched the cold-induced kinks from his long body. I followed suit, my own stretch propelling me into a limp-hop on cramped legs across the veranda tiles. Very elegant.

Evan picked up the flagon from the ground, swinging it to test the weight. “Not ideal, but it might stop someone in their tracks.”

Another household item as weapon. Not that I scorned the idea. Lately I’d used a Wedgwood vase, a full chamber pot, and a large painting to good effect. Although the last had ultimately not protected me from the stab of a stiletto blade.

“A one-shot pot,” I quipped.

His smile gleamed in the dim light. “I recall that is your specialty.”

“I prefer Wedgwood,” I said.

Evan gave a small bow. “Only the best.” He lifted the flagon. “Mind you, this is a bit tougher than fine porcelain, with the added benefit that anyone seeing us carrying it will probably dismiss us as drunkards.”

And so Mr. Lennox and Mr. Jessup, arm in arm and waving a gin flagon, lurched drunkenly across Maiden Lane toward the stretch of terraces that housed the Exalted Brethren of Rack and Ruin. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dorothy watching with some interest. I wondered what she made of us.

By the time we reached number 2, the front door was closed, although there was still some light within.

“The old flower seller said there was a yard behind these terraces,” I said. “Perhaps we can get in through there.”