We weaved along the pavement, finding a roughly cobbled laneway between the first set of terraced houses and the second. With a nod to Evan and all pretense of drunkenness gone, I led the way along the rough stones, keeping close to the brick wall of the house that bordered the lane. We both ducked beneath a barred window—it was dark and curtained, but better to be safe—and continued to creep alongside the wall to the corner of the house and the mouth of the rear yard.

I stopped just as Evan caught my arm: we had heard the same sounds ahead. Female voices, the slosh of water, and the hollow clank of iron.

I glanced at Evan: Our Covent Garden girls?

He lifted a shoulder: Maybe. Then he jerked his chin: Take a look.

I slid my back along the cold bricks and carefully peered around the edge of the wall.

Not our two missing women but two young maids, one drawing water from a central well in an iron bucket, the other scraping a brush while fervently explaining something to her companion about beans—dried haricots, from the little I caught. It seemed rather early for such morning preparations. Then again, dawn was only an hour or so away and some households rose with the light. Were they from the club or one of the other houses?

I drew back and leaned close to Evan’s ear.

“Two maids,” I breathed.

He lifted his hand, palm out: Wait, see if they go inside.

A reasonable plan since we could not bluff our way into a private club in our current workmen’s clothes.

We both settled back against the wall. The length of our arms touched, hands finding each other upon the rough bricks, our morning-chilled fingers entwining into a warm embrace. Perhaps it was not too late, after all. To be seen by this man in all my naked truth. And to see him. I smiled and, in the darkness, sensed the answering upcurl of his mouth.

It was not long before the voices and the clanking shifted, the sounds receding, then muffled, then no longer audible at all.

“Gone?” Evan murmured.

We released hands with a mutual press of our fingers: neither of us wished to let go.

I peered around the corner again.

“It is clear,” I whispered.

I trod as silently as possible into the rear yard, Evan close behind. The cobbled area was shared by the four houses: each had three steps up to a back door that led into a kitchen or scullery, and a set of steps downward, enclosed by a railing and gate, that presumably led to the basement entrance.