Chapter Twelve

Almack’s. Race gazed up at the imposing edifice on the other side of the road. People were already flocking inside, the ladies in their silks and muslins, the gentlemen, to a man, wearing old-fashioned knee breeches. As was he.

He didn’t want to move.

Women had always pursued him. Once he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in marriage, it was only married women and widows who pursued him, and he’d soon discovered that too many of them had motives that had little to do with him, or even the simple finding of pleasure in each other’s company.

It was ironic. It was solely for Clarissa’s sake that he’d begun to attend society events. But because of that, the rumor had spread that he was finally ready to take a bride—which was, he had to admit, true. But he was not after any suitable bride: he wanted only Clarissa.

Still, in society’s eyes he’d placed himself firmly on the marriage mart and was considered fair game. And now, since the events of the Frampton ball, he needed to show he was already taken.

For years he’d avoided society balls and routs, especially the ones that the latest crop of newly presented brides-in-waiting attended. Or the second- or third-season hopefuls, who were, frankly, a little unnerving in their desperation.

He’d attended Almack’s precisely twice, years ago, very early in his career. He’d lost his father the previous year and, having come into a title and a substantial fortune, found himself the target of ambitious matchmaking mamas and their equally purposeful daughters.

He’d never again darkened Almack’s door.

Until—God help him—tonight.

He bent and straightened his knee breeches, took a deep breath, crossed the road and entered.

There was a sudden hush, followed by a twittering of excited speculation.

In minutes he was discreetly but relentlessly mobbed by maidens and matrons, all curious about the incidents at the Frampton ball. And though everyone was agog at what had been revealed about Clayborn, most of their queries, direct and indirect, amounted to the same question: Were the rumors true, that he and Miss Studley were betrothed?

To each, he answered in the affirmative, adding how delighted he was about it. Not a few narrowed their eyes in skepticism and glanced significantly around the room. Where his betrothed was conspicuous by her absence.

Where was she? She’d been very clear that she intended to be here tonight, and that she expected him to attend as well.

He waited and bowed and chatted, and waited and parried intrusive questions, and drank some disgusting beverage and waited as the clock inched with agonizing slowness toward the magic hour: eleven o’clock, when the doors to Almack’s were firmly closed against latecomers, no matter what their rank.

Finally, the hour came and Race made his way from the building. Where the hell was she? Could she still be avoiding him? He didn’t believe it. He was sure they’d come to a new level of understanding—of closeness—since the events in the garden, both with the distressed little girls, and again when she’d defended him so fiercely against the very slight insult delivered by that Milly girl. That defense still warmed him.

So where was she? She wasn’t the sort to lie, saying she’d do something when she had no intention of doing so.

So something must have happened to prevent her. Perhaps she’d had a headache and gone to bed early. But surely in that case she would have sent him a note.

His brain sprouted all kinds of possibilities. He picked up his pace.

When he reached Bellaire Gardens, he found lights blazing in every window. So nobody had gone to bed early.

He yanked hard on the bellpull. The sound jangled loudly through the house. If that butler refused him…He’d never hit a butler, ancient or not—or any servant, for that matter—but there was always a first time.

But when the door flew open it was not the disapproving ancient butler who confronted him, but Clarissa, looking pale and distraught.

“Oh. Oh, it’s you,” she said in a disappointed voice. She peered around him, looking out into the street, then turned back to him and, with a visible effort, collected herself. “I’m so sorry, I should have sent a note to tell you my change of plan. I gather from your attire you did go to Almack’s.”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Yes. Who were you hoping to see just now?”

She swallowed. “Zo?, my little sister.” Her face crumpled. “She’s gone. Run away.”

He drew her into his arms at once, saying, “Hush now, we’ll sort this out.” Holding her against him, breathing in her essence, he smoothed his hand soothingly up and down her spine and felt her slowly calm.

After a few moments she took a deep, tremulous breath and stepped back, much to his disappointment. “Thank you. I don’t mean to be a watering pot, it’s just…just that…she’s all alone.” She pressed her lips together, fighting for control.

He led her into the front sitting room, which was, thankfully, unoccupied, and sat with her on the sofa. “Now, tell me what happened.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. She was here this morning, seeming much as usual. And then, I didn’t see her during the day, but that’s not unusual—I assumed she was with Betty or visiting Lucy, Lady Thornton, over on the other side of the gardens. She often does. But then when Betty came to help me get dressed to go to Almack’s, I discovered she hadn’t seen Zo? all day, either.” She paused, her forehead crinkling thoughtfully. “And when I thought about it, I realized Zo? has been a little bit…odd lately.”

“In what way?”

“Yesterday we were talking over breakfast—I told her about what had happened the previous night with Mr. Clayborn—and when we’d finished, she was about to go downstairs and…” She gave Race a troubled look. “She thanked me in the oddest way. And then she said she’d been happy here, as if…”

“As if that time was coming to an end?”

She nodded.

“So you think she was saying goodbye?”

“In retrospect, yes. Oh, I should have said—we searched the house for her and found a note from her in her bedchamber. I’ll fetch it.” She hurried from the room and returned in a few minutes with a folded note and some loosely rolled papers tied with a ribbon. She handed him the note.

Dear Clarisa and Lady Skatergood I’m leavin I’m very greatful for all you done for me you bin very good and kind to me but it aint gunna work, me bein yore sister Clarisa. I aint no lady and nobodys gunna belive I am and itull all come back on you and yore sister and I dont want that to happen so Im goin away. Dont try to find me and dont worry Ill be all right. Im leavin these pichers as a little gift as a thank you for all your kindness and so you dont forget me. Please give Lucy and Lady Tarant and the little girls the ones of them, with my love and gratitude

love Zo?

Race folded the note. “I see. You know she’s right, don’t you?”

She stared at him, shocked. “How can you say that? She’s my sister.”

“Which hasn’t yet been proved.” He held up his hand. “No, I don’t mean to dispute your claim on her—the resemblance to your other sister is extraordinary. But she’s right that people won’t believe she’s a lady—it shows every time she opens her mouth—and attempting to pass her off as your sister will stir up the illegitimacy gossip again.”

“I don’t care! I couldn’t care two hoots what stupid society gossips say—she’s my sister and I want her to live with us, and be s-safe, and know she’s l-l-loved.” Her face crumpled again, and he drew her into his arms.

“Hush now, I know you don’t care what people think. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

She pulled back and looked up at him in surprise, her beautiful eyes wide and doubting and swimming with tears. But now was not the time to convince her of his sincerity. “Don’t worry, we’ll find her. Now, dry your eyes and put your thinking cap on. Where might she have gone? What are those other papers?”

Without a word she passed them to him. He unwound the loose piece of ribbon and unrolled the papers. They were drawings, a dozen or so in pen and ink and some in pencil, of Clarissa, of old Lady Scattergood, of Mrs. Price-Jones, of a couple of servants, some dogs, and some others, including the three little girls he’d met in the garden yesterday. Lastly there was a self-portrait of Zo? herself.

“These are very good. Zo?’s?”

She nodded.

“She’s very talented.” He picked up the one of Clarissa and examined it. “She’s captured you perfectly.”

Clarissa shook her head. “She’s made me look pretty and I’m not.”

“No, you’re not pretty,” he agreed. “But you are beautiful, and she sees that beauty in you. As do I.” She flushed, and before she could say anything he continued. “She also sees the beauty in Lady Scattergood, see? She hasn’t minimized her age or the many wrinkles in her lined old face, but the old lady’s inner beauty shines through, don’t you see? And the expression…”

Clarissa looked at the drawing of the old lady and nodded. “I have to find her and bring her home. She’s out there all alone and, and…Anything can happen to a beautiful young girl, all alone.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her.” He tucked Zo?’s self-portrait into a pocket. The drawings were beautifully vivid, but they gave no indication of where she might have run to. “Now think—where might she have gone? Would she go back to that orphanage?”

“Never. She hated it there. And she didn’t take anything with her—only the clothes she arrived in, which were so shabby.” She looked up at him, her face pale and anxious. “I’ve been thinking and thinking, but I cannot imagine where she’d go. I don’t think she has anywhere to go.”

“What about the place she lived in before the orphan asylum?” Surely she’d head for somewhere familiar.

Clarissa frowned, thinking. “I don’t know. I don’t think she ever mentioned any particular place—all I know is that her mother was a painter and an artist’s model. Maybe Betty will know more. They were friends.” She jumped up and sent for Betty, who turned out to be an abigail.

Betty stood in the doorway, wringing her hands on her apron. Another one who was distressed at Zo?’s departure. “No, miss, she never told me the place. I don’t know London that well, and place names don’t mean much to me. Sorry, miss. She never told me she was leaving or I woulda stopped her, I promise you.”

“I know, Betty. It’s not your fault,” Clarissa said softly. “Thank you.”

It was a dismissal, but Betty hesitated. “What is it?” Race asked her. “Is there something else you want to tell us?”

Betty bit her lip. “I’m not sure, my lord, it’s just…She left something with me, asked me to keep it safe for her until she came and fetched it. It was a few days ago, and I was busy and didn’t think anything about it at the time. But now, I’m wondering…Shall I fetch it?”

“Yes, please,” Clarissa told her, and Betty ran off. Clarissa looked at Race. “She didn’t mention this before, when we were questioning her. I wonder what it is.”

Betty returned shortly with a thick cardboard tube.

“Zo? brought that with her when she came from the orphanage,” Clarissa exclaimed. “I didn’t like to ask her what it was. She was so prickly at the time, and had so few possessions.”

The tube was corked at either end. Clarissa removed one, tilted the tube and a thick roll slid out. She carefully unrolled it. “Paintings!” she exclaimed.

“More of Zo?’s work?” Race said.

“No, most of these are proper paintings, in color, and some are on canvas.” She leafed carefully through them. “Some are in watercolor and others in oil. Zo? didn’t have any paints—I’d been meaning to buy her some, but I kept forgetting,” she said distressfully.

“You can buy them for her when we find her,” Race said firmly. “Now let’s look through these. There might be a clue among them.”

The paintings included a couple of watercolors and a small oil painting of Zo? as a little girl. “Oh, look, her mother must have painted this one. She was so like Izzy, even then,” Clarissa breathed.

She set it carefully aside and picked up the next one. It was a watercolor of a castle, a castle in the French style. “I wonder if this was Zo?’s mother’s home in France.” She lifted it to examine it more closely and noticed a sketch pad underneath. “This might contain something that could help us find her.” She picked it up and began flipping through it. “No, they’re mostly sketches of people’s faces, nothing to locate—” She broke off, staring.

“What is it?” Race asked.

Wordlessly she turned the pad around so he could see it. It was a set of three small vivid pen-and-ink sketches portraying an elegantly dressed man with curly dark hair. He looked handsome and arrogant, and very pleased with himself.

Race shook his head. It was nobody he knew. “Someone you recognize?”

“It’s Papa,” she whispered. “Izzy’s and my papa—and Zo?’s. It’s unmistakable. If this were in color those eyes would be green. Hard, bright green.” She looked at Race, her eyes wide. “This proves it: Zo? is indeed our sister.”

Race nodded. It at least proved that Izzy’s mother had definitely known Sir Bartleby Studley—the sketch was in her style—the same style as most of the paintings and drawings in the tube. And Zo?’s resemblance to this man was unmistakable. As was Izzy’s.

“Zo? must have seen this,” Clarissa said. “So why didn’t she show it to us? She must realize this would prove her paternity.”

“It certainly adds to the evidence,” Race said.

“Maybe it’s too painful to look through her mother’s things. I know that from my own experience,” she told him.

Or maybe she just didn’t want to prove she really was Clarissa’s sister, Race thought. He didn’t understand why that might be, but the girl had run away.

Clarissa pondered it a moment, then set it aside. “Let’s look at the rest.” She started laying out the remaining paintings and sketches.

“Her mother didn’t paint this one,” Race said, indicating a small oil painting on canvas. “It’s by a different hand altogether.” It was of a young blonde woman wearing a shabby blue dress that matched her eyes exactly. She was holding a baby on her lap, a modern-day madonna. In the background there was a window through which was a hazy silhouette of several tall buildings, the tallest with three crooked chimneys.

“I think that might be Zo?’s mother, and Zo? as a baby,” Clarissa breathed. “All these must be very precious to her. Why would she leave them behind?”

Race nodded absently. Where the devil had the girl gone to? London was huge. She could be anywhere.

Betty cleared her throat. “I reckon wherever she was going, miss, she might not have anywhere safe to put them. Better off leavin’ them here, where she knows they’ll be safe.” She gave Clarissa a hopeful look. “Which means, she’s intendin’ to come back at some stage, doesn’t it?”

Clarissa sighed. “Always assuming she can come back.”

“Now stop those gloomy thoughts,” Race said briskly. He stood up. “Fetch your hat and coat, both of you. We’re going out.”

Clarissa gave him a surprised look. “Where?”

“We’ll start with that orphanage she came from. See if they know anything.”

“It’s well after midnight,” Clarissa pointed out. “And you and I are in evening clothes.”

“Ah. Right.” He’d forgotten. “In that case I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning. Eight o’clock all right? They should be up by then.”

“The sooner, the better,” Clarissa said. “Oh, I hope she’s somewhere safe. I hate to think where she might be. London at night…”

“We’ll find her,” Race said with a lot more confidence than he felt.

“It’s that big white building just ahead,” Clarissa said, and Lord Randall signaled to the driver to pull up. He looked tired, and was wearing a smart greatcoat, fastened to the throat, which was odd, since the weather was quite mild. There was, however, a fresh breeze.

The other surprising thing was that he’d come in a hackney cab instead of one of his own carriages, quite a shabby-looking cab as well, but she was too anxious to start the search for Zo? to query it. There was room enough for four inside, which was all that mattered to her. A burly, shabbily dressed man clung on behind, apparently on Lord Randall’s orders.

Lord Randall alighted first and helped her and Betty down. She’d insisted on bringing Betty in case she had a chance to talk to some of the orphan girls while Clarissa spoke to the matron.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Lord Randall asked.

“Quite sure.” She had to do this by herself.

They entered the building and Clarissa asked to speak to Miss Glass. The woman ushered Clarissa into her office, leaving Betty in the hallway, as they’d hoped. Clarissa explained what she wanted.

Miss Glass looked smug. “So she’s run away, then? I told you that girl would bring you nothing but trouble.”

“There’s no trouble,” Clarissa said crisply. “I just need the address she was living at before she came here. The address where she was when her mother died.”

“That’s not possible. My records are private.”

“As her employer, I think you owe it to me to provide all relevant details. At once, please. Time is of the essence.” Zo? had been out all night, staying God knew where.

Secure behind her big wooden desk, Miss Glass shrugged. “I can’t help that. As I said, my records are private. I can’t go giving out details to whoever asks for them.”

“I’m not any ‘whoever,’?” Clarissa snapped. “You were perfectly willing to hand over the girl to me when we came here first, so what possible objection can you have for furnishing me with details of her past?”

The woman sat back in her chair and pressed her fingertips together. “Rules are rules.”

Clarissa wanted to scream in frustration. The woman was infuriatingly obdurate, and Clarissa knew, she just knew that it was just to be difficult. There could be no possible reason why Zo?’s former address should be kept from her.

A shadow darkened the doorway. Miss Glass’s eyes widened, and Clarissa turned. Lord Randall stood in the doorway. To Clarissa he said, “I’m sorry, my dear, but I don’t like to keep the horses standing about in this wind. Did you get the address?”

“No, because this woman refuses to give it to me.”

He looked at Miss Glass and arched an eyebrow. “Introduce us if you please, my dear.”

The public endearments surprised her, as did the request. “Miss Glass, this is Lord Randall.”

“Miss Studley’s betrothed,” he added.

Miss Glass rose and came out from behind her desk. “Lord Randall, this is an honor.”

“Indeed.” He smiled down at her and the woman bridled, smoothing her skirt self-consciously. Clarissa watched. The rake at work.

“Now, Miss Glass,” he almost purred, “you cannot provide the address—the former address—of Zo? Beno?t, one of your charges—a former charge? Surely you keep records.”

“Yes, of course, but there are rules,” she said.

“One little address? I could, if you prefer, speak to my friend Sir Cedric Greenspan, who I believe is one of the governors of this establishment—I saw his portrait in the hall. He’s a busy man, I know—his son and I went to school together—but of course if there are rules…”

Miss Glass compressed her lips. “No, of course, there is no need to bother Sir Cedric over such a small matter.” She pulled a heavy ledger from a desk drawer and flipped the pages over. She propped a pair of pince-nez on her long nose and consulted it. After a moment she huffed. “Well, it seems she’s not listed here, see?”

She turned the ledger around so Clarissa and Lord Randall could see, and indeed, there was no Zo? Beno?t listed.

“Try looking under Susan Bennet,” Clarissa said. “Zo? said you claimed her real name was foreign and outlandish and you changed it to Susan Bennet.”

The woman gave her a sour look and brought up another page. “Oh yes, here she is,” she said, feigning innocence. “Crookneedle Lane.”

Lord Randall grimly made a note of it. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Glass. Come, Miss Studley, let us be off.”

They collected Betty and climbed into the carriage. Lord Randall gave the driver directions and climbed in after them.

“That woman!” Clarissa exclaimed crossly as they drove off. “And you! Of course she was all helpful compliance when you swanned in with your title and your charm—and your old school friend.”

He laughed. “I never met Sir Cedric Greenspan in my life. Or his son, if there is such a person.”

She turned to him. “But you said…”

“I saw the fellow’s portrait in the hall—there was a brass plaque with his name under it, and I took a gamble. It worked, didn’t it? Why are you so cross?”

Because she’d wanted to handle it herself, and she’d failed. If it hadn’t been for his interference, they would have come away with nothing, so it wasn’t reasonable that she was cross. But she was. And she was worried about Zo?.

“Did you find out anything, Betty?”

“Just that she used to talk about artists living there, miss.”

Lord Randall nodded. “Yes, that sounds about right. I’ll drop you two home first and then—”

“What? We’re not going home. We’re going to look for Zo?.”

“No.” He waved the slip of paper with the address on it. “This is a most insalubrious district. It’s not fit for a young lady—or her maid.”

“Then it’s not fit for Zo?, either, and we’re going to get her out of there as soon as we can.”

“It’s too risky. You don’t even know she’s there.”

“Then the sooner we go and look for her, the better. I’m not going home. And if necessary I’ll walk to this Crookneedle Lane or if it’s too far I’ll take a hackney cab myself.” Clarissa crossed her arms and glared at him.

“Me, too,” Betty said.

He rolled his eyes, gave Clarissa a long look, then got the driver’s attention and gave him the address. “But you’re not getting out of the carriage,” he told her.

She shrugged, not committing herself.

“I’m serious, Clarissa. Neither you nor Betty know London very well, and you have no idea how dangerous some of those districts can be. Now, where Zo? lived isn’t the worst of them, but it’s far from a wholesome environment—no don’t argue, I know you don’t want her to stay there a moment longer than necessary—if she’s even there. Neither do I. But either you promise to obey me in this or I turn the carriage around and head straight back to Bellaire Gardens.” He seemed in deadly earnest.

“Oh, very well,” she said crossly after a minute. “I promise.” But it went against the grain to just sit and wait tamely in the carriage with her maid while Lord Randall ventured into possible danger, searching for her sister.

He leaned forward and took her hands. “I know it’s hard, love, but it’s bad enough that your sister is lost. I couldn’t bear it if you were lost or put in danger, too.” His voice was low and sincere, and the look in his eyes…She felt tears welling, and looked out the cab window, fiercely blinking them away.

She sighed. “I’ll be good.”

The hackney cab turned and suddenly it was almost as if they’d passed into another country, passing from wide, fairly respectable-looking streets into a maze of streets that became ever narrower and dirtier. The carriage rattled over the cobbles, slowing for handcarts and people and the occasional dog. The buildings here were ancient and mean, squashed crookedly together as if they’d grown there over the centuries, which she supposed they had.

They were not far from the river: Clarissa could smell it. It was not all she could smell; there was also the odor of human refuse and rotting garbage that lay in gutters and piled in corners where rats nosed through it, unperturbed by the presence of people.

She shivered.

It was a sunny day, but the buildings were so close together and the streets and alleyways so narrow that sunlight barely touched the people on the ground. They were thin and ragged looking and somehow hard-faced—or was it hardship she could see reflected in their faces? She could see several cripples—returned soldiers by the look of them, begging in the street. Scrawny children clad in rags ran about in screaming flocks like wild creatures.

And this was where Zo? had lived as a child? Where her young mother had come after fleeing the Terror in France. From some aristocratic mansion or castle to this? However had she managed?

The carriage slowed, and Lord Randall unbuttoned his smart greatcoat and shrugged it off. Clarissa blinked at what he was wearing underneath—shabby, stained buckskins and an old, scuffed pair of boots, a coat that was loose and somewhat faded, and a neckcloth tied in a simple knot, instead of his usual sophisticated style.

Catching her look, he said, “It doesn’t do to stand out in this part of London.”

Judging from the people she could see from the carriage, he would fit right in. Now she understood the choice of the run-down carriage.

The carriage came to a halt in front of a crooked alleyway, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. “It’s down there, guv’nor,” the driver said.

Lord Randall picked up a steel-headed cane that had been sitting unnoticed in the corner of the carriage, and turned to Clarissa. “My man will stay with you and Betty. The driver is in my employ as well, but don’t leave the cab.” Before she had a chance to respond he kissed her swiftly and jumped lightly down onto the street.

She watched through the cab window as he approached person after person, showing them the drawing of Zo?—to no avail. They had only a street name, so Zo? could be in any one of these ramshackle buildings. Or in none of them.

He approached an old woman sitting on a step and smoking a pipe. Scraggly white elf-locks poked out from under a rag tied around her head. He showed her the portrait, and like all the others, she glanced at it, shrugged and shook her head.

Lord Randall moved on, but as Clarissa watched, the old woman watched him go, then took the pipe out of her mouth, replaced it with two fingers and emitted a shrill whistle. An urchin came running. She said something to him, and he nodded.

Intrigued, Clarissa watched as the boy disappeared through the shadowed doorway behind her. What had the old woman told him?

Minutes passed. Clarissa kept watching. Then the boy peered out of the doorway, looked cautiously around and beckoned to someone inside. A slender figure appeared wearing a shabby hooded cloak, a small bundle clutched to her chest. She darted out into the laneway and Clarissa gasped. She couldn’t see the girl’s face, but she recognized the way she moved.

In seconds she’d flung herself out of the hackney cab and was running down the street in pursuit. “Zo?!” she cried. “Zo?!”

The figure darted down a skinny walkway.

“Zo?, stop!” yelled Clarissa, following. The figure paused and looked around. “Zo?! It’s me, Clarissa.”

Zo? glared at her. “What are you doing here, Clarissa? Don’t you know it’s dangerous—”

Reaching her, Clarissa flung her arms around Zo?. “If it’s dangerous for me, it’s dangerous for you. How could you leave us like that? I’ve been so worried—we all have. Don’t you know we love you? Come home with me now, please.”

Zo? shook her head adamantly. “I’m no good for you, Clarissa. I don’t fit into your fancy world, and I never will.”

“Do you think I care about that? I care about you!” Clarissa hugged her sister again.

“But society people—”

“Pooh to society people!”

“Miss,” Betty said in a low voice. “Miss, behind you.”

Clarissa glanced impatiently around and saw half a dozen rough-looking men closing in around them.

One of them smiled at her with a mouthful of yellow, rotting teeth, his eyes running over her in a way that made her feel dirty. “Look’t the pretty birds in their fine feathers. They’ll fetch a good price for us, eh, lads?”

Clarissa looked frantically around for help—where were the men Lord Randall had hired? But the hackney cab was around several corners and out of sight.

Zo? stepped forward, shoving Clarissa behind her. “Leave us be, Jake,” she said.

He snorted. “You don’t belong here anymore, girlie.”

“You think?” Zo? said, and without warning she opened her mouth and let out a shrill, ululating sound. It sent a shiver down Clarissa’s back. Before the uncanny sound had even died away, urchins appeared from everywhere. They pelted rotten vegetables and fruit at the men, who swore and ducked and made horrible threats.

“Are these fellows bothering you, Miss Studley?” Lord Randall appeared from behind them. He twisted the handle of his cane and pulled out a sword. His smile was cold as he said, “Now, gentlemen, who wants the first taste of my steel?” He lunged forward, swishing the sword.

The men edged back. “Come on, he’s only one man,” the leader snarled, wiping a splat of rotten fruit off his face.

“You go first then, Jake,” another one said. A chunk of something yellow dribbled down his front.

Seconds later the burly guard appeared, panting, from behind the thugs. He grabbed one of the brutes by the collar, flung him backward hard against a wall and shoved through the gap he’d made in the ring of ruffians to stand with Lord Randall in front of the girls, brandishing a short wooden cudgel. Over his shoulder he said to Clarissa, “Sorry, miss, lost you for a moment there.”

“Two of them now,” one of the thugs said, brushing rotten fruit off his face. “And I don’t like the look of that big bruiser.”

“Yeah, s’not worth it,” said another.

In seconds the men melted away. The gang of urchins loitered. Lord Randall sheathed his sword-stick, put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Thanks for your help.” He tossed the coins to the children, who scrambled to collect them.

He turned to Clarissa and snapped, “Into the hackney cab—now!”

“I found Zo?,” Clarissa said unnecessarily. She was still holding on to Zo?’s hand, worried she might run off again.

“So. I. See.” He seemed furious.

They returned to where the cab was standing. “Couldn’t leave it untended, milor’. Not in a place like this,” the driver began apologetically. Lord Randall impatiently waved his excuses away. He opened the door. “Get in,” he told them curtly.

“Just a minute,” Zo? said, and ran down to where the old woman with the pipe was sitting.

Clarissa went to follow but Lord Randall caught her arm and stopped her. “If she doesn’t want to come, she’s not going to stay,” he told her. “She’ll only run away again, and this time we might not be so lucky.”

He was right. She couldn’t force Zo? to stay. Clarissa bit her lip as Zo? bent over the old woman. To her amazement, after a brief word, Zo? hugged her. Then she returned to where they were standing beside the carriage.

Zo? stared defiantly up at Lord Randall, who was scowling. “I’ve known Old Moll all my life. She didn’t know who you were and didn’t trust you. So she warned me to hide.”

Without a word, Lord Randall strode down the alley toward the old woman. Zo? tensed, but Clarissa put a hand on her arm, saying, “It’s all right. He won’t hurt her.”

“How do you know? Din’t you see his face? He’s bloody furious.”

“I know, but he won’t hurt her, I’m sure of it.” Clarissa didn’t know how she knew that Lord Randall would never harm a woman, but she had no doubt of it.

Whatever he said to the old lady was brief, but he flipped something to her that she caught, something that glinted in the light, and then he marched back to the carriage. “Bellaire Gardens,” he snapped to the driver. He flung himself inside and the cab moved off.