Dalia sighed in relief as she opened her bedroom door with the heavy boots in hand. She’d taken great care to be quiet as she hadn’t wanted to risk alerting Holly or any of the servants that she’d returned home. That was no easy feat, even at this time of night. The rest of her family should still be out.

While she’d originally held higher hopes for results, her adventure had been more of a win than she first realized. She’d gotten to see Cremorne Gardens and absorb the atmosphere. Even more amazing, she’d spoken with a prostitute. Never mind that the woman had offered her services to Dalia.

That was actually fortunate if viewed in the proper light without Spencer’s outrage sounding in her ear. Now Dalia knew exactly how a woman might offer herself for hire.

The excitement in the air at Cremorne Gardens had been a lure in itself. She now understood why people enjoyed going there and how it could cause some to loosen their inhibitions.

She carefully closed her bedroom door behind her, blinking to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The distinct sound of a match being struck followed by the flare of a light cutting through the dark caused her to gasp.

The flickering flame revealed Holly’s face as she lit the candle on the desk. “Where have you been?”

“Shh,” Dalia warned. Though relieved her mother or father wasn’t asking that question, there was no promise that Holly wouldn’t tell on her.

“No one is yet home. But the moment Mother returns, I intend to tell her you were gone the entire evening.” Holly rose, her mouth gaping as she took in Dalia’s clothing. “What on earth are you wearing?”

“Now, Holly, don’t jump to conclusions. It isn’t what it looks like.”

“I have no idea what this looks like.” She stared at the trousers with something akin to horror. “Where did you go?”

Dalia hesitated, trying to decide how much to tell her. Too much and she truly would run to Mother and Father. Too little and she’d do the same. Somewhere in the middle then, where she had enough details to satisfy her curiosity but not enough that she thought Dalia had taken too much risk.

Holly folded her arms across her chest, a stubborn lift to her chin. “Well?”

Following her instincts despite the fact that those had gotten her in trouble earlier, Dalia said, “I’m still trying to convince Ruth not to leave us.”

“And?”

“I went to a garden that women of that nature frequent.”

“You did what?” Holly’s shock had Dalia closing her eyes.

It hadn’t seemed like such a terrible idea at the time. But how often had she come to that conclusion in the past? Perhaps Spencer was right, and she didn’t think through her plans thoroughly. But Dalia wasn’t about to share that with her sister. Holly would latch onto her guilt and run with it, much like a puppy with a stolen treat from the kitchen.

“I was properly escorted and only there to observe.” She gave a casual wave of her hand, hoping to dismiss Holly’s concern.

“By whom? You didn’t take the new footman again, did you?”

“No.” Had Holly already realized Dalia’s preference to have Jack’s escort so she wouldn’t get into trouble?

“Then who?”

“Viscount Rutland.” Dalia raised her chin, daring Holly to suggest she hadn’t been safe with him.

“You went with a man? Unescorted?” Holly’s mouth dropped open once again.

“Oh, please. He didn’t make any unwanted advances.” Too late, Dalia realized her poor choice of words.

“Unwanted. But he did make wanted ones?”

“Whatever are you speaking of?” What could Dalia do but pretend ignorance? Already she felt her face heat with the memory of Spencer’s embrace. Of his lips pressed against hers. “Holly, where is your imagination taking you? Nothing of interest occurred. I wasn’t gone long. I’ve returned home safely. Calm yourself.”

Her words seemed to have the desired effect on Holly. Her shoulders lowered, and the stiffness of her body eased, but suspicion lingered in her eyes. “I hardly think it was wise or appropriate of you to venture out dressed like that, let alone where you went and with whom.”

“I didn’t do it on a lark. I had good intentions—”

“Do you know how often your excuses start with those words?”

Dalia scowled at her younger sister. “That hurts, especially coming from you. Have you been successful in convincing Ruth not to leave?”

“Well, no, but—”

“I am trying to not only help Ruth but other women in her position. Did you know there are men out there who lure maids just like Ruth into that business? They make false promises of riches only to take the money the women earn for themselves.”

“Truly?”

“Some, yes.” Dalia set down the boots and walked forward to take Holly’s hands. “I know you’re still young, and I know Mother would prefer to keep you sheltered from such things, but if you’d like to borrow the Seven Curses book, I think you’d find it quite enlightening.”

“I’d very much like to read it. But as you said, I don’t know that Mother would approve.”

“It could be our little secret, much like this one.” Dalia gestured to her clothing, hoping her sister would agree.

Holly considered the request for a long moment. “Very well, but do take care, Dalia. Don’t place more value on Ruth or those women than yourself.”

A pang of guilt struck Dalia. Was that what she was doing? In her struggle to find a way to make a difference because she felt unimportant and interchangeable with her sisters, was she going too far? She’d finally found a purpose which provided her a way to feel needed, but in order to continue that, she feared she’d find herself in harm’s way once again.

Despite the warnings of Spencer and her sister, she knew she wanted to continue on this path. For the first time, purpose filled her. Caution was well and good, but she refused to allow it to keep her from her goal.

Spencer entered the Intelligence Office building the next afternoon to write his report from the previous evening. He frequently wrote them here to avoid leaving any evidence as to his activities at home. He never knew when his father might drop by and snoop about his desk or a servant might become overly nosy.

While he’d like his father to know a little more about his work, he didn’t think his current mission would impress him. The notion of fallen women might be near and dear to Prime Minister Gladstone’s heart, but few others cared to acknowledge the problem let alone do something about it.

“Rutland. Good to see you.” The Earl of Aberland rose from a chair as Spencer entered the office. “I was hoping to catch you.”

“How have you been?” Spencer shook the earl’s hand, genuinely pleased to see him. Aberland was a man he’d long admired. They’d worked together on several cases, the most recent being when Aberland had given him a taste of field work.

“Well. Thank you.” Aberland’s smile spoke for itself.

This was a lonely business as it required secrecy. Becoming friends with Aberland eased that significantly.

“And Miss Markham?” Spencer enjoyed asking about Aberland’s fiancée just to see his face light with joy.

“Wonderful.”

Spencer chuckled at his friend’s happiness, ignoring the pang of envy that struck him. “What brings you to the office this afternoon?”

“I thought I’d see how progress goes on your project.”

Spencer studied Aberland. “Did Gladstone ask you to inquire?”

“Of course not.” The earl dismissed the question, easing Spencer’s concern. “I heard additional rumors of McCarthy’s activities and wanted to share those with you. He and several known anarchists have supposedly made a deal that bodes ill.”

“I’ve heard news of the same. McCarthy needs to be stopped by whatever means possible.”

“Which makes your mission all the more critical.”

Spencer updated him on what he’d learned thus far along with his goal of keeping a close eye on Charlie Pruett since McCarthy himself was rarely seen.

“Excellent idea. I’ll keep an ear out from my sources as well,” Aberland promised. “Perhaps Pruett’s efforts have come to the attention of some of the brothel madams I know. They might appreciate the opportunity to help put an end to competition.”

They discussed a few ideas on how to put pressure on Pruett, Aberland’s support of him bolstering Spencer.

“You have your work cut out for you, Rutland. I don’t envy you this project. Then again, none of them are easy.”

“Are you still considering stepping down from your position here?”

Aberland grinned. “I’ve already started the process. I find that my priorities have changed, especially since I’m now planning my wedding.”

Spencer couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to be so happy. When Dalia came to mind, he drew a quick breath. Frustration was what he felt when he was with her. Or was it?

Two days later, Dalia eyed Miss Petrie’s Home for the Rescue of Fallen Women with doubt as it didn’t match her research in the least.

After considering Spencer’s words further, she realized she knew very little of the mission of such a place. Before she rejected the idea of lending her efforts to one, she needed to know more about them.

The two-story, red-brick building was soot-covered and listed to one side. The overall appearance was less than welcoming, and it had obviously seen better days. To Dalia’s mind, the home appeared institutional looking, not to mention that its location near the East End left much to be desired as it seemed too close to where the ladies might be tempted to return to the streets where they could ply their wares.

If Miss Petrie or the founders truly intended to convince women to make a new life for themselves, this place wouldn’t encourage them to do so.

With a nod to Jack, the footman rang the bell near the door with its chipped black paint. They waited for several minutes but no one answered.

“Try the door,” she advised, pleased when it swung open at his touch.

She entered the building and immediately raised her gloved hand to press against her nose. The stench was overwhelming, a repulsive mix of stale sweat and fried food that immediately turned her stomach. Not only did the place need some updates, it needed a thorough cleaning.

A long, narrow desk that matched the exterior of the building—chipped and listing—stood empty just inside the entrance. Two doors led off the front area, but both were firmly closed. Dalia paused when voices sounded from behind one of them.

“I am not staying here any longer,” a woman insisted in a hushed tone.

“Kate, you’ll be back on the streets, working for Charlie, if you leave.”

“That would be better than this place. That old Mr. Stephens had best keep his hands to hisself if he wants the girls to stay.”

“He don’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Then he shouldn’t have taken li’l Nell into the back with him. She was cryin’ when she came out and wouldn’t say a word as to what happened.”

“No.” The horror in the woman’s voice was undeniable. “That’s terrible.”

Dalia hardly knew what to think. The conversation was obviously one they didn’t want overheard, but what choice did she have?

She glanced at Jack, uncomfortable, as she knew he’d heard the discussion as well. “I’ll just knock on the door and alert someone we’re here.”

“I can do that,” he replied and stepped forward.

“From the nature of the conversation, I think it best if I do it.” Who was Mr. Stephens and where was Miss Petrie? The home’s namesake needed to be informed of what was happening in her establishment. Dalia knocked on the door where she’d heard the voices.

The still murmuring women fell silent. Then the door popped open, revealing the rounded face of a young woman perhaps two or three years younger than Dalia.

“May I help ye?”

“I would like to speak with Miss Petrie.”

“There is no Miss Petrie.”

Dalia frowned. “Then I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge.”

“What about?”

“To discover more about this establishment and possibly help.”

“Help with what?” The girl looked her up and down, her expression doubtful as she took in her fine attire with a frown. The look almost made Dalia wish for the boy’s clothing.

“Well, I’m not certain. I wanted to know if there was a specific area with which the home needed assistance.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Why would ye want to do that?”

“Now, Molly, don’t treat our guests so rudely.” The door opened wider to reveal the second woman. This one was a bit older and looked as tired as her worn clothes. “Perhaps you should speak with Mr. Stephens.”

The other girl rolled her eyes in response.

“Well, he’s in charge, isn’t he? He’d want to know the lady was makin’ inquiries.”

“All right. I’ll fetch him.”

The silence drew long as Dalia waited. “Have you been here long?” she asked the woman she assumed was Kate. This might be a rare opportunity to speak with one of the residents of the home.

“Goin’ on two months now.”

“And before that?”

The woman twisted her lips, obviously uncertain if she should answer. “I worked at a brothel off Flower and Dean.”

“Ah.” Dalia’s excitement rose. If she could gain this woman’s trust and see if she’d answer a few questions, Dalia could make progress on two fronts. “Would you be willing to tell me a little about that?”

“I don’t know.” Her suspicion had Dalia scrambling to think of a way to convince her to agree.

“I’d be willing to pay for your time.”

The offer only seemed to make the woman more suspicious. “You’d give me money to answer questions? Why?”

Dalia debated how to answer, deciding a portion of the truth would be best. “I know someone who is looking into...that line of work. I don’t think she’s considering all aspects of it. Only certain ones. Mainly the compensation.”

Kate scoffed. “Only a few manage to make good money at it. And even fewer of those keep their money.”

“How do you mean?”

“If you’re not used to havin’ it, it slips through your fingers on this and that. Before you know it, it’s all gone.” She snapped her fingers. “I’ve seen that happen time and again.”

“Did that happen to you?”

The woman looked over her shoulder as though to make certain no one listened then sent a cautious look at Jack. “Three times. Each time I swore it wouldn’t, but some fancy bauble would catch my eye, or a friend would need a coin or two to get her out of a tough spot.” She shook her head. “Before I knew it, my nest egg was gone. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to live like that no more.”

“I can certainly understand that.” Dalia nodded in sympathy.

Kate leaned close. “I’m not sure this place is the answer.”

“Oh?” Dalia could hardly believe how much the woman was sharing. This conversation was completely different than the one she’d had the other night.

“I can’t say more.” She glanced behind her again. “But maybe we can talk again after you speak with Mr. Stephens.” Her expression turned apologetic. “I could use a few extra coins if you were serious about payin’ me.”

“I am quite serious. Please come and find me after I converse with Mr. Stephens.”

An older man with an oddly cropped black fringe of hair and an ill-fitting suit came toward them. The woman glanced at him then bobbed a quick curtsy and hurried down the hall.

“Good afternoon, miss. I’m Mr. Stephens. I understand you have some questions for us.” The man’s smile was not only forced, but his yellowed teeth made the attempt unpleasant.

From his mannerisms alone, Dalia would hesitate to trust him. When he stepped close, Dalia couldn’t help but draw back at the odor. It seemed as if the source of the place’s stench was him. “I was hoping to learn more about your work here.”

“Come into my office, and we’ll discuss it.”

“Jack,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “come along.”

“Oh, well, I suppose he can join us.” Mr. Stephens eyed the tall form of Jack with some trepidation. “My office is this way.”

Pleased the footman was with her, Dalia followed the man along the narrow hall. Even without overhearing the women’s conversation about Mr. Stephens, she didn’t think she’d care to be alone with him. She suppressed a shiver at the thought, wondering what had happened to Nell at his hands.

His office was a narrow room, apparently near the kitchen based on the increase in the odor. Jack wrinkled his nose at the smell as well when Dalia looked at him.

“Right this way. I’m afraid I don’t have a chair for your servant.”

“No need, sir.” Jack took up the entire doorway, folding his hands before him as though prepared to wait as long as necessary.

She took a seat in the rickety chair before the desk. “Might I ask what happened to Miss Petrie?”

Mr. Stephens’ lips formed into a narrow line. “The name was developed to give potential residents and financial donors a homier feeling.”

It seemed wrong to begin such relationships on a false note, but Dalia kept her opinion to herself. “I’m interested in learning more about the work your establishment does for fallen women.”

“How kind of you. May I ask the nature of your interest?” He twisted his fingers before him, as though anxious to hear her response.

“I’m not certain I understand your question.”

“Do you wish to know how our funding works?” The hopeful glint in his dark eyes gave away his true question.

“That is a possibility, but first I’d like to know what happens if a woman chooses to stay here. What ages do you take?”

“We try to be flexible but have found we have the best success with girls of sixteen to four and twenty. Younger or older women often find their way back to the streets.” He shook his head as though greatly disappointed at the thought.

“Why do you think that is?” Dalia wished she’d brought paper and pen so she could take notes. She feared she wouldn’t remember all the details.

“The younger ones have independence and quick riches on their mind. The older ones are often too set in their ways. Working twelve hours each day at menial tasks such as a maid or a seamstress performs is less than appealing.”

“I’m sure that’s a difficult obstacle to overcome.”

“Indeed. Interviews are conducted before admittance but that doesn’t guarantee success. Some of the women are supporting their families so despite their wishes they’re forced back into the life.”

“How terrible. Do you offer training?”

“They learn domestic skills that provide them a chance for redemption. Of course, having them do some of the work reduces our expenses and allows the donations we receive to go further.”

Interesting how often his conversation turned back to money. Though she supposed it was a never-ending job to raise funds to keep open the doors. Where did the money go if the girls did all the work of their upkeep? The lease on the dilapidated building couldn’t be too expensive, and surely tax rates for the neighborhood were low.

“The women who have been here longer teach the newer ones domestic skills, such as cleaning and sewing.”

“What about reading and writing?”

Mr. Stephens gave her a condescending smile. “What use are those skills to women? It’s difficult enough to get them to learn to sew. Few remain with the lessons long enough to truly master them.”

Dalia had heard her sister talk of a seamstress shop that offered apprenticeships to worthy individuals. Surely learning from someone in the business would be preferable to learning from a resident who’d only recently acquired the skills.

“So you only offer training for work as seamstresses or maids?” Surely there were additional talents women could learn that would prove more satisfactory as well as financially viable.

“Yes, that’s right. Our goal is to ensure our residents are kindly regarded and need never suffer from the want of a kind and helping hand.” A cadence marked his words, making her wonder how often he repeated the phrase.

“I’d like to take a tour of the home and have the chance to speak with some of the women staying here.” She doubted if that would be allowed but wanted to try.

“That isn’t possible.” Mr. Stephens frowned as though terribly disappointed he couldn’t comply. “Our residents are treated with respect, and we protect their privacy as much as possible.”

Dalia rose, shaking her head with regret. “I understand. Perhaps one of the other homes not far from here would better suit my wish to help.”

“Now, now, let us not be hasty.” Mr. Stephens stood as well. “Perhaps an arrangement can be made.”

Dalia hid a smile. “I wouldn’t want to break any rules, but I don’t see how I can offer my assistance without a closer look.”

“If you could describe the sort of assistance you’re considering, I might know how to better direct your visit.”

As she sank back into her seat, she wondered if she should’ve more closely considered the purpose of the visit prior to coming. In truth, she didn’t have any idea what help she could provide. Although she had a modest dowry, she certainly didn’t have funds of her own. She couldn’t imagine asking her father to contribute money toward such a place. But that didn’t mean she was ready to abandon her mission.

With a deep breath, she considered where to begin her questions. Hopefully an idea would arise that would allow her to help but not force her to share her intention with anyone who’d insist she stop her quest. Funny how Spencer immediately came to mind. Then again, he was far too frequently in her thoughts of late.

“What are your credentials for managing the home and mentoring the women who choose to stay here, Mr. Stephens?”

From the scowl on his face, he didn’t seem to appreciate her inquiry. She smiled and gave him an encouraging nod, determined to find out all she could while she had the opportunity.