Dalia tugged off her gloves as she stood in the foyer of her home, listening for voices that might tell her where everyone was. “Is mother home, James?” she asked the footman.

“I believe she’s upstairs resting, miss.”

She’d prefer avoiding her mother until she had time to calm from her unsettling afternoon. Hiding her feelings was never easy, but of late, she’d had much practice.

Her dissatisfaction with life felt petty after what she’d seen in the East End. The question was how could she get Ruth to see the trouble Betty and her crazed ideas would cause?

She left her reticule and gloves on the foyer table and peeked into the drawing room. Her sister, Violet, just one year younger than her, sat before the window with her needlework.

Dalia eased back, hoping to postpone a conversation with her as well. She was far too inquisitive.

“Dalia, is that you?” Violet asked.

With a sigh, Dalia moved into the doorway and pasted on a smile. “Yes. I’m going to run up to my room.”

“Where’s Ruth? I was hoping to have her assistance.”

“It’s her half-day.”

Violet frowned. “Weren’t you out with her just now?”

Dalia stiffened, wishing Violet hadn’t remembered that. “I was, yes.”

“Didn’t she return with you?”

“No, I-er-I left her with her cousin on our way home.”

“Where?”

Trust Violet to ask too many questions. Dalia cast her thoughts for an answer. “Just off Bond Street.”

“Truly?” Violet paused in her embroidery to look at Dalia. “What did she intend to do there?”

Frustrated, Dalia moved into the room. “How should I know? What she does on her time off is hardly any of my business.”

“But—”

“What are you working on? I like the colors you’ve selected.” She bent to closer examine the cloth. Anything to encourage Violet to change the subject. Her sister was relentless in her pursuit of answers.

“Why, thank you. It’s a handkerchief for Mother for her birthday.”

“That’s months away. You’re working on it already?”

Violet nodded. “I don’t like to wait until the last minute.”

“I wish I had your talent for needlework.” Dalia couldn’t help the tug of envy. She wished she had a talent of some sort. Violet had her needlework. Lettie had her work with neglected children. Rose’s gift involved planning social events, a handy trait considering she was now a duchess.

Even Holly had a knack for fashion, especially when it came to hats.

Dalia couldn’t name one thing at which she excelled. No doubt that was one of the reasons she was interchangeable with her sisters—she lacked any quality that made her special.

She ran a finger along the clever embroidered flower petals her sister had created. “Lovely.”

Violet gave a delicate sniff as Dalia leaned closer. “Where did you say you’d been? You have the strangest odor about you.”

Dalia jerked back, guilt pouring through her. “Really?” She ran a hand along the front of her skirts, realizing too late she couldn’t rid herself of any smell that way.

Violet studied her closer, and Dalia could see the additional questions forming in her eyes.

“I’ll go change before Mother notes it.” Dalia smiled. “That truly is a pretty piece.”

Before her sister could respond, she left the drawing room and hurried up the stairs, hoping she didn’t encounter anyone else along the way.

But of course, her mother stood at the top of the stairs. “There you are, dear. Where have you been?”

“I was shopping.”

“Oh? What did you purchase?”

“Nothing. The shop didn’t have what I was looking for.”

“What were you in need of?”

Dalia clenched her jaw. Since when had everyone in her family become so inquisitive of her movements? “Nothing special. What are your plans for the afternoon?”

Within a few short minutes, Dalia reached the solitude of her room. That was until Holly, the youngest sister, arrived. Without bothering to knock, she opened the door, keeping her hand on the knob.

“Violet says you’ve been up to something.”

“Whatever are you speaking of?” Dalia shook her head as she opened the door of her wardrobe.

“She also says you smell funny. Where were you?”

“I must’ve encountered someone peculiar smelling on the street.”

Holly tilted her head to the side, considering her. “I don’t believe you. In fact, you’ve been acting oddly of late.”

“Your imagination has gotten away from you. Surely you have something better to do with your time than watch me select a different gown.” She drew a long, deep breath to keep herself from demanding her sister leave. Holly’s stubborn streak was well known. She’d leave quicker if Dalia didn’t order her to do so.

“Not really.” She plopped down on a bench at the foot of Dalia’s bed. “I’m rather bored.”

“No new books to read?” Her sister loved to read, devouring books far quicker than the rest of her family.

“Mother says I cannot buy any more for at least a week.”

Dalia couldn’t help but smile at her despondent tone. She sounded as though she’d lost her best friend. “You could ask to go to the lending library.” At Holly’s look of disbelief, she added. “The time will pass more quickly than you think.”

“So where did you go?”

“Do you want the truth?”

Her sister’s eyes widened as she quickly nodded. She adored any hint of intrigue.

Dalia had no intention of telling her much, but perhaps a piece of it would satisfy her. “I only wanted a bit of time alone with Ruth to discuss a few things she’s mentioned of late. Her cousin, Betty, tells her the strangest things.”

“Like how one shouldn’t look in a mirror if someone in your family died as they might not pass to heaven?”

“I didn’t hear that one. I was referring to the things that might find trouble for Ruth. Betty’s advice is not always sound, but Ruth seems to believe every word she utters is the absolute truth.”

“And? Did Ruth understand?”

“She didn’t say one way or another, but I hope she’ll think twice next time Betty tells her something.”

“I’ll encourage her to do the same. Perhaps if we both do so, the message will sink in.” Holly traced the pattern of the embroidered coverlet on the bed. “Do you think she’s happy here?”

“Are any of our servants?” Dalia asked, surprised her sister had such a thought. She paused in her search for a different gown to face Holly.

“Actually, yes, I think several are. Cook for one. The butler and the housekeeper as well. It seems to me the younger ones are often unhappy.”

“Becoming a servant used to be a coveted position. I suppose they have more choices for occupations than ever before.”

“I think Ruth needs a man.”

Dalia nearly choked, needing to clear her throat before she could respond. “What makes you say that?”

Holly lifted a shoulder. “Look at Lettie and Rose. They are both much happier since they married.”

“You have a point. They’re certainly more cheerful.” Thinking about men brought to mind Spencer. How had she so easily dismissed him until now? She shook her head. Because he infuriated her. How could she have forgotten?

She couldn’t imagine him seeking a woman of loose morals to satisfy whatever manly needs he might have. Then why had he been at the Argyll Rooms? Added to the mystery had been his appearance. From his hat to his shoes, his frayed and worn clothing was nothing like he normally wore. She supposed some lords visited there, but why would he do so in the middle of the day with that attire?

Even more puzzling was her reaction to him. Surely the odd breathless feeling she’d experienced had only been a result of her nervousness at the situation. She’d felt out of her element.

No doubt the next time she saw him, all would have returned to normal and these unwelcome feelings would disappear. Funny how the thought didn’t please her as much as she’d expected.

Spencer rose from his desk at the Intelligence Office to glance out the window overlooking Whitehall. The street bustled with activity. He sighed, annoyed at his lack of concentration since he’d left Dalia—rather Miss Fairchild—near her home.

He had a stack of reports and correspondence that required his attention, some of it quite urgent, yet he could only see blue eyes looking back at him. Blue eyes with gold flecks, to be specific. Framed by long lashes. And brows that arched gently. Lips that made him think of—

With an oath, he spun away from the window. He’d been around Miss Fairchild countless times. She irritated him almost always, including during today’s unexpected encounter.

Yet he couldn’t deny the other emotions he’d felt.

Still felt, if he were completely honest.

Had it been merely his urge to protect her? Or some strange shift from anger to admiration at the risk she’d taken to follow her maid? He appreciated her wish to help Ruth. Few—if any—ladies of his acquaintance would bother. Why would they when a servant could be easily replaced?

He shook his head. The reason for his distraction didn’t matter. He needed to eliminate it.

Focusing on the task Prime Minister Gladstone had assigned him was of far more importance than worrying about Miss Fairchild and her maid.

Jack McCarthy had been at the top of their list of criminals for some time now. Captain Hawke, Dalia’s brother-in-law and his friend, Viscount Frost, had managed to put away McCarthy’s competition last year.

Unfortunately, with him out of the way, McCarthy had stepped in to fill the void, becoming even more powerful. The man dabbled in everything from shipping and selling stolen goods to supplying explosives to anarchists to running prostitute rings. In fact, there wasn’t much the man didn’t do.

This particular project held a special significance for the prime minister. Gladstone rarely slept well. For decades, he’d spent many nights walking the streets of London. He’d made it a personal mission to attempt to reform fallen women over the years but with limited success.

While Spencer understood Gladstone’s concern for the welfare of women forced into prostitution, Spencer felt they needed to focus more on the reason women became prostitutes. Often, it came down to a matter of survival.

Jobs for women were scarce, even in these modern times, especially ones that paid a decent wage. If a woman had no husband, and sometimes even if she did, she needed to work to help put food on the table and keep a roof over her family’s heads. Very few occupations paid enough for room and board.

However, the challenge of creating better paying jobs for females was out of Spencer’s power.

Instead, he was tasked with the other part of the equation—eliminating the men controlling the prostitution business.

Men like Jack McCarthy. McCarthy made money from prostitution of all sorts, ranging from brothels that catered to aristocrats to those who welcomed men of simple needs to the ladies who walked the streets in rough neighborhoods, willing to step into an alley for the right price.

Spencer doubted the possibility of eliminating prostitution completely. It was a business as old as time. But McCarthy placed a nasty spin on it that had gained Gladstone’s attention.

McCarthy often forced young girls into the life. He stole them from the streets of London or bought them from their desperate parents. He had men offer young women who spoke only broken English a “helping hand” when their boats landed at the docks from foreign shores.

McCarthy then either placed them in brothels or on the streets or shipped them to other countries where they were sold. The poor girls had no chance of returning home.

It was one thing for a grown woman to choose to sell her body to a man willing to pay for it. But taking a young girl and stealing her life to line McCarthy’s pockets enraged Spencer.

The more he dug into McCarthy’s activities, the angrier he became. The man was like an octopus, with tentacles in far too many businesses, each worse than the last.

While not easy to bring him down, when they did, organized crime would receive a major blow. With luck, it would send a message throughout the underworld that even the king of criminals could be caught and thrown in jail. Good triumphing over evil. The very idea had Spencer smiling in satisfaction.

And maybe, just maybe, they would show criminals that running prostitution rings was no longer profitable.

One could hope.

Spencer had only to remember the faces of the young girls he’d seen on the street that afternoon to regain his focus on the monumental task before him. The idea of any of them being forced to have sex with several men each night made him ill.

If Spencer could save even one girl, all this work would be worthwhile. And if he could help put an end to McCarthy’s prostitution business, even better.

Thus far, he’d managed to discover one of McCarthy’s men who oversaw the prostitution side of the business. Charlie Pruett had a combination of street smarts and business savvy that had earned him a place at McCarthy’s side. Putting Pruett in prison would leave a hole in McCarthy’s organization that would make it easier to build a solid case against McCarthy himself.

Spencer welcomed the challenge though doubt wiggled into his confidence, mainly in the form of his father’s voice.

“What do you think you’re about? Who are you to take on a criminal mastermind?”

His father hadn’t actually said those things as he didn’t know much about Spencer’s work but the voice of doubt in Spencer’s mind sounded just like his father’s.

Spencer would never fill his brother’s shoes in his father’s eyes. Perhaps in Spencer’s own eyes as well. Though he told himself he didn’t want to, it was impossible not to compare himself to his brother.

Edward Campbell had been Spencer’s senior by five years. He’d forged his own path beginning at university by breaking rules. He preferred to think of them as guidelines, if even that.

His reckless behavior had driven Spencer mad. In the end, it had been that very behavior that had gotten Edward killed. Being proven right didn’t make Spencer feel any better. But it did make him more determined than ever to uphold the law. His position at the Intelligence Office had seemed a perfect fit.

However, in the past months, he’d found the drudgery of the paperwork and reports unsatisfying. When the Earl of Aberland sought to unravel a plot to destroy the Royal Albert Hall, Spencer had been eager to help.

He wasn’t certain how much actual assistance he’d been in preventing what would’ve been a terrible tragedy, but the entire affair had been invigorating. The surge of energy, the fine balance between fear and determination, the danger, along with Aberland’s urging had all convinced Spencer the time for field work had come.

The problem was that the rules were much less clear when he wasn’t behind his desk. Relying on his “instincts,” as Aberland referred to them, seemed ridiculously risky. He didn’t trust them, not when they were still unproven, despite the fact that Aberland believed in him. Spencer had yet to separate logical conclusions from the gut feeling the earl described.

His brother had also relied on his instincts and look where those had landed him.

Life had been much simpler before Edward’s death. His father had always gazed at him with disappointed eyes, but now his displeasure felt far worse. The resigned acceptance he often expressed irritated Spencer.

Putting away Charlie Pruett, followed closely by Jack McCarthy, would go a long way toward giving Spencer the belief in himself he needed to continue working in the field, and perhaps even gain his father’s approval.

Though he didn’t know why he bothered to try.

Of course, his work would end when his father died, and Spencer inherited.

Unfortunately, Miss Fairchild’s interference had set him back in his mission. Perhaps her experience at the Argyll Rooms had convinced her to stay far away. For some reason, he thought that unlikely.

As he settled behind his desk once again and drew the stack of papers closer, all he could see was a pair of brilliant blue eyes. He blinked several times, hoping it would pass, and focused on the first report.