Spencer drew his tattered coat collar tighter around his neck, wishing he had a scarf to chase away the chill that had settled in his bones. His waltz at the ball earlier that evening with Dalia was now a distant memory. Even his frustration with her had faded, leaving him with only the warm glow of holding her in his arms. Who knew dancing with her would be so enjoyable?

He’d hoped to seek his bed by now as the church clock had struck two several minutes ago, but his target had yet to make an appearance.

Watching and waiting for Charlie Pruett was something Spencer did three or four times a week, often after attending various balls and parties. Such evening activities made for an extremely long day.

He supposed that was the biggest advantage office work had over field work—more regular hours.

The doorway of a building just off Grandby Street, not far from Waterloo Station, an area notorious for prostitution, lent some protection. The rumor that had reached his ears suggested Pruett often sought new prostitutes in this area to bring into his fold. McCarthy rarely made an appearance near his business endeavors, which was why discovering what Pruett was up to was so important.

Spencer wanted to know if that were true and, if so, how many girls and how often it occurred. Though the idea of Pruett recruiting women who were already prostitutes wasn’t his main concern, learning more about any facet of the business could prove helpful. He needed to know as many of the moving parts as possible in order to determine where best to strike, hence the numerous agents spread amongst McCarthy’s various operations.

But at times like this, when exhaustion tugged at him in equal measure with loneliness, he wondered what purpose he served. The women along the street appeared satisfied enough with their lot in life. Who was he to try to tell them they weren’t?

Only last week, he’d spoken with a woman who’d advised him she nearly had enough money saved from her work on the streets to buy a coffee house. She’d insisted no other occupation would allow her to improve her situation in three short years as prostitution had. Granted, she was an unusual case but a memorable one.

Criminals like Pruett and McCarthy complicated the situation by organizing and expanding it for their personal gain. That was why they were the focus of his mission. But late nights like this one where nothing of note occurred made his attempts feel pointless.

Fog eased its way along the street, lending a mysterious air to the already dangerous area. No doubt it would thicken to the point where navigating the neighborhood became difficult. If possible, he’d like to make his way home before that.

He’d learned within a few hours during his first night here to stand where his back was protected and not to linger directly on Granby Street unless he wanted to be approached time and again by the women working there. He’d been solicited more often that first night than he could count. As his purpose was to observe rather than participate, it was better to do so from a distance. His presence raised fewer questions that way.

Perhaps Pruett wasn’t coming to this particular area this evening. He might be at one of several brothels he ran for McCarthy. Spencer had divided his time between watching those and this area, trying to find a pattern to Pruett’s activities, which would help reveal what his next move might be.

Spencer’s knowledge of how prostitution rings were run was limited, leaving him at a distinct disadvantage. Yet how else could he find out more except by observing? It wasn’t as if there were books on such topics he could study.

That lack put him out here in the middle of a chilly night with the cold and damp seeping down his neck.

“Rutland, is that you?”

Spencer turned to find one of his associates approaching from the shadows. “Searle, what brings you out on this miserable evening?”

Robert Searle had been a clerk in the Intelligence Office for the past six months but made no secret of his wish to do field work. Those who made such decisions had suggested he learn the internal workings before he ventured out. With no experience of any sort, nor any connections that would be of help, his skills were of better use inside.

Spencer had agreed, especially until they could unveil his strengths. His lack of thoroughness had not impressed Spencer thus far. When he’d pointed out several key developments Searle had missed when combing through incoming intelligence reports, Searle had merely used that as evidence that he was better suited for the field.

If he missed details on paper, why would they expect he’d pick up on them when actively pursuing a case?

“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d join you for a time.” Searle glanced about, clearly expecting to see something exciting happening. “I thought you’d be on Granby Street proper. Can’t tell you how many offers I received as I walked the length of it.”

Spencer nearly groaned. The last thing they needed was extra men wandering about in such areas. It would only raise suspicion. “How did you know to look for me here?”

“Oh.” The man’s eyes went wide. “Happened to see it on your report when I walked by your desk.”

Spencer made a mental note to be more careful about what he left on his desk from now on.

“What are we looking for?” he asked, rubbing his gloved hands together in anticipation.

Spencer knew Searle wanted in on this particular project with the hope of getting in Gladstone’s good graces. Doing so would give him an advantage as Gladstone certainly had his favorites. Spencer doubted Searle would ever be one of them based on his actions.

As he didn’t trust the clerk, Spencer decided to share only a minimal amount of information. “We’re interested in finding who’s in charge of groups of prostitutes or trying to recruit the ladies to work in the brothels instead of on the street.”

Searle scoffed. “How can you tell? There are men all over the place.”

“Most of those men are hiring the women for their personal needs.”

“How do you know the difference?”

Spencer turned to stare at Searle, shocked at the idiocy of his question. “Watch them. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

With a beleaguered sigh, Searle studied the dimly lit street just ahead.

Spencer gathered his patience. Had he thought himself lonely? He’d take that over any time spent in Searle’s company. The man was inept and annoying, though Spencer had to admit it increased his own confidence when he compared himself to how little Searle knew. Maybe he had better instincts than he realized.

“What about that one?” Searle asked, pointing to where a man chatted with one of the ladies. “He’s been talking to her for several minutes now.”

Spencer watched the pair, the knowledge that the man wasn’t Charlie Pruett putting Spencer at an advantage. “Nothing but the usual business going on there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Some men prefer a bit of conversation to warm things up.” He had learned far more than he cared to about men and their habits before and after sex. He’d become a reluctant voyeur, not that he intended to share that with Searle. The man could learn certain things for himself.

“I don’t think...” Searle’s voice trailed off as the pair walked away arm in arm. “Humph.”

Spencer repressed a smile. No point in rubbing it in his face.

They watched the activities in silence for a time, Searle asking a few questions now and then. The street quieted as the fog thickened.

“We’ll call it a night,” Spencer advised, more than ready to seek his bed despite the lack of progress.

“Those were wasted hours,” Searle complained.

“They often are but one never knows when something of interest will occur.”

“One should.” The glare Searle cast him nearly made Spencer smile.

The clerk would soon learn that much of the time spent in the field involved waiting and watching with little of note happening. With luck, the man would decide this business was not for him.

“Where are you going next time?” Searle asked as they walked out of the area.

Spencer nearly groaned with dismay. Perhaps he wouldn’t be rid of him so easily after all.

Dalia smiled brightly as she entered the dining room later that morning for breakfast. Her mother, father, and Holly were already seated. “Good morning.”

Holly’s plate was heaped with sausage and toast whereas her mother’s held only a coddled egg.

“Sleep well, dear?” her father asked with a glance at her before returning his attention to the news sheet in his hand.

“Yes, thank you.” She selected a few things from the sideboard while the footman poured tea.

“Did you enjoy yourself last evening?” her mother asked before taking a bite.

“I did. Lovely ball.” Especially since she had convinced Spencer to aid her if necessary. Only a small bit of guilt accompanied the thought. “The Forsythe’s always have interesting guests.”

Never mind that the only one she could remember was Spencer. The memory of their dance caused a lilt in her stomach. He’d been an excellent partner. And a handsome one.

“Didn’t I see you dancing with Viscount Rutland? Such a nice young man.”

Dalia’s stomach tightened. The last thing she wanted was her mother to play matchmaker with the viscount. She’d attempted to do so each time she saw Dalia dancing with anyone she viewed as potential husband material. Dalia detested it. She’d thought that with Lettie and Rose marrying, she’d have some time before her mother urged her to do the same.

Yet since the day after Rose’s wedding, she’d mentioned one eligible man after another to Dalia. When Dalia had protested, she merely smiled and said, “One can’t wait overlong to find the right man, dear. The good ones go quickly.”

Dalia refused to believe such nonsense.

Her father lowered the news sheet. “Isn’t he now the heir?”

“Yes, he is,” her mother said as she set her teacup on its saucer. “Such a tragedy. Lady Yardford hasn’t been the same since. She rarely attends any functions these days, the poor dear.”

When her mother shifted her gaze to Dalia once again, Dalia cleared her throat, ready to argue how unsuited they were. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to find all manner of ways to thrust them together.

But to her surprise, she couldn’t think of a reason. Not after their encounters over the past few days. “He is...nice.” She bit her lip as she waited for her mother to pounce.

“I don’t think he’d be interested in someone like you.”

Dalia had opened her mouth to protest whatever suggestion her mother had that would force her to meet with him only to close it, completely confused. “Why ever not?”

Her mother glanced at her father, but he had retreated behind the news sheet again, whether to avoid the conversation or because he simply hadn’t heard her mother’s remark, she didn’t know.

Holly held her tongue, eyes wide as she listened avidly.

“I understand from his mother that he intends to marry a titled lady since he’ll eventually be earl.”

Dalia processed this information, surprised by it. Marrying a title would’ve been the last thing she’d expect him to do. Such things had never seemed to matter to him. Obviously, she’d been wrong, once again proving she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought.

“How interesting,” she managed at last. That couldn’t be disappointment she felt. More likely, a bad bit of sausage caused the odd sensation. Her appetite diminished, she set down her fork.

If her mother had mentioned this news a few days ago, Dalia wouldn’t have bothered to listen. Funny how such a short time could change her feelings on the matter.

The conversation drifted to other topics, but Dalia couldn’t focus. As quickly as possible, she excused herself and returned to her bedroom.

She’d just picked up a book to distract her from the unsettling conversation when a knock sounded at the door and Ruth entered.

“I’m returning your gown, miss. I believe we’ve managed to remove the smell from it as well as your cloak,” she said with a cautious glance at Dalia.

“Thank you. I can’t imagine what caused it.” Dalia rose to sniff the gown Ruth held. “Much better. Did you suffer the same problem with your attire?”

“Yes, but adding a bit of lemon juice to the rinse water fixed it.” Her manner cool compared to her normal self, she moved to the wardrobe to put away the gown. “Have you decided what you’ll be wearing this evening?”

“Not yet.” She hadn’t thought that far ahead. In fact, she had to pause a moment before she remembered where they’d be going.

“From what Miss Violet said, it sounds like it will be a large gathering.”

They all seemed the same to Dalia but saying so made her feel ungrateful to have the opportunity to attend such events. That wasn’t the problem. She just wanted to do something different. To be more.

To not have to worry about what sort of titled lady Spencer might marry.

She shook her head at the wayward thought.

The one item she’d attempted—convincing Ruth to stay away from her cousin—she’d failed at and seemed to have offended Ruth in the process.

“I’m sorry for giving you such a difficult time with all my questions and comments.” Dalia reached out to squeeze Ruth’s arm, well aware she was to blame for the maid’s reserve. “I only want the best for you.”

“I appreciate that, miss. I truly do. But I need to decide what that is. Not that I don’t enjoy working for you and your family. I suppose some days my thoughts get away from me, and I wish for something more.”

Dalia’s heart squeezed at her words. She could certainly relate to that. Who was she to tell Ruth not to wish for something more? “I understand what you’re saying. I just ask that you consider carefully the cost that such a path might take.”

“I will. That much I can easily promise.” She took a step back. “I had better be going. Mrs. Fairchild has a long list of things she’d like done before this evening.”

“Of course.”

Ruth closed the door behind her.

Dalia knew very well how demanding her mother could be. She hadn’t been aware of the extent of it until Lettie had married Nathaniel.

Letitia, the only one of her sisters not named after a flower as her mother hadn’t come up with that idea until Rose was born, had been part nanny to all her sisters. No one had understood how much so until she’d left.

While Dalia now realized how much Lettie had struggled with being different in so many ways from her sisters, Dalia felt a tug of envy.

Rather than meekly accepting her role in the family, Lettie had forged her own path, taking it upon herself to do something more than aid her sisters in finding husbands. And when she’d found the Seven Curses of London book, an idea had taken hold that she’d pursued.

She’d hidden her determination from her family, convinced they wouldn’t understand. And she’d been right. Even Dalia had thought her behavior ridiculous when she’d finally found out about all of Lettie’s activities.

But now that Dalia was enduring another Season of balls and parties, she understood why Lettie had wanted more.

How ironic that Lettie had longed to be more like her sisters, while Dalia longed to be different. Was this a temporary feeling that would soon pass or something she needed to work through? Could she find an outlet for her restlessness as Lettie had?

Perhaps a visit with Lettie would help her better understand her own thoughts, as well as take her mind off her mother’s news.