“Care to join us for a pint?” one of the day officers asked Simon as he walked through the front doors of the Magistrates’ Court.

Simon gave him a pointed frown. “I’ve just started my shift.”

“You’re not starting your shift,” pointed out one of the others. “You’ve worked ten nights in a row. This is supposed to be your day off. How come you never join us?”

“I don’t drink,” Simon said simply. “And I’m not a member of any clubs.”

He certainly wouldn’t be counting the Cloven Hoof.

“You don’t have to drink,” put in Mr. Webb, his secretary. “Public houses also have hot meals.”

True. Simon glanced into faces of the other men. A few had clearly only invited him out of habit, not because they expected him to suddenly become sociable. Others, like Mr. Webb, stared back at him hopefully. Earnestly. The corner of his mouth curved.

“All right,” he said. “One hour. The kitchen had better rival the prince’s.”

Mr. Webb’s face erupted into a wide grin.

“Prinney adores overcooked pigeon,” he assured Simon. “You’ll ask yourself how you managed to stay away for this long.”

Simon laughed, and allowed his men to lead him to a tavern not far from Bow Street. A roaring fireplace and loud, convivial chatter enveloped them in warmth the moment they stepped inside. Simon followed as his colleagues headed straight for one of the few long wooden tables not crowded with other patrons.

“Welcome to the family,” one of the day inspectors said with a smile as he tilted back on his chair’s rear legs.

“Enter at your own risk,” said one of the others. “We fight like brothers.”

“Drunken brothers,” laughed another.

“Speak for yourself,” called one of the others. “A few of us are civilized, mind you.”

Simon gazed at their animated, bantering faces and the easy way they’d invited him into their fold. Brothers. As if family was not what one was born into, but instead wherever one found it. The thought was dizzying.

Several of the officers ordered food or a pint. Mr. Webb and a few others did not.

Simon turned to his secretary with a raised brow. “Not in the mood for pigeon?”

“A gentleman is always in the mood for overcooked pigeon,” Mr. Webb assured him. “My wife has one waiting at home for me, and will be sorely offended if I do not arrive with sufficient appetite as to repay her kindness in cooking for me.”

Simon’s smile faltered. After all the years he’d worked with Mr. Webb, he had never wondered what his home life must be like. Sure, Simon had known his secretary was a husband and a father, but he hadn’t imagined him eating tough pigeon because it was all that they had.

“You should come by for dinner next week,” Mr. Webb suggested, as he always did. “Perhaps Thursday?”

“Perhaps I will,” Simon found himself agreeing.

His secretary’s eyes lit up. “Truly?”

“May I invite a friend?” Simon asked impulsively.

“The future Mrs. Spaulding?” Mr. Webb’s eyes twinkled.

“A female friend,” Simon allowed grudgingly. “Headmistress at a boarding school.”

Mr. Webb smiled. “Bring anyone you please. I’ll even have Mrs. Webb make pudding with red currants.”

Simon glanced about at the other inspectors. He wondered how many of them had a cook, or at least a small staff. Perhaps all of them. Perhaps none of them. He hadn’t thought to wonder before.

He’d been so focused on the slights and disappointments being a bastard had caused, that he hadn’t considered just how privileged his upbringing might have been. His father’s visits to his mother were intermittent at best, but he had more than fulfilled his obligations insofar as providing his mistress with spending money and paying her bills and her retainers.

Simon had never not had a cook, or at least a multitalented housekeeper. If he were forced to fend for himself in the kitchen, he was unsure he would be able to even overcook a pigeon.

That Mr. Webb had unhesitatingly invited Simon for supper on many occasions led Simon to believe that Mr. Webb’s wife wasn’t nearly as unskilled a cook as his joke would imply. It also meant Mr. Webb hadn’t the least compunction in inviting a guest to a dinner likely to be staffed by few or any servants. Or at least, Mr. Webb didn’t mind inviting Simon.

No matter how focused and task-oriented Simon became, his secretary had never ceased trying to be friends.

The other men were just as amicable, Simon quickly discovered. They regaled each other with stories of encounters on the force, poked fun at each other over laughingly recalled misadventures, and made the afternoon fly by so quickly that two hours had vanished before Simon remembered to glance at his pocket watch.

“Oh-ho!” teased one of the officers. “Spaulding is late for his day off work.”

Simon grinned and shoved his watch back into his pocket. “One of us ought to be half-competent at detecting.”

“You mean because you’re almost lead inspector, is that it?” said another with good-natured ribbing. “I heard the Justice of the Peace say you won’t earn another promotion until you’ve captured the elusive Thief of Mayfair.”

“Nooo,” Mr. Webb moaned, dropping his head theatrically into his hands. “You’ve reminded him of his arch nemesis. Now he’ll never take another hour off.”

“The Justice of the Peace did say my next promotion hinges on finding this thief,” Simon admitted. Worse, there was a ticking clock. Thanks to aristocratic pressure, the Justice of the Peace had given Simon a fortnight to solve the case—or the promotion would go to someone else. “I will catch him. Soon, he’ll make a mistake.”

“Might have last night,” one of the other officers said. “Mapleton came by earlier with a list of names.”

“Phineas Mapleton?” Simon asked.

He supposed it was no surprise. Mapleton had bragged about hosting a dinner party. Such events had thus far proved irresistible to the Thief of Mayfair.

The other inspectors grinned at each other. “Stormed in as red as a tomato, he did. Said either a jealous fop had stolen his globes, or they’d told a rival aficionado where to find them.”

“Globes,” Simon repeated.

He wasn’t certain what was the least likely: that the Thief of Mayfair had managed to walk off with a globe in his arms in the middle of a party, or that Phineas Mapleton was an aficionado of science to begin with. Perhaps this theft was unrelated to the others.

“How many globes were stolen?” he asked.

“Four,” answered one of the officers.

Simon frowned. “What did they look like? What brand? What size?”

“Mapleton hasn’t the least idea,” one of the other inspectors said with a grin. “Seems he kept a count, but not a list. He wouldn’t recognize his own collection if it was sitting right in front of him. Can’t even say for certain that it was last night. Might’ve been weeks ago.”

“There, that should be easy to solve,” said Mr. Webb with a sharp nod. “Go ahead, Inspector Spaulding. Tell us who committed the crime.”

“Your tea leaves can give you as good of an answer as I can,” Simon said with a shake of his head. “If it is the Thief of Mayfair, then it is a worrisome escalation. If it is not the Thief of Mayfair…”

“Then there are two thieves of Mayfair,” breathed an officer in mock awe. “Brilliant work. I shall pen a note to the Justice of the Peace commending your sleuthing skills.”

“Spaulding is never getting that promotion,” sighed one of the others.

“Of course he is,” Mr. Webb said staunchly. “He’s the most brilliant inspector London has ever had.”

“More brilliant than the Thief of Mayfair?” asked one of the others with an arched brow.

“Let’s find out.” Simon pushed to his feet and tipped his hat toward the table. “I hate to leave the party, lads, but I’ve a criminal to catch.”

He smiled to himself as he hurried back to Bow Street. His hunt for the pernicious thief had become more important than ever.

The sooner he caught the man, the sooner Simon would receive his promotion. A larger salary meant more money he could spare to help Dahlia and her school. He was no longer hunting the thief because it was his job.

He was doing it for Dahlia.