“Is that the best you got?” The wiry man with the battered face leaned back against the ropes of the boxing ring and jeered at his opponent. “You’re going down, Giant, see if you’re not.”

His taller, broader opponent threw a vicious punch in reply. It missed by a league, maybe more, Spencer estimated.

He shook his head. From the quality of the fighters in White’s gymnasium, the place was nothing but a front for other activities. Gambling, smuggling, theft. All three, probably.

A rat skittered past, braving a forest of legs for an old bread crust. Cigar smoke drifted above his head, so thick it all but obscured the fighters. Spencer wrinkled his nose. If only that were the worst of it.

Old sweat and dust, layered beneath the newer, sharper odors of desperation, defeat, and fear, reminded him too much of his own youth. He shook off the thoughts. They served no purpose, other than to torment him, or worse, dull his edge.

Filth, and poor fighting aside, the place was packed. For all the brushed and polished society gents crowding around the ring, Spencer would’ve expected the place to smell better, but the choking odors of poverty and desperation overpowered even the wealthy spectators’ pomade and cologne.

Taking care to breathe through his mouth, he looked around, trying to figure White’s game. Boxing rings were sprinkled all over greater London. Swells like these didn’t need to settle for second-rate accommodations. Just how much power did White have that he could lure men of means to such a hovel?

In the ring above, the larger man landed a ferocious blow, snapping his opponent’s head back. Spencer ducked the stream of sweat and blood that arced out over the ropes. Locating White was proving more difficult than he’d expected. He’d tailed the man from his coach into the gymnasium, but lost sight of him in the unexpected crush.

He kneaded the tight muscles at the back of his neck. He was tired of running. Tired of the constant vigilance required. Tired of failing to meet Meena’s ridiculous standards.

He sucked in a breath, choking on the fog of foul odors. Where in the blazing hell had that come from?

They’d started a dalliance. Happened all the time. It wasn’t advisable, but there it was. They took pleasure from each other’s company—each other’s bodies—while it suited them. No promises. No expectations. No attachments.

And yet her disapproval stung.

Bit hard, actually.

Hands buried in his pockets, Spencer balled them into fists. He shouldn’t care. He’d gotten carried away. He could admit that. He never planned on wanting her. Never imagined she’d want him anything but dead, after that fiasco of an engagement.

He kicked a wadded up sweets wrapper under a bench. Damn it to hell, but her disapproval needled him.

A roar from the crowd caught his attention. As he suspected, the smaller, quicker man had made quick work of his stronger, slower opponent.

White climbed up into the ring and raised the unlikely winner’s arm in victory. Spencer shook his head. That small man had been punching far above his weight class. No way a fair fight went his way. It told him everything he needed to know about how Leyland White’s world worked.

His ring. His rules. His profits.

“Congratulations to our victor,” White yelled. Arms high, he strode about the ring, soaking in the raucous cheers, as if he’d earned the victory himself.

Spencer turned away. While the tailored jacket and elaborate waistcoat were no more than White’s own customers wore, knowing such finery was bought with the blood, the broken bones, the despair, of men like the two spent souls now sagging on their stools, made Spencer want to strangle the man.

Once White climbed out of the ring, Spencer stayed to the back of the crowd, keeping himself out of his line of sight. He didn’t think the man would recognize him, but no sense putting that theory to the test.

At the far end of the room now, White hurried up a narrow stairway. Spencer followed, threading his way through the audience. The fighters still hunched in their corners, their battered faces slick with sweat and blood.

At the top of the stairs, a hallway lined with narrow rooms led to the back of the building. White, his large bodyguard, and another man disappeared down the hallway. As far as Spencer could tell from the ground, there was only one hall leading to a few small offices. A stranger would be noticed. He looked around, searching for something to help him create an excuse to follow.

He tore off his jacket, dropped it on a bench next to the wall, and grabbed a worn cap off the peg above. With the greasy cap settled on his head, he rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his vest. A harried clerk might have some business with White. Could be bringing an important message, a piece of mail, or news of an interesting wager to fix.

Posters announcing upcoming matches marched unsteadily along the wall behind him, tacked in place as if by a blind man. With an eye on the crowd, Spencer reached behind and yanked one down. He folded in half, creasing it so it appeared to be a neatly folded missive.

Careful to hold it so the contents were invisible, he climbed the stairs.

He made it three steps before a large hand with a fighter’s battered knuckles, grabbed him from below. “Hey now. Those are private offices.”

Spencer gave an exaggerated start. He touched the edge of his cap. “Apologies, sir. I’ve a message here. A gent by the door told me a Mr. Lester White is upstairs? This is for him.” He waved the paper, careful to keep it out of reach. “I was told it’s important. Confidential, like.”

“Leyland. Mr. Leyland White.” The man released his arm. “Last room on the left. But don’t dawdle about.”

Spencer took the stairs two at a time. Any private meeting was something he wanted to hear. Once on the small landing, though, he saw the upper floor was small, just a narrow hall lined with closed doors.

Nowhere to loiter without reason.

Nowhere to hide.

One door stood ajar. Spencer moved closer and peered inside. A supply closet. With a quick look behind him, he slipped inside. It smelled of bleach and linseed oil. A bucket of brooms and a pile of rags had been thrown in the corner. On a coat hook behind the door, he struck gold. A well-used apron hung from the hook. He slipped out of his vest and pulled it on. Then he grabbed a mop and a dirty rag and headed back out into the hallway.

Voices came from the room that shared a wall with the broom closet. Spencer put an ear to the wall, but the voices were still too faint to make out. He headed out into the hall, pushing the mop in front of him. When he reached the doorway, he pulled the rag from his back pocket, pretending to scrub the baseboards.

He hadn’t planned to find the keyhole at eye level, but he’d be sure to make it seem so when he told the tale.

The keyhole afforded nothing but the narrowest of views. At least he could see White. He and the other man stood at a desk, their backs to him. White’s oversized thug sprawled across a sofa along the wall.

“So he says he won't pay?” White sounded amused.

The other man shook his head.

“No matter. Chesterfield will change his mind once he understands the alternatives.”

Pain seized Spencer’s calves. He winced, shifting his legs to keep them from going numb.

“We have a three fight card going tomorrow,” the man offered. “Chesterfield won’t miss that. He put money on all of ‘em. After the fights, I should bring him up?"

“No!” White barked. “What if he doesn’t cooperate? I don’t want to make any of our other customers uncomfortable. Tell him to stop by The Rose afterward. Much easier to handle him there, should he choose to be difficult.”

The other man bowed. “Very good, sir.”

Spencer jumped to his feet. He pushed the broom to the far end of the hallway and busied himself with dusting the window that marked the end of the building.

He waited until the door opened and both men made their way back downstairs, followed by White’s powerful servant, before he turned around. This Chesterfield had to be one of White’s blackmail victims. But how to prove it? Burke needed solid proof. Mere observation wouldn’t be enough to trump the power of White’s heritage. He wound the thin rag around his fists, jerking it tight over and over again.

How would they prove it?

Ideas tumbled through his brain, each more outlandish than the last. Set Burke up to observe the blackmail first hand? Get this Chesterfield to give evidence?

Annoyed with his lack of imagination, Spencer tossed the rag to the ground and stalked back to the supply closet. He tore off the apron, pulled on his waistcoat, and hurried back down the stairs.

But for two aproned men pushing brooms through the filth on the floor, the gymnasium was empty. White and his crew were on to something else.

When Spencer made it out onto the street, the sun was close to setting. Dusk blurred the harsh lines of the buildings lining the narrow lane.

Spencer shrugged into his coat. White’s carriage was gone, nothing but a pile of horse droppings and an oily puddle rimed with garbage to mark the spot. He could head back toward the man’s mansion, but he wasn’t sure what that would gain them now.

Edison had staked out the townhouse where White kept his latest mistress. Meena and Briar were investigating the man’s social life. Though a bastard by birth, his father had quietly acknowledged him, lending a large amount of social cachet to White’s resume.

Spencer rolled his head back and forth, easing the tension in his neck. His stomach rumbled. White kept fashionable hours, but he’d been at the man’s home since after breakfast. He knew what the man ate, how he treated his servants, and now he knew when and where he’d be blackmailing another victim.

He sighed. No use avoiding it any longer. Meena and her cousins could do a great deal with the information. No time to nurse hurt feelings like some silly school girl.

He could face her.

He could want her, want her passionate moans, want her deep, contented sighs.

And he could ignore the rest, couldn’t he?

* * *

He damn well could ignore her opinion of him, Spencer resolved, as the cab stopped in front of the Sweets’ Pimlico home.

He thrust his bowler on his head and stalked toward the front stairs. Meena didn’t trust him, didn’t even like him, apparently, and she was able to put her feelings aside enough to enjoy their bed play.

He had more experience. When it came down to it, he was much better at separating sex and love than she. Time to act like it.

Hapgood had the door opened before he’d reached the top step, whisking his hat and coat away with his usual efficiency. “Family’s in the dining room this evening. Supper’s on the table.”

The scents of roast beef and fresh baked bread trailed out from the kitchen, urged him on toward the back of the house.

Meena caught his eye the second he entered. Caught his eye, and moved on to study the walls, the table setting, her potatoes and peas, anything but meet his gaze.

He’d hoped to see eagerness, willingness, wanting, when he next saw her. But she seemed completely focussed on arranging bites of roast beef just so around a pile of scalloped potatoes.

Briar, at least, brightened. “Any luck?” She pulled out the empty chair next to her.

Spencer filled his plate and sat. “Possibly. You?”

The girl’s lush mouth turned down in a frown. “None whatsoever.” She looked across the table at her cousin. “The neighbors aren’t sure what to make of our Mr. White, are they?”

Meena shrugged, as if White held no interest at all.

“The ladies are intrigued.” Briar shuddered. “Apparently his aura of danger trumps his utter repulsiveness.” She pressed a hand to her stomach and grimaced. “We’ve had enough tea to last a month, and we’ve nothing to show for it.”

A smile lit Meena’s face. “We did get some rather large donations for Mrs. Hapgood’s orphan’s fund.”

Briar giggled. “We did at that.” She tapped her lips with the back of her fork. “That dreadful aubergine relish dish alone should fund a lovely play area. Maybe three.”

Mrs. Hapgood bustled into the room, a fresh platter of roast and potatoes in her hands.

“I’ll get that.” Briar jumped up to take the heavy tray. She set it in the center of the table. “Edison didn’t find much either.”

The inventor glanced up from his plate. His dour expression told Spencer everything he needed to know. “Man has the usual mistress. Pays his gambling debts promptly. Gets drunk enough to be considered a jolly sport, but not enough so’s to cause trouble.” Edison seized the serving fork and speared a fresh cut of roast. “Absolutely nothing of use.”

Despite his vow, Meena’s disinterest was starting to itch. Like a damned mosquito bite, soon the itch would burn, no matter how much he wished to ignore it.

He could bite back. Would, if he could figure out how. “I may have something.” Spencer took care to address her cousins, and the Hapgoods, who had slid into the seats at the far end of the table.

Mrs. Hapgood froze, the full plate in her hand on its way to her waiting husband.

“I overheard him planning blackmail. Don’t know what they’ve got on the poor bastard, but I know when and where the meeting’ll be.”

Meena sighed. “That sounds lovely, but the inspector won’t be able to take your word for it. He said as much.”

“I agree.” Spencer flicked a glance in her direction. “We’ll need to catch him at it.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. Damn but he was tired. “White’s meeting his mark tomorrow night.”

Edison swallowed a bite of food. “Where are they meeting? That could be our way in.”

Spencer searched his memory. “The Flower… No, The Pansey… No.” Damn it, he couldn’t recall.

“The Black Rose.” Briar slapped a hand on the table. “It has to be the Black Rose.”

“That’s it.” Spencer eyed her curiously.

“It’s one of White’s gaming hells.”

Concern overtook Meena’s carefully constructed indifference. “Who told you that?”

Briar raised her hands, palms up, as if to ward off judgment. “The neighbors have servants, you know. Some of them quite handsome.” She propped her chin in her hand and sighed. “Extraordinarily handsome.”

For the first time, Meena met Spencer’s gaze. She set her napkin next to her plate and leaned forward. “Could we get Detective Burke there? If he could overhear himself—”

Spencer shook his head. Across the table, Sweet was doing the same.

“They probably know him already.” The inventor set his fork on his empty plate. “Even if he could get close enough to observe, his word won’t count for much more than ours.”

Meena squinted at him. “But he’s a peeler.”

Sweet sat back, folding his arms across his chest and grunted. “And this White’s an earl’s son. Who d'you think would win if they went toe to toe?”

Meena looked as if she’d swallowed a slug of pond water. “You’re right. And we’d only be putting a target on Burke’s back.” She straightened. Inspiration brightened her eyes. “Then we’ll persuade his victim to give witness. He must be a man of some means if he’s worth blackmailing. Surely the police would listen.”

Mr. Hapgood patted her hand. “That would be assuming the poor man made it to the station alive. And stayed alive long enough to testify.”

Like a flower low on water, Meena wilted.

Spencer felt like doing the same. It was late. They’d been on their feet all day.

And all they had to show for it was knowledge of a blackmail scheme they couldn’t do a damn thing about. They needed clear, unassailable, unimpeachable proof.

They needed a miracle.

And rest.

Meena was slumped in her seat, head pressed back against the chair, eyes closed. Sweet stared down at his empty plate. Work worn hands clasped together across the table, the Hapgoods looked done in as well. Even Briar seemed uncharacteristically solemn.

“It’s nothing a spot of pudding won’t fix,” Mrs. H announced as she rose from the table. “I’ve got a nice blancmange cooling in the pantry. With berries,” she added, her eyes on Sweet.

The big man beamed. Then he glared across the table at Spencer, his grin dissolving. “Did you make two?”

“That I did.” The housekeeper set off for the kitchen.

The inventor sank back into his seat and stared vacantly at the ceiling. As Spencer watched, his expression sharpened, and he squinted, straining his neck upward as if trying to read something etched in the plaster. The corners of his lips turned up in a smile, a smile that stretched into an all out grin.

Under the circumstances, Spencer wondered what the man found so amusing.

Sweet laughed. “I know how we can get proof, and I can provide the most reliable witness you could imagine.”

Spencer blinked. He caught Meena’s eye across the table. She looked as puzzled as he felt.

She squeezed her cousin’s arm. “You’re certain.”

“Completely.” He slapped a palm to his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of it sooner? I’ve got this machine. We can use it to—”

Metal, porcelain, glass, all smashed together, as if the entire kitchen were being upended.

“You old bitch!” The oath was followed by a tremendous crash, then another. “Bleeding hell!” A male voice shrieked.

“Stay away. You stay away now.” Mrs. Hapgood cried out.

Spencer flew to his feet. They all did. But before they could run to her aid, the housekeeper stumbled back through the doorway, her eyes wide with fear, her mouth set in an angry grimace.

Jamison Ramsay followed close behind. Dollops of blancmange slid off his head, plopping onto his shoulders and down his shirtfront. A thick trickle of blood dripped down his forehead.

One hand around her neck, he shoved her further into the room. The other hand pressed the barrel of a pistol into her side. He let go of her neck long enough to swipe blobs of cream from his eyes, then he clamped down even more viciously.

More than a smile, Ramsay’s grin resembled a skeletal leer. “You’ll all follow my instructions most exactly now, yes?”