Usually Spencer enjoyed the docks.

He liked the earnest bustle, and the breathtaking efficiency of the dockworkers flooding out of the holds with their cargo like a swarm of ants. Most of all, he liked knowing there were still places where honest men did an honest day’s work for their money.

The shipping line he was considering as an investment looked far more promising than he’d expected. The ships themselves were newer steamship models, and their upkeep had impressed him. More importantly, the two captains appeared to be intelligent, prudent men.

Given all that, his mood should have been better.

Investments seemed a small issue, though, when Ramsay remained on the loose. Spencer slapped his derby against his thigh. Three days now since the ball, and he’d had no luck in locating the lying pig.

He wove his way between pallets piled high with every manner of cargo, then slipped between the lines of wagons waiting to be loaded, and hurried across the street to hail one of the hansoms lined up to ferry passengers to and from the docks. High overhead, seagulls shrieked and dove toward fishing trawlers. Above them, wisps of clouds scudded across the otherwise blue sky.

A sharp gust wrapped around him, ruffling his hair. Spencer scraped hair out of his eyes and shoved on his hat. Seemed to be a storm brewing. He’d dearly love to get away before the roads out of the city became impassible. He’d rather be stuck home in Bath than have to wait out a summer deluge in the center of London. The crowded streets and the incessant din of millions of people living atop each other had worn him thin.

Knowing Meena Sweet was but a few miles away wore him even thinner. Much as he wished to deny it, her disapproval gnawed at him, unearthing old doubts he’d rather leave buried. The quicker he put the breadth of the English countryside between them, the quicker he could get back to forgetting her.

But first he needed to handle Ramsay. Spencer trotted across the busy road toward the line of boxy black carriages. If Ramsay found him once, he could easily do it again.

He could find Alicia.

A cold sweat spread down his back. There’d be no escape until Ramsay was back in jail, or dead. Spencer didn’t much care which.

A large group of black-suited businessmen tumbled out of the New Amsterdam Mercantile offices. Spencer increased his pace, hoping to grab a hansom before the group got them all. He jumped into the last coach in line ahead of four portly, well-dressed gents.

The driver took off at a smart pace, dodging delivery wagons, pedestrians, and fellow cab drivers with no decrease in speed. Spencer leaned back in the carriage and tapped his index finger on the windowsill as the scenery changed from dockyards and blocky warehouses to smaller, more tightly packed dwellings and shops. The closer the cab moved toward the heart of the city, the more tightly packed the buildings became. What they lacked in width, they made up for in height, growing skyward like spindly flowers desperate to reach the light.

Ramsay had outsmarted him. Spencer had been certain it wouldn’t take much to find him, but the man had disappeared from all of his old haunts.

He was out there, stalking him. Planning some sort of twisted revenge.

Planning to hurt the people Spencer loved.

Damnable hell. He needed to run the man to ground.

The sound of the carriage wheels changed as the driver headed over the old wooden bridge at Putney. They were less than a mile from his lodgings now. He tried to ignore the icy sweat still trickling down his back and struggled to turn his thoughts back to the present.

Where was Ramsay hiding? He didn’t work for Blackborough. Spencer had checked that first thing. Besides inspecting old haunts, it was the only thing. The sad truth was, he had no other ideas.

The cab slowed as it neared his address. Nowhere near any of the fashionable parts of town, his rooms were in a solid neighborhood filled with working folk. A neighborhood where he didn’t have to watch his back, or his wallet.

A woman hurried past the shops, a bundle of wash overflowing her arms. The Jonquil wouldn’t have bothered with such a neighborhood. Not enough high end merchandise for the taking. The Jonquil had spent his nights prowling neighborhoods like Blackborough’s, plucking jewels and artwork from coves far too rich to notice the loss.

Ramsay was never that good.

He and Spencer started out snatching coins and watches from people no better off than themselves. Ramsay hadn’t seized the opportunities life offered to better himself. He remained a low level rough, content to grab minor items and haggle with local pawnbrokers for pennies on the pound.

Spencer sat up. Pawnbrokers. Wherever Ramsay was hiding, he needed money. There was a shop around the corner from his lodgings. He wrapped on the roof of the hansom. “Forget my lodgings. You can drop me on Fairhope Lane.”

“Aye, sir.” The driver slapped the reins, and the horse sped past Spencer’s lodging house and darted through a small opening between a beer cart and wagon hauling potatoes and cabbages.

As the hansom rattled past his boarding house, Spencer caught sight of a constable across the street, but when he looked back, the man had vanished. If he’d existed at all. Spencer rubbed a hand over his face. This entire business with Ramsay was wearing him thin, making him jump at shadows.

He paid the driver and stepped out of the cab before the wheels even stopped. The old junk shop had been in business buying ill-gotten items from desperate souls long before he picked his first pocket. He’d brought in a bit of business himself, before the Jonquil learned to move in higher circles. Perhaps the proprietor would recall him. Might make getting information easier.

But for a gray, stoop-shouldered fellow behind the counter, the shop was empty. Spencer opened the door and wound his way between tables piled high with dusty merchandise, all of it junk. Old Mr. Gabbs, the owner in Spencer’s time, was no fool. The better merchandise was never on display. Only those who knew what to ask for would find what they sought.

“Help you, sir?” The new proprietor didn’t even bother to look up from the chipped, dusty pieces of china he was rearranging in the display cabinet. At twice the height, half the weight, and half the old man’s age, he was no Gabbs.

So how to play it?

Spencer hunched his shoulders, and averted his gaze, the way he’d seen men do when they’d walked out of prison. Eying the proprietor to make sure he was still being ignored, Spencer tugged up on the cuffs of his jacket to make it appear more ill-fitting. He ran a hand through his hair, back to front, hoping to suggest he’d slept out on the hard.

Appearance altered, he shuffled toward the counter, as if he were utterly spent. “Looking for a friend, guv.”

“Oh?” The question held no real interest.

Spencer inched closer. “Owes me a goodly bit, he does.”

Old sweat and linseed oil mingled with the general dust, making his nose itch. But close up, he could watch the man’s face. None but the very best could fool the Jonquil when it came to spotting a liar. “I was thinking you might know ‘im. Name’s Ramsay.”

The man set a worn tea cup and saucer in the cabinet below him. No interest, no concern, no curiosity altered his placid expression. “Don’t believe so.”

Frustration made Spencer’s belly clench. He wanted to ball his fists, but he forced himself to splay his fingers on the counter, to appear eager, diffident, desperate. “Maybe you’ve heard of his gang. Used to run with that Irishman, Jonah Kearney, and the Jonquil. He was quite good—”

“The Jonquil.” The shopkeeper’s face brightened. He set a cracked tea cup on the counter and leaned on his arms. “Now there’s a thief’s thief. Wasn’t a necklace, a fob—Hell’s doorknob—a statue, the man couldn’t steal.” The man’s eyes sparkled. “Heard tell he relieved a marquess of every diamond in the mansion and the marchioness, all before the supper buffet.”

Spencer feigned interest, but inside he sighed. If the Jonquil had done half the things his legend suggested, he could have bought an entire railway.

“Sorry, guv.” The man’s expression clouded over. “Didn’t know you was a friend of the Jonquil. Wish I knew of this Ramsay, but I don’t.” He reached into a drawer on the back wall and pulled out a battered leather pouch. “You look like you could use a pint. Here.” He poured out a few coins and held them out toward Spencer. “Get yourself some ale and a helping of supper down at the Dog and Bull.”

Spencer blinked, surprised his small attempt at a disguise had worked so well. He gave the man a small bow. “Thank you kindly.”

He curled his hands around the tuppence with great care, as if it meant the difference between filling his belly and not, and shuffled his way out the door.

Once away from the shop windows, he waved at a dirty street urchin hunting for a mark from the crowded sidewalk. “Here, boy.”

The boy sidled a bit closer, careful to stay just out of reach.

Spencer held out the coins. “Have some supper.”

After the slightest blink of indecision, the boy snatched the money and disappeared back through the crowd faster than a mouse with a prized crumb of cheese. Spencer smiled. The Jonquil might be firmly retired, but if his investments didn’t cooperate, apparently he could seek work on the stage.

His good humor vanished quicker than a thick wallet at the Mayfair market. There was no telling how many pawnshops he’d have to hit before he got a lead on Ramsay. He picked up his pace. It had to be close to dinner time. He could stop by his boarding house. Mrs. Finnian’s cooking was fair—at best—but it was quick and convenient. He could eat, change into a proper disguise, and be back on the streets well before dark.

He’d just passed the bank a block from his building when he saw them. Three constables. One straight across the street, staring intently at his rooms. The other two minding the corners at either end.

Spencer changed course without the slightest pause.

He didn’t believe in coincidence. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he crossed the busy street and plunged into the park across from his lodgings. He needed an inconspicuous place to watch from, but at this hour of the afternoon, the park was all but deserted.

Maids, cooks, and the occasional housewife stood shoulder to shoulder along the greengrocer’s stall across from his building. No men to speak of, but Spencer supposed it was the best he could do. He angled back through the park and over to the vegetable stalls, blending in with the surrounding crowd, keeping his face away from the constables’ gazes. Once he reached the stalls, he feigned interest in the creamy white rutabagas piled high beside bulging sacks of potatoes. He hefted a dirt-smeared globe, lifting it to his nose. It smelled of earth and grass and the odd bitterness of root vegetable.

“The wife will have a fit, you bring those nasty old things home.” A high-pitched voice came from somewhere around his elbow.

Spencer looked down. A small blonde girl with a pinched face blinked up at him. “Those bruised ones, they ain’t no good. The greengrocer puts the good ones in the back. Like these.” She held up two well-shaped globes in her dirty hands. “Saves ‘em for his best customers. The rich ones.”

On second glance, she was older than he first surmised. Probably more of a young woman than a child. Not much younger than Alicia.

“Is that so?” Spencer smiled down at her. “Thank you for the lesson.”

She cocked her head to the side, studying him. “You don’t look like the food buying sort.”

Over her head, Spencer eyed the three constables. They remained in place, eying the doors, the crowds. “Oh don’t I?”

She squinted up at him, considering. “Seems to me you’re waiting for something.”

Spencer studied her back. What a curious little thing. And observant. Too observant.

And then he had an idea, one of those instinctive, spur-of-the-moment ideas that used to drive Meena insane.

“Care to earn a shilling?” he asked the girl.

The girl dropped the vegetables and jumped back. She folded her thin arms across her chest and sent him a glare hot enough to melt steel. “I ain’t that sort.”

“It’s nothing like that.” He pointed discreetly at the Constable pacing back-and-forth across from his lodging. “See that crusher?”

The girl nodded, clearly still wary.

“And those others across the way?”

She nodded again.

“My employer set them on me.” Spencer shook his head sadly. “The man was stealing money from the company, and I caught him out. Now he’s got it in for me.”

The girl narrowed her eyes, considering. “What sort of company?”

Spencer wondered what sort of businessman she might trust. “I’m a sea captain.”

“What’s your ship called?”

“The Jonquil.”

She scrunched up her mouth. “That’s an odd one. Jonquil’s a flower, in’it?”

“It is. My wife’s favorite. That’s why the name.”

The girl considered him. “So what do ya need? If I don’t get these rutabagas back to Cook right quick, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I need to know what they’re saying.”

“They’re looking for you aren’t they?”

Spencer nodded. “They are. The boss wants to blame me for stealing the money. If I’m in jail, he’ll get away with the whole lot.”

The girl studied him. She evaluated his shoes, the cut of his trousers, his shirt, his jacket. Her gaze lingered longest on his face.

All but buzzing with the need to hurry, Spencer forced himself to remain calm, still, trustworthy.

“I’ll do it.” She set the rutabagas back onto the pile and scurried off through the crowd. A moment later her dirty blonde head popped up behind the constable staring up at his room.

While Spencer waited, the front door of the building opened. Mrs. Finnian hurried out, followed by the dark-haired inspector from Blackborough’s ball.

Bollocks. No question now. Ramsay’s hand was in this.

When the inspector came out, all three constables converged on him. Like a small, blonde shadow, the girl followed.

Despite his anger, he had to smile. She was good.

Sensing he’d exhausted his place by the vegetables, Spencer moved toward the peaches and plums. The inspector talked with his landlady and the constables for a moment longer before the group broke up and he and his underlings hurried around the corner, out of sight. Mrs. Finnian trudged back up the stairs into the building.

It wasn’t a moment later that his little spy returned. Her eyes were wide and bright with interest. “It ain’t money. Those coppers, they think you stole a bloody necklace. Diamonds, they said.”

His stomach clenched. “Diamonds?”

She nodded solemnly. “A diamond necklace. They say you took it.”

“Did you see it?”

“That inspector said it wasn’t there. Said you gave it to your lady friend.”

Spencer blinked. Meena. Damnable hell.

His heart sped up. Blood pumped hard through his chest and into his legs, urging him to run.

Small white fists resting on thin hips, his little helper considered him. “I’ll have that money now.” She thrust out a hand.

Spencer pulled a shilling from his pocket and paid her. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

They would have carriages. They’d need to stay to the main roads. With some small amount of luck, he could reach Meena first.

His helper tugged on his coat, halting him. “I believe you about the diamonds.” She shook her head sadly. “You ain’t no sea captain though.”

And then she was gone.

Spencer ran. He ran as if he’d been shocked by an electrical current. Ran as if his life depended on it.

If Ramsay got to Meena first, it most assuredly did.

* * *

Meena strolled down the tree-lined boulevard, swinging her parasol by its ebony handle. The air was sweet with the scent of summer blooms, and she was most pleasantly tired from her exertions at Master Tadeoka’s studio.

A gust of wind whirled past, bending the brim of her hat, and whipping the light skirts of her walking dress around her legs. A cloud scudded across the sun, dimming the bright light for the briefest of instants.

She had neither Briar’s innate skills—nor the same fascination with the martial arts—but even she recognized their necessity. And she did so enjoy fencing with her parasol. All in all, it had been an excellent morning. If it weren’t considered excessively vulgar, she would’ve whistled a tune.

The flower-scented breeze mingled perfectly with the bright summer sun, casting her neighborhood in a most delightful light. She was glad she’d been inspired to skip the crowded omnibus and walk home.

As she passed the new milliner’s shop several blocks from her house, a lovely ivory confection in the window caught her eye. All satin, it gleamed in the late afternoon light. Dark red roses cascaded down the center of the bodice, across the skirt, and around the hem. She leaned closer, admiring the miles of burgundy brocade edging the ruffles that cascaded down the fashionable bustle. Such a gown would make a woman feel elegant. Assured.

Unassailable.

Meena set her parasol in the crook of her arm and pressed her hands to the serviceable gray linen of her walking dress. She bought it thinking the high collar, the straight lines of the flat lapels, the complete lack of frippery, made her appear calm and dependable. Commanding of trust.

But next to such a wonderfully feminine—and wickedly sensuous—creation she felt rather drab, like a sparrow in the company of popinjays. Briar might have a point. Perhaps her wardrobe could do with a bit of spicing up.

She pulled back from glass, blurring her reflection. Spicing up led directly to heartache. Serviceable, unapproachable gray would most definitely do.

At the moment, she could ill afford a new dress anyway. It was her prudence with money that allowed them all to live so comfortably. To say nothing of financing her dream. Obtaining restitution for those who had no other options cost far more than she had imagined. Maybe, once she was assured the new train lines she’d invested in were sound, she might treat herself.

Meena continued on toward home. She was admiring the buttery yellow daffodils on display at the florist shop on the corner when a body shoved into her from behind. She stumbled forward. Strong hands grabbed her waist, and the next thing she knew, she was being pushed around the corner into a quiet alleyway.

Her parasol was in her hand before she even was aware of it. She twisted to the side and lashed out, aiming for the throat, the eyes, anywhere vulnerable to the steel tip.

“Meena!” A hand grabbed the tip of her parasol. “Stop. It’s Spencer.”

She blinked, trying to let her eyes adjust to the dim light in the alley. Her heart was pounding so hard, it was difficult to breathe. “Crane?” She yanked her parasol from his grip. “Is there some reason you can’t greet me like a normal person?”

“There’s no time.” He appeared to be breathing hard as well. “Ramsay set us up. The police have been to my lodgings. They’re on their way here.”

Meena took several long, deep breaths and waited for her pulse to return to normal. When she could breathe without gasping, she set her parasol back in the crook of her arm and pulled at the cuffs of her dress, straightening the sleeves. “I can’t imagine what this could have to do with me. You’re the one who went into business with the man.”

Crane rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze straying to the opening of the alleyway. “The police were at my home, searching for a diamond necklace. It was that inspector, the tall dark-haired fellow from Blackborough’s ball.”

Meena snorted. “Given the guest list that night, I have no doubt a great many pieces went missing. I didn’t take any. As I told you, I’m no longer in business.”

Crane looked as if he wanted to shake her. “The diamonds weren’t in my rooms. The inspector said they were on their way to a woman’s house to get them. They’re coming for you, Meena.”

“A woman’s house?” She laughed. “Familiar as I am with your tendencies, I’d imagine there are any number of women this inspector might be referring to.”

Crane looked to the heavens. “There are no other women. Even if there were, you’re the only one who was with me at the ball.”

Meena studied the rough bricks behind him. She would have liked to believe him, but she’d be better off believing the Earth was flat. Being a person of a scientific persuasion, however, she couldn’t ignore the body of evidence that very much suggested Spencer Crane had a woman stashed in every neighborhood of Greater London.

“I’m sure you mean well. Thank you very much for the warning.” Meena turned her back to him and started out of the alley.

Crane grabbed her arm.

“Let go.” She shook off his grip and continued walking.

“I can’t do that.”

She sped up, refusing to argue. He matched her step for step. They walked in silence for an entire block, close enough to her house now that the boulevard had narrowed to a quieter residential lane.

Meena could just make out the front of her house another block farther along when Crane stepped in front of her. He gripped her shoulders, a pleading look in his eyes. “I know why he’s after you.” His gaze dropped away from her face, as if embarrassed. “Ramsay imagines I care for you.”

She stiffened beneath his hands. “Well then, the man is all kinds of a fool, isn’t he?”

Crane dropped his hands to his sides.

Why Spencer Crane was able to turn her emotions into a muddled mess, she’d never know. The only way to regain her footing was to escape. Meena stepped around him and continued toward home.

Spencer stalked after her. “You truly are the most stubborn woman I have ever—”

Meena stopped short. Crane trod on her heel, a soft curse slipping past his lips.

She raised a hand to silence him.

Mrs. Hapgood’s red broom leaned against the doorframe, as if she’d left it to hurry back inside.

“You were right.” Meena kept her voice low. “Something is badly wrong.”

Crane looked puzzled.

“The broom. It’s our signal.”

Crane pulled her back into the shadows of the great willow in Mrs. Saplotski’s front yard. He cocked his chin, calling her attention to the two blue-uniformed constables loitering two doors past hers.

She nodded. “I assume you have a plan?”

His mouth tightened. “Not as such.”

Meena put her hands on her hips. “Finding me constituted your entire plan?”

Crane’s attention was on the street, his gaze darting to every bush, every shadow.

The tight set of his jaw worried her. “What are you expecting?”

“Ramsay. He wouldn’t miss this.”

Meena pushed away from the tree. “I’ll go in through the cellar. Mrs. Hapgood always—”

“No.” Crane gripped her arm. “They’ll be around back. That detective is exceedingly thorough. Had my entire street covered. And there’s Ramsay. He’s here, waiting for us to do something stupid. I can feel it.”

Meena ground her teeth. “Stupid? You, the man without a plan, think I’m stupid? If that isn’t the outside of enough.”

Confusion muddled his features. “No! I didn’t mean...You… I…” He stopped, sensing a trap, but clearly befuddled.

Meena squinted at the house, wishing she knew what was going on inside. “They might need my help.” She picked at the twisted bark of the willow, her thoughts racing. “Let’s agree, for the moment, that you’re correct. It couldn’t take long to search for this necklace. They’ll be on their way soon.” She glanced up at the sky, filtered through the willow leaves. “It’ll be dark in an hour, easier to slip in then.”

“Retreat seems the more prudent option. We’ll find somewhere safe. Think this through. We can send someone to get word to your family.”

“Do what you wish.” She waved off his suggestion as if it were nothing but an irritating insect. “I’m going to wait until dark and break in.”

“I’m not leaving you here. I’ll find us somewhere to hide until—”

Meena raised a hand to silence him off.

Mrs. Saplotzki was watching them through the parlor window, a puzzled frown on her lined face.

“Good day, Mrs. Saplotzki.” Meena forced a bright smile and waved. “Just admiring your Salix Babylonia. It’s a fine specimen.”

If anything, the old woman’s expression darkened.

“Ever the crabby old biscuit,” Meena murmured. “I believe it’s best we move on.”

Crane took her arm, and they strolled away in the opposite direction.

She pretended great interest in a row of pink petunias three doors down, but inside she was boiling. “Don’t think you can tell me what to do.” She made no effort to keep the anger out of her voice.

“Tell you what to do?” He stiffened, his eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline. “I came here to help. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be explaining yourself to the crushers right now.”

Meena stabbed the sidewalk with the tip of her parasol. “I don’t need you to save me. I’ve never needed you to save me. Now please, do take yourself off. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

Crane looked as if he wanted to smash something. “If I can’t persuade you, then at least let me look over the house before you go crashing in.”

Meena barely heard him. She was staring at her front door. The dark-haired inspector from Blackborough’s ball was just stepping out. Mr. and Mrs. Hapgood shuffled out onto the stoop after him. Even a block away, the worry etched in their faces stood out.

A necklace swung from the detective’s fingers.

The group on the step started, surprised by a figure bursting out of the bushes beneath her parlor window.

Ramsay.

A hot flush of anger burned her cheeks. She wanted to grab him, grab him and throttle him until his head rattled.

“There they are!” Ramsay pointed straight at them.

Meena locked eyes with Crane. What a dreadfully awful time for him to be right.

“New plan.” He grabbed her hand. “Run.”