“One of the addresses you gave me—Woburn Place—is in that district,” he said simply.
It struck me as remarkable that he knew at once where it lay. For a moment, I studied the solitary red pin gleaming against the map, wondering where the other young women’s addresses might be. “How far does this go, do you think?”
“As far as men will take what is not theirs,” I said. “There is no limit to that.”
He looked back at me, and for an instant, something like admiration touched his features. “You’ll forgive a tradesman for plain speaking?”
“I never object to plain speaking,” I said. “Only to lies.”
“Very well.” He returned to his chair and set both hands upon the desk. “You must keep back from this. I’ll not dress it prettier. If girls are vanishing and someone profits by it—coin or power or the sort of pleasure that goes hand in hand with cruelty—then asking questions is dangerous work. You are a lady. That both protects you and paints you as a prize. Let me do the walking.”
“Mr. Finch,” I said, and tried to infuse the words with more mildness than I felt, “I am capable of walking.”
“I’ve seen as much,” he said dryly. “But remember, if you will, a certain alley off Trinity Lane where a young woman met her death.”
Heat pricked my cheeks, absurdly. “I do not intend to fling myself into an alley,” I said, which was not quite the same as saying I intended to stay home with my mending. “But I will not sit idle. I mean to speak with Sister Margaret at St. Agnes. She keeps records of the young women who’ve gone to placements from there. If there is a pattern, I may learn something from her.”
He considered that a moment, then inclined his head. “That’s sensible as these things go. Take a footman, though. A reliable one. And don’t let your driver wander.”
“I shall do as much,” I said, which was not, perhaps, the solemn vow he desired. I fetched a bag of coins from my reticule. “A down payment. If you need more, all you need to do is ask.”
He tossed it into a desk drawer without looking inside.
“Lady Rosalynd.” His voice gentled. “Your courage does you credit. It also draws notice. Not all eyes that notice are kind.”
“I am painfully aware.” My smile felt thin. “But kindness does not fetch drowned girls from rivers.”
He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. “Very well. You’ll do as you think right. Just—” He glanced to the window again, as if the street itself might crane up to listen. “Just remember there are corners of London where a title is a trinket and a veil is an invitation.”
I rose. “I will remember.” I drew on my gloves. “When you learn anything?—”
“I’ll send word,” he said. “Discreetly. If I come myself, it will be to your back entrance.”
“Honeycutt—our butler—would not be pleased. He disapproves of my involvement in these matters.” The corner of my mouth lifted. “But he’s loyal to the core. He will inform me.”
He nodded. “Good to know. I’ll start with Martha Larkin and the Marylebone Women’s Aid Society—names, addresses, known acquaintances of the women who’ve gone missing. And follow the trail from there.”
I could not prevent a ripple of foreboding. “Be careful.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said with a wink. But its humor did not reach his eyes. As he handed me my cloak and umbrella, he said, “I’ll not fail you.”
For an instant, I feared I might disgrace myself and thank him with something embarrassingly fervent. Instead, I simply inclined my head and said, “Good day, Mr. Finch.”
He crossed the room to open the door. “Allow me to escort you to the carriage. It’s begun to rain again, and I wouldn’t want you to slip on the cobbles.”
“Thank you.” I paused a moment to fix my veil.
The hackney waited where I had left it, the driver hunkered against the drizzle with his collar up and his cap pulled low.
During our meeting, the street had grown busier. A boy darted between carts with a spray of newspapers under his arm, calling something about a ferry accident. Two men argued in undertones beside a doorway. A young woman hurried past with a basket of mended shirts, eyes down, gait quick. I couldn’t help but think that she could be one of Martha’s girls.
After one final goodbye to Finch, I climbed into the carriage and rapped the roof. “Grosvenor Square, if you will.” It was only after we’d traveled a street over that I rapped again. “I changed my mind. Take me to St. Agnes in Clerkenwell. There’s someone I must see.” Alone. Unaccompanied by a footman. So much for Finch’s advice.
Chapter
Six
Return to St. Agnes
