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Lady Melforth set aside her wine. “I’ll see to it that you have a copy, Louisa, but it’s far too soon to speak of another guide. Who knows what Viv will do when she and Mr. Larkin wed.”

“I quite agree, Aurora,” said Mrs. Stryde on Lark’s right, “I fear that you’ve allowed Miss Bradish to expose herself to the worst sorts of persons in pursuit of her duties at no small risk to her writing ambitions.”

“Whatever do you mean, Eustacia?” Lady Louisa asked, looking past Lark at Mrs. Stryde. “If our intrepid Viv has had adventures in the great city, I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m sorry to tell you, Lady Louisa, but Miss Bradish went the length of Oxford Street unaccompanied and had…encounters with men on the street.”

“Viv,” said her aunt laughing, “I hope you know how to wield an umbrella or a hatpin when gentlemen get out of line.”

“It’s no laughing matter, Lady Louisa,” said Mrs. Stryde. “A woman who wishes to have public support for her writing, must safeguard her reputation. What lady can allow herself to be guided by an authoress with a reputation for vice?”

There was a most awkward silence. Lark had a clear recollection of the fellow with the lavender gloves following Viv in the Pantheon, and realized the man had likely been a tool of the Strydes. He waited for Lady Melforth to defend Viv, but the lady appeared absorbed in moving bits of a lobster cake about on her plate.

“I think I may vouch for Viv, ma’am,” he said, ending the silence. “If she put herself in situations that ladies of London too often face, she did it to show how a sensible woman handles such nuisances.”

“Bravo, Mr. Larkin.” Lady Louisa gave him a warm smile.

“I beg you, Lady Louisa, not to be deceived.” Mrs. Stryde clutched her red garnet cross. “It is not guidebooks, but the work of the Anti-Vice Society that preserves female safety and decency. It is the society that strives to make headway against the godlessness and decadence of this city.”

“Godlessness and decadence,” said Sir Oswald. “Is that what you call it? I suppose this Anti-Vice Society of yours goes after sport on Sunday and that sort of thing, and a man won’t find a decent mill or a horse race anywhere.”

Mr. Stryde cleared his throat. “Our main aim, Sir Oswald, is to stop licentious publications.”

“You mean salty books?” asked Sir Oswald.

“Exactly. There are hundreds of them. We have recently shut down a Babylon Street publisher.”

“The raid was a success then?” Viv asked.

“The police bungled it of course, but everything has been put to rights.” Mrs. Stryde glared at Viv.

“Do you think London is growing worse, then?” Lady Louisa asked.

It was an opening Mrs. Stryde could not resist. “You can hardly understand the depths of depravity in London until you see it for yourself. Filthy pollution circulating in the post, doxies boldly parading our streets, pickpockets on every bridge.”

Sir Oswald turned to Dr. Newberry. “Won’t it be boring for you, Doctor, if the Strydes succeed in purging London of its vices? What will happen to the doctoring business, if no one falls ill, or gets shot?”

“Oh, there’s no danger yet that disease will go away, Sir Oswald. And we’re not so dull as you imagine. I treated a gunshot wound in this very neighborhood, not a fortnight ago.” The doctor stabbed a bit of venison pie with his fork.

“Really? Now that improves my opinion of London. Is there a story to tell?”

Newberry looked up from his plate, glanced at Lark and coolly shifted his gaze to Viv. For her the doctor would keep silent. “Another time, Sir Oswald, have you tried this pie?”

*

Viv hardly knew what she ate. Somehow, she had offended Lady Melforth. The effort to put on a gaiety she did not feel was wearing. She told herself she should be glad that a book, largely of her words, was nearly complete, and relieved that her counterfeit betrothal with its awkward intimacies was nearly at an end, but the evening felt dismal rather than celebratory. She hardly recognized Lady Melforth as the friend who had laughed at her stories and encouraged her efforts. Tonight, her ladyship had reduced Viv to the role of obscure assistant, rather than partner. It made no sense. Even with the new pieces Viv had written, she could not think how she had offended her benefactor.

The dinner passed through two courses in a blur of talk and the clinking of flatware. For a brief moment, while the footmen shifted the great silver epergne to remove the cloth and lay out the dessert, she exchanged a glance with Lark. He gave her a cheeky grin, as if he were enjoying their peril, but he was not the one who could lose his situation and all that he had worked for.

She pulled herself together. So far, she and Lark had avoided catastrophe. The worst moment had come with Sir Oswald’s asking about the gunshot wound, but Dr. Newberry, whatever his suspicions, had not given them away. Abruptly, Newberry pushed back his chair, his eyes fixed on the head of the table. Viv followed his gaze.

Lady Melforth rose to signal the ladies to withdraw so that the gentlemen might linger over their claret or port. As she stood, the feathers in her headdress tilted over her left ear. Her mouth froze in a downward turn. Then her ladyship’s eyes closed. She went limp and sat down hard. Viv was on her feet at once. “Haxton, her ladyship.”

The butler lunged forward with undignified haste to catch his mistress and stop her sliding from the chair. Viv knelt at her side and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

Her ladyship’s eyelids fluttered. Newberry appeared next to Viv and took her ladyship’s other wrist, feeling the pulse. “We must get her upstairs,” he said.

“What’s happening?” cried Mrs. Stryde. “Arthur, see to your cousin.”