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“Ain’t right, Welsh blokes keepin’ secrets from each other,” came Maddock’s surly reply, before he turned and went back to the servants’ stairs.

John escorted Reina out to the waiting cab. “He knows something’s amiss,” he said, with a note of something like wry fondness. “He’d love nothing better than to prove his loyalty by helping you with some bit of underhanded business.”

“I would never put him at risk that way,” Reina said. “He and the others must never go back to prison.” She hesitated before confiding, “I don’t really worry about Norman or Enid. But Maddock . . . and Belinda . . . I’m afraid in one thoughtless moment, either of them could make a mistake that would cost everything. I wish I knew how to prepare them for it.”

Before answering, John helped Reina up into the vehicle, spoke briefly to the driver, then settled beside her. “There’s reason to be hopeful,” he said as the carriage rolled and jostled along the macadam. “Maddock’s never had anything to lose before. Wanting to stay with June is a powerful incentive. And he’s started to take pride in being seen as something other than a brute. Belinda’s a more difficult case. But she wants approval. She likes being useful. She’s no longer the ‘scourge of Liverpool.’ ” He paused. “Somehow I think the dog’s been a better influence on her than anyone else.”

Reina laughed. “You could be right.”

But her laugh was brief and a bit strained. Now that they were on the way to Lombard Street, it was all becoming real to her . . . what she was about to do . . . what she might soon discover.

There was still a chance it was all some mistake, a collection of mistakes, which might be serious but not criminal. Her mind wouldn’t stop circling the question of who William was . . . and it kept shocking her to realize she wasn’t as certain as she should have been.

Despite her willingness to tease and argue with William, deep down Reina had always worshipped him. He’d opened doors that others had barred against her. But even more, his interest and respect had influenced how others viewed her . . . he’d legitimized her. Allowing herself to doubt him felt like an ugly betrayal. It seemed contemptible.

Handsome, brilliant, urbane William Farlow, celebrated as champion of the downtrodden, Prometheus bestowing the gift of fire on cold and struggling humans. That was how everyone saw him—and she wanted it to be true. Maybe even needed it to be true.

Circling . . . circling.

Some works of architecture or art had to be viewed from different angles, in various degrees of light, before you could understand them. Some literature kept changing as you read it, every page reframing the whole of a story.

Was there something off-kilter in William’s mythic stature? . . . a willingness to rationalize? . . . a belief that he was above consequence? Like Captain Ahab, he might have set a doomed course for all aboard, never doubting he was in the right.

Reina had never looked too closely at William’s decisions, nor would she have known enough at the beginning to interpret them. Anomalies were standard in banking, and it was easy to explain away discrepancies. Decisions about risk and management were often subjective.

But Farlow’s offered higher interest rates to customers than any other bank in London. It made no sense. Unless the bank had earned exceptionally high returns—and from what Reina knew about William’s investment strategies, she doubted that. And Farlow’s was so aggressive about attracting new customers, spending twice as much on advertising as its competitors. Which was hardly a crime, but . . . did he need all those new depositors because he had no reserves left?

William wasn’t an unscrupulous man, but he was a proud one. He was also ambitious. It was possible the challenges of running a bank had overwhelmed him. Or maybe overconfidence had led him to take foolish risks.

To distract herself from the endless milling of her brain, she asked John, “How was your outing to Lombard Street?”

“Helpful,” he said. “I went into Farlow’s briefly, then had a look at the alley next to the building. There’s a service door where we may be able to gain access without being obvious about it.”

“Are you skilled with locks?”

“Picking a lock, you mean? I’m a fair hand at it.”

“But won’t you need special tools?”

“Aye—which is why I went to do a bit of shopping afterward.”

Reina frowned. “You can’t simply go out and buy lock-picking equipment—it’s illegal.”

“No, it’s not,” he said calmly.

“It is according to the Prevention of Crimes Act.”

John seemed to enjoy her smart reply. “Only in context. I couldn’t be arrested for buying or possessing lock-picking tools unless there was reasonable suspicion of criminal intent.”

“I sincerely doubt you bought them at a respectable shop.”

“Touché,” he said with a grin, before admitting, “I went to a pawnbroker’s in Seven Dials.”

Reina’s eyes widened. The Seven Dials neighborhood in St. Giles was infamous for being dangerous even in broad daylight, filled with slum lodging houses, thieves, fences, and every manner of vice.

“John—of all the reckless—do you know what could have happened to you there?”

To her annoyance, he seemed amused by her concern. “There’s no need to worry. It’s hardly the worst place I’ve ever spent an afternoon.”