Page 59

“A reminder to everyone,” June said briskly as she stacked dishes in the stoneware sink, “dinner’s an hour early tonight, on account of I’m going to cookery class.”

John carried his mug to the sink. “Where is the cookery class?”

She twitched with annoyance at the question but answered calmly. “Not far. Near Covent Garden.”

Although John wasn’t yet familiar with London’s sprawling geography, he knew enough to be concerned. On one of the evenings he’d stayed at Ethan Ransom’s home, the assistant commissioner had marked a pocket map for him with wax pencils. Covent Garden had been one of the places he’d circled in red.

“The area is safe enough in the daytime,” Ransom had told him, “aside from a few pickpockets and minor nuisances. It’s at night the trouble starts. The place is a maze of lanes and alleys, all badly lit. Sharpers and thieves lie in wait like packs of wolves for people coming out of the theatres.”

Now, as he stood at the sink next to June, John had no choice but to ask her, “Who accompanies you there and back?”

June’s thick brows crouched low over her eyes. “That’s my business and none o’ yours.”

“I still need to know.”

She turned to face him, wiping her hands on her apron. “I go to cookery school on me own, in hansom cabs there and back, and I ain’t never once been robbed or murdered.”

“That’s a matter of luck, not judgment.”

“So says you,” she said curtly.

John chose his words with care. “More than once, I’ve seen what happens to unprotected women at night.” If he knew one thing for sure, it was nothing short of a damn miracle that June had gone unharmed so far. “It doesn’t matter how careful you are,” he continued. “Men roam London at night looking for easy prey. If they set their sights on you—”

“I ain’t prey,” June said in outrage.

“You’re physically small. That’s what they see.”

“Bugger them! And bugger you! I go wherever I want, any time I want. If I decide to run inside a house on fire, it’s my right.”

“Aye. It’s your right. But I still wouldn’t let you do it.”

Her eyes widened incredulously. “Look here, you walkin’ pillock, you’re barking mad if you think—”

“Wait. June. All I ask is that you let someone accompany you.”

“No.”

“How many times have you been harassed or bothered while trying to hail a hansom cab? Once? Twice?” John watched her reactions closely as he spoke. “More than twice,” he said with certainty.

Mad Dog had edged up to them, his unblinking wolf-eyes focused on June’s face. “June,” he said, trying hard to sound casual, “what did the bloke look like? The one what bothered you.”

“I don’t remember,” she said irritably. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Mad Dog looked affronted. “Why not?”

“Because if I said I been bothered by someone wearing a purple cap, next morning every bloke in London with a purple cap would be laid out dead in the street, and the papers would be calling you the Purple Cap Slayer.”

“Purple cap,” Mad Dog said, committing it to memory. “What else was he wearing?”

“That was a made-up example,” June said, losing her patience. She turned back to John. “All my life, if I wanted to go somewheres, I had to take a man to protect me from other men. Here’s an idea: Why don’t all you men stop being so fuckin’ dangerous? If you want to leave the house, all you have to do is put on your coat and hat and walk outside. If a woman wants to leave, she has to make arrangements and ask permission and wait for someone to go with her. How would you like that?”

“I would hate it,” John said.

“You would,” she agreed vehemently. “It would stop you from having a job, or going to school, or doing nothing except staying at home and doing all the cooking and cleaning. It ain’t fair. I ain’t going along with it no more.”

“You’re right: It’s not fair. But that doesn’t change the odds that when you’re out alone one of these nights, you’ll end up raped, abducted, or worse. I can’t let you take that risk.”

“Try and stop me!”