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men, he never questioned that his “Samuel” might actually be a “Sarah.”
    He saw what he expected to see, just like everyone else.
    So Sarah remained hidden and perfectly safe until Mr. Hawkins expanded his business into the very heart of London.
    With the night pressing around her, Sam stepped down the front walk, feeling alone and vulnerable. Could Trenchard really help her? She wasn’t convinced, despite their agreement.
    She had seen the proprietor, Mr. Gaunt, going in and out of the building many times. Once or twice, he had nodded at her when their paths crossed at the corner. It was him she had sought.
    Sam’s landlady, Mrs. Pochard, adored gossiping about Mr. Gaunt so Sam knew he had solved at least two murders. He was intelligent and knew what he was about. It was said there was not a case he could not resolve.
    In contrast, his associate, Mr. Trenchard, seemed a little too light-hearted. Perhaps his good looks really did reveal his personality. He could very well be simply another flippant fellow with laughing blue eyes and thick, wavy blond hair, more suited to flirting with young ladies than investigating murders.
    More likely, he was just some rich man’s youngest son, idle and seeking an amusing diversion. Even his clothes had that same careless, jaunty look to them, his cravat untidy and his jacket unbuttoned.
    The only inquiry she was sure he excelled in was the investigation of the territory beneath ladies’ skirts.
    And like as not, she had been a fool to trust him.
    Was he laughing at her even now? Or worse, had he noticed her silly, moon-struck expression when she had seen him sprawled in his chair behind the desk, staring up at heaven rendered in oils?
    There was nothing she could do about it, now. So she’d give him a week before she demanded the information she sought, or he could return the guinea.
    She needed the money, anyway, to pay this past week’s rent. But for now, Mrs. Pochard could wait. Rent had to take second fiddle to Sam’s desire to stay alive.
    As she walked across the street and down a block to Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house, Sam tried not to refine too much on Mr. Trenchard’s attractiveness. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop reviewing their conversation, going over and over it, searching for mistakes.
    Had she said too much? Too little to do any good? Perhaps.
    But she hoped he would heed her warning about using her name if he went to Longmoor. She didn’t want anyone to remember her, or think she was still alive.
    But even if he didn’t, there were plenty of Sandersons in the village, and Samuel was a common, Christian name. She had not said she was related to the Marquess of Longmoor, who had perished with his family in the fire at Elderwood.
    Nonetheless, she wished she had lied and told him a different name.
    But if she had, his inquiries would be crippled from the start.
    Useless.
    There were no answers, and she was exhausted. Climbing the worn stairs to the boarding house, she unlocked the door and crept through the dark corridor. The musty entryway smelled strongly of cabbage—Mrs. Pochard must have served bubble and squeak again for dinner, and her tenants would regret it for a week.
    Sam grimaced, grateful for the rich roast beef supper Mr. Trenchard had provided. Her stomach felt almost painfully full. But sudden energy added a spring to her step as she ran quietly up the stairs to her room.
    If nothing else, she’d gotten the first decent meal she’d had in years. Served on beautiful china plates edged with gold, along with real silver and linen napkins. And across from her had sat a handsome man with the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen.
    The sound of a woman’s coarse laughter drifted down the corridor. Sam moved more quietly, staying near the walls where the floors squeaked less. Her landlady was kind enough to her tenants, but Sam had no desire to improve their acquaintance.
    Just like Mr. Hawkins, Mrs. Pochard had an unmarried,