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flirtatious daughter. Sam had enough troubles trying to escape her employer’s matrimonial noose without raising expectations in any other female’s well-endowed breast.
    She wondered briefly if all employed, unmarried men had the same difficulties. If so, it was a wonder they weren’t all trapped and wed by age sixteen.
    Did Mr. Trenchard have a sweetheart? She flushed and pushed the ridiculous question out of her mind. It didn’t matter if he had a dozen.
    A door opened down the corridor. Deafened by her rapid heartbeat, Sam slipped inside her room and quietly locked the door behind her. In the darkness, she heard the clickety-clack of Mrs. Pochard’s red-heeled shoes coming down the hallway. The footsteps paused at Sam’s door as if her landlady stopped just outside, listening.
    “Mr. Sanderson?” Mrs. Pochard called.
    Sam remained silent, thankful she had not lit the single, greasy candle on the chest that leaned drunkenly toward the door.
    “Are you there, Mr. Sanderson?”
    The clatter began again as Mrs. Pochard turned and tapped back down the hallway. She opened her creaking door and shut it again so loudly that Sam’s own door quivered from the reverberations.
    The weekly rent was due. Sam moved stealthily through the darkness. She’d have to pay soon or lose her place. Not that she would regret it overmuch. The room was poorly furnished and barely tolerable. The thin, threadbare cotton drapes did not keep out the moonlight, or the cold drafts from the ill-fitting window. At night, the sounds of mice skittering behind the wall served as the only lullaby residents could get. After Sam’s eyes adjusted to the shadows, she pulled off her smock and poured out a basin of tepid water to wash the dirt off her face.
    The rent would wait until tomorrow evening when she got off work. Mr. Hawkins would pay them at the end of the day. And the coins would go straight from his palm to Mrs. Pochard’s pocket with only the briefest stop in Sam’s purse.
    For one lovely moment, Sam remembered a carefree time as a child with no concern for money or the future. A sense of intense longing and regret filled her before she pushed away the useless thoughts.
    Stripping down to her long, linen shirt, she climbed into the hard bed, using her elbows to smooth out the worst of the lumps. With a full stomach, she ought to sleep well tonight, despite her worries. Hard, physical labor made an effective soporific. She rarely had trouble sleeping, even when nightmares of flames and crashing timbers woke her, rigid and trembling, in the coldest hours before morning.
    She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin, wishing the nights would turn warmer. Mrs. Pochard was no great believer in fires, and Sam couldn’t afford a room with its own fireplace— even if she could pay extra for the wood. But considering her nightmares, the lack of a fire could only be considered a blessing. And given Mrs. Pochard's reluctance to spend money on firewood, this house was unlikely to burn down like Elderwood had. So Sam didn’t mind the cold so much, despite a sudden, teeth-rattling shiver. Her situation could be worse.
    Rolling over, she tried to get comfortable in the worn hollow at the center of the narrow cot. The ropes beneath the lumpy mattress creaked in protest. She stilled, listening. The frayed rope at the head of the bed twanged—one more strand snapped—but it held.
    At least for now. Just like her safety.
    Everything was temporary.
    Finally, when her bed did not collapse beneath her, she relaxed again. Her thoughts turned inevitably to the Major Pickering and the sight of a man bending over him, patting his pockets.
    Her eyelids fluttered with sleep. With an effort at confidence, she tried to believe the murderer had found nothing in Pickering’s coat. No one would strangle her in the wee hours of the night, at least not here in Mrs. Pochard’s dingy, sagging townhouse.
    And William Trenchard would soon find the murderer.
    For her part,