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vengeance on a certain Major George Wickham.
    Yet not long after that purification rite, they parted ways. This separation was not due to any disagreement between them. If anything, satisfaction of a wrong made right gave them further commonality. They trotted off, each carrying more money than they had ever imagined. Both had their scruples, but only Sally’s path was clear.
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    Whereas their attack on Wickham was just in everyone’s eyes but the law, Sally took a hasty leave from Mrs. Younge’s boarding house—and Daisy did too. His howling could be heard clear to Newton Street. It was certain to bring attention. Mr. Darcy would not want his name brought into such a conflagration whether Wickham deserved his fate four times over or not.
    Wickham was the devil incarnate. That rogue had done more evil than any murderer in Newgate—Sally was sure of that.
    No doubt that was why Mr. Darcy paid the man the better part of a King’s ransom just to leave his family be. She and Daisy were only happy to have the chance of relieving Wickham of those funds (it was a monstrous amount of money). In truth, she did not need encouragement to shoot that bastard in the vitals. With any luck, he didn’t die of blood loss. If there was a God, which she sorely doubted, Wickham would die a slow and painful death like her brother had. One thing was certain, whether dead or dying, George Wickham would never sire another offspring to abandon.
    Sally never doubted that Daisy had made good her escape. She was faster than a mouse and twice as wily. With the money they took, there was no reason to return to her bawdy house. Indeed, Daisy could live in any manner she chose—and there was little chance she would remain a harlot.
    Daisy was more clever by half than any other wench, but Sally Frances was not stupid. Whatever the temptation a poor girl might have to crow over her windfall, years on the street and innate good sense told them both to keep it quiet. Dyot Street was known for citizens on the game. St. Giles Breed they called them. There was no law in that parish. She had to make haste.
    Once Sally Frances passed the last urchin and blood-scabbed beggar, she knew she had escaped. She kept her head down and poke stowed until she reached the edge of Chelsea. There she would be taken for a simple maid-of-all-works, or the like, on her way to her place in one the fine houses.
    Only then did she allow her breath to overtake her mind. She vowed not to ponder what Daisy meant to do. Keeping ones own council on matters such as that kept a body from harm on the streets. In her heart she envisioned Daisy buying a house in West End and keeping an opera box. The thought of her friend sitting in finery enjoying Italian singers made her laugh. As for her share, Sally knew from the beginning that she would not keep it. She had taken it just to nettle Wickham. There had been no time for a plan. For all her artifice and intrigue chasing the man down, the entire event came to pass due to the perverseness of life as anything else.
    No, such a bounty was not hers to keep.
    It was not right to take someone else’s money, especially to do that which she would have happily done for free. Such dishonesty would plague her conscience forever. Her scruples did not always agree with her wishes. Now that she had settled her brother’s affairs, the thought of her poor grannum, Nell, was all-consuming. Sally did not know if the old woman was alive or dead. She concluded that she would keep a few sovereigns to take care of the old woman. No harm in that. One could say it was for services rendered.
    Given her druthers, she would not have returned to Chelsea and Mrs. Kneebone’s house at all. She went there only to locate Mr. Darcy. It was in the early hours and therefore little challenge to slip into the house unseen. She knew the most efficient way to collect any intelligence of the doings of the quality folk was to ask the help. In doing so she learnt