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told the ragman to take those farthings and buy his nursing wife some nourish—
    A rapping on her door had her eyeing it sharply. Who'd be after calling at this hour? She'd no friends to speak of, having been in the city but a fortnight, and—
    The rapping came again, sounding urgent. Someone in need? She dragged herself off the cot and moved to the door. She may not have made any friends, but she knew word had already spread about her work. "The Irish Angel," they'd begun to call her, though she saw nothing angelic in what she did. Anyone with a few healing skills and a bit of compassion could have done the same.
    "Aye?" she called through the door, not yet ready to open it. The East End was rife with footpads, cutthroats and worse; she wasn't a fool. "Who is it ye seek?"
    "I was told the Irish Angel lives here," said a woman's voice. "Oh, please, miss! If you're the one they told me about, I-I'm begging-your help."
    The desperation in the voice had Caitlin swiftly opening the door. "Come in, then," she said to the middle-aged woman who looked at her with imploring eyes.
    "Are ... are you really the Irish Angel?" the woman asked uncertainly. The slender creature facing her looked so young! A mere slip of a girl, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Very pretty, though.
    Caitlin gave her a tired smile. "Some call me that, aye. But me name's Caitlin...Caitlin O'Brien.And ye're ... ?"
    "I'm Mrs. Hodgkins . .. Sally Hodgkins. You may recall my sister, for you cured her of a terrible skin rash when—"
    "Ach, the shopkeeper's wife! How's she farin' these days?"
    "Splendidly, thanks to you. But, Miss O'Brien, that's not why I'm here. I've come to you because ... Well, I know what you did for Jenny, and—and we've nowhere else to turn!"
    The woman began to weep softly. Exhausted though she was, Caitlin couldn't ignore her. Her heart went out to the woman. "Here," she said, guiding her to the room's single chair. "Sit down and tell me about it."
    Nodding gratefully, Mrs. Hodgkins complied, then mastered her emotions enough to tell of her quest. An errand of mercy, but not for herself. For a six-year-old child. The son of a nobleman in a great household where she was employed as housekeeper. There had been a carriage accident, and the child was badly injured. The physician didn't expect him to live past morning.
    "But what leads ye t' think I can help?" Caitlin was shaking her head. "If this lord's own physician doesn't—"
    "But you're the Irish Angel!" Mrs. Hodgkins cried. "My sister says a prayer for you each day, blessing you for her cure. You healed her of that rash that came near to driving her mad—for two years. Two years, miss! With visits to one physician after another, and none of them able to do a thing for her!"
    The woman started to weep again, and Caitlin patted her shoulder soothingly, wondering what to do. She was a healer, not a miracle worker, despite what some said. Yet she was touched by this woman's request. By her compassion. She wept for a child not even her own. "Describe the injuries for me, if ye will," she said at last
    Mrs. Hodgkins dried her eyes and did so. But after hearing of the crushed leg and a severe head wound that had left the child senseless, Caitlin despaired more than ever. It didn't sound good. "Ach, the poor babe," she murmured with genuine sympathy. "And his parents—they must be beside themselves with anguish!"
    Stifling a sob, Mrs. Hodgkins shook her head. "But one p-parent now, Miss O'Brien. Little Lord Andrew has only his father left him. The p-poor child's mother was k-killed in that same accident."
    Caitlin murmured softly and crossed herself.
    "And his lordship's in a terrible state, miss! He's shut himself away in that room for hours. Won't talk to anyone ... won't sleep or take any food. And himself just home from the war, with his own wound barely healed!"
    "Ach, the poor man!"
    Mrs. Hodgkins nodded. "I'll be honest with you, miss. The marquis has no idea I'm here.