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uncommonly good. Either that or her undergarments were constructed to make them look good. He’d debated this point with himself when he met her the other day. Whatever the truth of the matter, Westcott had no business drooling over them.
    The part of him Radford kept tightly confined was developing a fantasy of pitching his friend and colleague out of the window.
    Thrusting the mental image aside, he said, “Does the phrase ‘needle in a haystack’ signify anything to your ladyship?”
    â€œLet me think,” she said. She screwed up her mouth and eyes in an exaggerated effort of thinking. He remembered the little girl learning to say Heptaplasiesoptron .
    â€œYes,” she said. “Yes, it does, shockingly enough.”
    â€œGood,” he said. “Because—­”
    â€œFenwick assured me you’d know how to find Toby if anybody would. And you’ve made a name for yourself as an advocate for pauper children.”
    â€œI suspect that’s because advocating for paupers, being unusual to the point of bizarre, makes sensational headlines,” he said. “In fact, mainly I appear in court for very boring cases: poisonings and burglaries and assault and libel and such.” Few of these cases attracted the more respectable newspapers’ attention. The rare cases that did tended to focus on plaintiff, accused, and lurid witness statements, not boring lawyers. Until recently.
    â€œBut the Grumley case—­”
    â€œAh, yes, the sensational one,” he said. “Which demands my full attention at present. I promise you, the judge will not give me a leave of absence to hunt down this boy, even had I any hope of finding him, with a year to do it in.”
    An emotion flickered in her eyes, but even he, usually so perceptive of the subtlest facial cues, couldn’t decide whether she was disappointed or . . . relieved?
    Not that it mattered in the least.
    â€œYes, of course,” she said. “I’ve read about the Grumley horror. I should have realized . . . How silly of me. You have your work cut out for you there. In that case, perhaps you can advise me how to proceed.”
    â€œI strongly recommend you leave it alone,” he said. “These sorts of things never turn out—­” He broke off because her chin went up another notch and her posture stiffened, and he was forcibly reminded of the girl who’d kicked her brother in the ankle.
    â€œBut how silly of me,” he said. “You’re not going to leave it alone.”
    â€œNo.”
    He looked to Westcott. No help at all. Had the dome of St. Paul’s slid off and onto his head, he could not have looked more stupidly oblivious. You’d think he’d never seen an attractive woman before.
    Admittedly she was more than usually attractive. But still.
    His other self had something to say on this point. Radford stifled him.
    â€œIn that case,” he said, “I should recommend, firstly, that you read Sir John Wade’s Treatise on the Police and Crimes of the Metropolis .”
    â€œMr. Radford,” she said.
    â€œYou needn’t read the whole thing, but you might wish to skim at least the chapter dealing with juvenile delinquents,” he said. “Secondly, in the event Wade leaves you undaunted, I recommend you hire a member of the Metropolitan Police as a detective. I highly recommend Inspector Keeler.” A former Bow Street Runner, Keeler was, in Radford’s opinion, the best of the best: quiet, persistent, and a genius at blending into his surroundings, no matter what disguise he donned.
    Her head tipped slightly to one side, and she studied him with an expression that seemed to hover between patience and exasperation. He wasn’t quite sure. Along with maturity, her countenance seemed to have acquired a sort of screen or veil.
    â€œIt seems I was misinformed,” she said. “I was told you were the