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Superintendent Stoke’s opinion that she is. He has informants in the Communard community. I hope the information is accurate. Otherwise, I’ll find myself with a French tart I know nothing about.”
    “Does she speak English?”
    That brought me up short. I hadn’t even thought of that. It wouldn’t matter to the customers if the girl couldn’t
parlez-vous anglais
as long as she was pretty, but it would be difficult to explain the financial arrangements of the house to her. Damn. How did I get myself into these situations? Well, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. I made arrangements with Vincent to stop by Lotus House at several appointed hours during the day to see if there was a message for delivery to Superintendent Stoke, assured Vincent that if we had the opportunity to kill any spies I would not do so without him, and agreed on a sum for his services (greedy little bastard—I’d have to get some money from Dizzy or I’d be out of pocket myself).
    * * *
     
    The next morning after breakfast, I selected an ensemble for my visit to the Seven Dials area. Considering my destination, a pair of sturdy boots that would withstand a river of sewage and an old dress that could be discarded and burned after use might seem the safest bet, but I had a whore to catch and I wanted to dazzle the girl with the opportunities awaiting her at Lotus House. Consequently, I selected one of my most fetching outfits, a tie-back underskirt in scarlet silk and a long draped overskirt of pinstriped navy wool with a matching jacket bodice that fitted so tightly my natural assets were displayed to their fullest. Thank goodness the fashion of bustles was disappearing; it would have been a job of work to navigate the foul, stinking streets of Seven Dials with yards of cloth hanging off the rear of one’s skirt. I chose a pair of black boots of sensible, not fine, leather (a girl has to make some concession to the weather) but with an arched instep and thin high heel that made me sway voluptuously before the mirror. How I’d look when I had to stagger down the uneven bricks of the streets of Seven Dials was another matter entirely, but I didn’t dwell on that thought. A high-crowned hat with a rolled brim in navy blue completed my attire. As the rain was bucketing down I added an umbrella to my kit. I looked rather fetching, I thought. Most men wouldn’t have turned me down, and I doubted whether an impoverished French girl could resist the prospect of one day emulating the madam of Lotus House. I went to the study and took the Webley and the handkerchief of extra cartridges from the drawer. Their weight was reassuring.
    Mrs. Drinkwater had braved the elements to summon a cab for me, and I climbed in carefully, smoothing my skirts and calling out my destination to the driver. The carriage shifted as he climbed down. A pale face, slick with rain, appeared in the window.
    “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but that area is . . . is—”
    “Unsafe?” I suggested. “Dangerous? Disgusting? Yes, it is. Nevertheless, I intend to go there. Should you like the fare, or must I find another cab?”
    The driver scratched his head, causing his hat to tip precariously to one side. A sheet of water cascaded from the brim.
    “But—”
    “I absolve you of all responsibility.”
    “But—”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ll pay you double the fare. Now, may we go?”
    “Paid up front?” the driver asked.
    I fished some money from my purse with ill grace and dangled it in front of him. “Here is half now, and I’ll pay you the other half upon our return.”
    The sight of the coins was persuasive. I do believe a shilling is better than whisky at generating courage.
    We drove north with the rain thrumming on the roof of the cab, dodging drays and carriages and splashing pedestrians as we rolled through the water running in the gutters. What a delightful day for an excursion, I thought gloomily. Our destination did not warrant any