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attention of men who would never acknowledge her in the street. “He said we were to see to them ourselves, for he has another appointment.”
    â€œIs that so?” It was most unlike Peter to lose the opportunity to hobnob with a future duke. Sighing, Catherine girded herself to entertain the guests.
    â€œHe couldn’t have received them, anyway,” Miss Snow continued. “He wasn’t dressed for it.” Here she lifted one slim, suggestive brow.
    â€œWhat do you mean, he wasn’t dressed for it?” In matters of toilette, Peter was punctilious.
    â€œHe was wearing a patched coat.” The girl’s voice held a sly note of speculation. “And he set out on foot, didn’t take the carriage.”
    â€œThat is none of your concern.” But a prickle moved down Catherine’s spine, not so much alarm as excitement. “How long ago did he leave?”
    â€œA minute or two, no more.”
    Her duty compelled her to tour the guests through the collections bound for auction. But this odd behavior on Peter’s part might provide a clue to his secret doings—a question on which rested the very future of the auction rooms. For if she could catch him in some unsavory situation, it would give her a weapon against him.
    She lifted her voice. “Miss Ames,” she called to a redheaded hostess, the most levelheaded of the lot. “Will you see to our guests? I must step out, I fear.”
    *    *   *
    Catherine’s life had become an absurdity. She was a woman of business, with an auction house to run. She had a hundred items on her agenda, no inclination toward adventures, and no interest in her brother’s private life. At present, her agenda instructed her to be in the receiving room at Everleigh’s, supervising the unpacking of the books from the Cranston library.
    Instead, she was prowling through the East End, sidestepping stray dogs and weedy cracks in the pavement. On Whitechapel Road, amid the bustle of traffic and the cries of chestnut vendors, she had felt safe enough. But now, as she passed into a narrow lane of tenements,
the atmosphere shifted. The buildings leaned together ­here like tired old pensioners, blocking the sunlight from
the rutted lane. In the gutter, a beggar with a scabbed face lay insensate.
    She stopped beside him, noting the spittle that dotted his beard. Hadn’t her former assistant assured her that Whitechapel was not as dangerous as she imagined? But perhaps Lilah had changed her mind, after what transpired three months ago. Together, they had been kidnapped by a Russian lunatic intent on harming Lord Palmer. The Russian had imprisoned them near this very neighborhood, in such an isolated little shack that had it not been for their combined courage and inspiration in effecting an escape, nobody might ever have found them.
    Well. That was not quite true. Eventually, Lilah’s uncle would have found them. Nicholas O’Shea ruled the East End like a tyrant of old. He’d been keeping an eye on the Russian, as it transpired. It had simply takenhim and Lord Palmer longer to get there than she and Lilah had been willing to wait.
    Alas that Mr. O’Shea’s dominion did not extend to nurturing beggars. A happy thing that Catherine hailed from a better part of town, where people took an interest in the troubled. “Sir,” she said crisply.
    No reply. Was he only drunk, or did he require a medic? So far, September had proved unseasonably cold; the newspapers said the chill had caused a wave of influenza. Nervously, she glanced around. Ahead, a woman hung out a window, calling incoherently at somebody only she could see. Not a likely source of aid, should this man require a doctor.
    â€œ Sir, ”she said more sharply.
    He loosed a sudden, nasal snore that reeked of gin, and startled her into hurrying onward.
    Half a street ahead, her brother was hurrying, too, his manner no less