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round of the streets.
    The corpse collectors arrived to take the viscount back to headquarters. Mina oversaw the loading of the canvas-wrapped body into the wagon before climbing into Newberry’s police cart. Prescott had found Percival Foley’s direction written on the viscount’s recent correspondence, saving Mina the effort of discovering the location of his manufactory.
    “Foley’s in St. Olave, constable,” Mina said as she settled onto the cart’s rattling bench. “Let’s hope that the traffic has cleared or we’ll not see dinner before midnight.”
    The color in the constable’s face deepened to a dark pink against the red of his beard. “St. Olave, sir?”
    Relatively new to London, the constable hadn’t completely gotten his bearings, especially when their work took them across the Thames. It was nothing to blush about—there were many places in the London area that even Mina hadn’t visited—but one of Newberry’s charms was his tendency to redden on a blink.
    “Just over London Bridge, constable,” she said, and grinned when dismay replaced the blush. Crowded with shops, vehicles, and pedestrians, the bridge was a nightmare to pass at the best of times. “Or we can cross at Trahaearn Bridge and drive east, braving the rookeries.”
    Where even an armed constable and inspector might not intimidate the worst of the criminal lot, particularly at night. Many of the slums in Southwark had burned during an outbreak of fires the previous year, but they’d quickly rebuilt, tiny warlords establishing small territories.
    “My flat is en route to Trahaearn Bridge, sir. I suggest that we head in that direction, beg my wife for a bit of something that we can take with us to eat, and drive on to London Bridge.”
    Good man. Mina nodded her agreement and braced herself as the cart jolted forward. They made good time to his small, cozy flat on the second level of a converted mews, where Newberry’s sensible—and very pregnant—wife asked him to cut and wrap hunks of cheese, bread, and salted boiled eggs while she chatted with Mina. Newberry blushed for a record length of time after Temperance checked on his progress and complimented his skillful use of a knife, then again when she laid a farewell kiss on his cheek.
    So sweet. It still surprised Mina that the prudish bounder had ever taken off his clothes long enough to make a baby, and she’d have wagered that he’d been fiery red the entire time.
    Temperance was smiling as they left. Mina couldn’t help but notice how her gaze remained on Newberry until the moment the door closed. Rhys watched her in the same way when she left in the morning—Mina knew, because she always looked back for that final glimpse of him, too. But was it just love? Or more?
    “Does she worry?” Mina wondered, stepping into the cart.
    Newberry looked up over the bonnet, where he’d been re-lighting the cart’s gas lanterns and unlocking the tires. “Sir?”
    “Does your wife worry when you’re on the job?”
    “Yes.” The cart’s frame creaked as he took his seat. “Some days worse than others, but she always worries a little.”
    Even though he was a giant of a man—strong, sensible, and armed with opium darts and guns—that wouldn’t matter, she knew. The first week that Newberry had been paired with Mina, shrapnel from an exploding boiler had almost gutted him as they’d chased down a suspect. How could Temperance not worry after that? If it had been Rhys, Mina would have worried, too.
    “Is there anything you do to make it easier for her?”
    “Yes, sir,” Newberry said. “I keep coming home.”
    And Mina would continue returning home to Rhys. She nodded, gestured for Newberry to start for London Bridge. The noise of the cart forced them to shout when they spoke, but Mina didn’t attempt any conversation. She mulled over the viscount’s murder as she ate, reviewing the staff’s statements, looking for inconsistencies in their accounts. She didn’t