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“I attempted to convince her to leave her life as a prostitute and travel to the small property I own outside of London. Unfortunately she would not heed my urgings. Now it is too late.”
    â€œYou did not perhaps know if she was fearful of any person in particular?” he demanded.
    Jocelyn briefly considered Molly’s drunken husband, who had more than once left her with a black eye. He was obviously violent. And yet she could not believe he would readily dispose of his one source of income. He may have been despicable, but he was not entirely stupid.
    â€œNot that she revealed to me,” she at last conceded.
    â€œWould she seek you out if she discovered herself in danger?”
    The question caught Jocelyn off guard. Would Molly come to her if she were in need?
    â€œI do not know. Perhaps.” She gave a lift of her hands. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œBecause this was found clutched in her hand.” Mr. Ryan leaned forward to press a crumbled piece of paper into Jocelyn’s hand.
    Startled, she glanced down to discover her name roughly scrawled across the torn sheet.
    â€œIt has my name on it,” she breathed in shock, then her brows drew together in confusion. “But . . .”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    She slowly lifted her gaze to meet his steady regard. “Molly could not read or write.”
    The blue eyes narrowed at her sudden exclamation. “Most astute, Miss Kingly. That was what I presumed as well.”
    Jocelyn could not halt a deep shudder. It had been disturbing enough to know that an acquaintance had been brutally murdered. To discover she was clutching a paper with her name upon it made the horror even greater. It suddenly seemed very personal.
    â€œWhy would she have my name on a scrap of paper?” she whispered.
    Mr. Ryan regarded her somberly. “It appears that there are two possibilities. Either she was given the paper for some unknown purpose. Or . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOr the paper was placed in her hand after she was murdered.”
    She dropped the note onto the floor, her fingers unwittingly rubbing against her skirts, as if to rid herself of the nasty sense of menace that tingled through her.
    â€œWhy? For what purpose?”
    The large man grimaced. “That I cannot say.” “Dear heavens,” she breathed, more disturbed than she wished to admit.
    â€œI tell you this only because I believe you should take care, Miss Kingly. It might well be that your work among those less fortunate has made you a dangerous enemy.”
    With an effort she gathered her calm about her. She would not be panicked into abandoning those who depended upon her support. After all, she had been terrified when she had first taken this house so close to the stews. And even more terrified when she had first ventured into the streets at night. Whatever came along she would face squarely, not cowering behind her door.
    â€œThat is absurd,” she said in crisp tones. “I do nothing more than offer hope to those who have none.”
    â€œThere are always those who earn a profit from the misery of others,” he pointed out with more than a hint of warning. “They would not appreciate your interference.”
    She could hardly argue the truth of his words. There were always people like Molly’s husband. And those horrid men who sold children to brothels. She would not doubt that several cursed her name. Perhaps even desired to rid the streets of her presence.
    But there were also countless others who viewed her as their rescuer from starvation or worse.
    â€œDo not ask me to halt my efforts, Mr. Ryan,” she said in low tones. “I will not.”
    He slowly smiled, as if expecting her staunch response. “I only ask you keep in mind that there is danger in what you do. And perhaps when you are upon the streets that you notice anything peculiar.”
    Jocelyn rose to her feet, offering a small nod. “Very