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to do with her. “Do you imagine that other families haven’t offered the same thing? That our house isn’t full of things we don’t want or need from people unable to make good on their account?”
    Emma’s heart sank. She bit her lip to keep her tears at bay. “Is there anything you could simply tell me to do? Something to help her cough at least?”
    He stared across the street as though pondering her question. “How long has she been coughing up the blood?”
    “It started yesterday.”
    “You do realize it’s common for the symptoms of consumption to grow progressively worse.”
    “No! No, it’s not worsening.” Emma refused to consider that possibility. “This is just a temporary setback. There has to be something I can give her to help.”
    Still he hesitated. Emma wanted to grab his arm and shake him, to somehow force him to aid them. Instead, she tried to think, to use her intellect—the one skill she had—to solve this problem as she had so many others.
    “Perhaps you need help with your files. Or some research? I’m excellent at research. You might remember that my uncle was a professor at Cambridge, and I often assisted him in organizing his notes and documents and helped him write up his findings.”
    Dr. Barnes tilted his head to the side and she drew a hopeful breath, wondering if she’d somehow caught his interest.
    “Organize them? How so?”
    A few minutes later a deal had been struck, and Emma hurried away, a tin of pastilles in her hand. Dr. Barnes said they contained compressed herbs that would release as they dissolved in Tessa’s mouth almost like candy. Emma was certain they wouldn’t taste like a sweet, but if they helped, she knew Tessa would gladly take them. Emma planned to return on the morrow to assist Dr. Barnes with compiling some research and noting various sources for a paper he was writing for publication. She was thrilled to have found something to offer in trade. Though her services would only be temporary, Dr. Barnes had agreed to pay Tessa another visit in addition to giving her the pastilles.
    She slowed her pace, suddenly aware that someone watched her. Dusk was falling and though this was a quiet neighborhood, a woman walking alone was never wise. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed only a street urchin kicking a rock in the road behind her. He glanced up and studied her under the bill of his cap. Not much older than Patrick, he looked out of place in this neighborhood. With a cheeky grin, he ran past her and on down the street.
    She frowned, trying to think of where she’d seen him before. A memory niggled at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t place him. With another look over her shoulder, she quickened her pace, anxious to reach home before dark fell.

CHAPTER THREE
     
    Professor Joseph Grisby slowly made his way toward the gate of Pentonville Prison, a walking stick in one hand, a doctor’s bag in the other. He hid his limp as best he could, but the pain on his left side made walking difficult even with the aid of a cane. Though no longer recognizable to family or friends, he wore a dark brown wig with matching mutton chops to hide his scarred face in addition to his hat. The glue that adhered the whiskers to his face itched terribly. The shaded spectacles he wore hid the damage to his eye from the casual observer.
    A physician visiting the prison wasn’t an unusual occurrence. The contents of his bag, if searched, would look quite normal. The small bottles with mysterious, foul-smelling liquids along with some basic tools were what a doctor would carry. Plus they might be needed to ensure Vincent Simmons’ cooperation.
    The fool had gotten himself caught. Again. Quite annoying and terribly inconvenient. His nephew had proven useful ten years ago but of late, Joseph was having doubts. Yet Vincent’s resourcefulness and willingness to justify the means with the end result was difficult to find in an employee. The fact that he was family held