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well.
     
     
    “I’m afraid there’s really not much else I can tell you about Rose Jones,” Walden was saying. “Many of the girls chafe at the restrictions we impose upon them, but Rose never did. She never left the house.”
     
     
    “Because she was still afraid?”
     
     
    “Yes, I think so.”
     
     
    “Did she ever say anything about her life before she . . .” Miss Jarvis hesitated.
     
     
    Walden shook his head. “No. Although it was obvious she was gently born. We don’t often see women quite like her. For some reason, many of the women who come to us claim to be clergymen’s daughters, although I suspect few actually are. But I’ve no doubt Rose was very wellborn. Very wellborn indeed.” He looked from Miss Jarvis to Sebastian. “This has something to do with the fire, doesn’t it? Dost thou think it’s possible the fire was not an accident?”
     
     
    “I think so, yes.”
     
     
    Joshua Walden nodded, his lips pressed together tightly.
     
     
    It was when he was escorting them to the door that he said suddenly, “There is one more thing that might help. We had a young girl in the house who called herself Rachel. I don’t think she could have been more than thirteen—a lovely fair-haired child. One evening—just by chance—I overheard Rose say to the child, ‘I was once called Rachel.’ It stuck in my head because Rachel laughed merrily and said, ‘I was once called Rose.’ ”
     
     
    He smiled gently at the memory, the smile rapidly fading. “But it may mean nothing. Some girls change their names frequently.”
     
     
    “Perhaps,” said Sebastian, pausing in the Quaker’s simple entrance hall. “But it could also be Rose’s real name. Thank you.”
     
     
     
“That was fortuitous,” said Miss Jarvis as Sebastian handed her up into her waiting carriage. “I hadn’t expected to learn so much.”
     
     
    “You think we learned a great deal, do you?”
     
     
    “You don’t?” She turned to look at him in surprise. “How many brothels can there be near Portman Square?”
     
     
    He took a step back. “Believe it or not, Miss Jarvis, I haven’t the slightest idea. But I know someone who will.”
     

 
    Chapter 8
     
     
    In addition to the modest estate in Hampshire bequeathed to him by a maiden great-aunt, Sebastian also kept a bow-fronted house in Brook Street. The establishment at Number 41 Brook Street was considerably smaller and less imposing than the Grosvenor Square townhouse of his father, Alistair St. Cyr, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Fifth Earl of Hendon. But Sebastian had not visited either his father’s Grosvenor Square house or his ancestral estates in Cornwall since September of the previous year.
     
     
    A distant rumble of thunder shook the cloudy afternoon as Sebastian took the short flight of stairs to his own front door. He handed his hat to his majordomo, Morey, and said, “Where is Calhoun?”
     
     
    Jules Calhoun was Sebastian’s valet. The less than orthodox nature of some of Sebastian’s activities had in the past made it difficult for him to retain the services of a gentleman’s gentleman. But it had been eight months now since Calhoun had joined the Brook Street household, and he’d never shown the least tendency to leave in horror or a fit of pique.
     
     
    The majordomo, however, was not one of Calhoun’s fans. He sniffed. “ Some valets might have more sense than to invade the kitchen this close to the dinner hour,” said Morey in sepulchral tones. “Unfortunately, Calhoun is not of their company.”
     
     
    Sebastian hid a smile. “Brewing boot polish, is he?”
     
     
    A muscle bunched along Morey’s tight jaw. “If Madame LeClerc should quit over this—”
     
     
    “Madame LeClerc quit because Calhoun has chosen to spend some time in the kitchen?” Sebastian jerked off his gloves. “Not likely.”
     
     
    Madame LeClerc would have banished any other valet with a pot of boot polish to the stables.