A Study In Seduction

chapter Three




The locket swung back and forth, sunlight captured in the silver casing. Alexander lifted the chain to study the engraving. Edging his thumbnail into the seam, he opened the little compartment.

The miniature image of a woman with sparrow-brown hair stared back at him, the hint of laughter that curved her lips mitigating the imperiousness of her pose. The other side of the locket’s casing bore a picture of a man, his features narrow and strong, a neat beard covering his jaw and a serious expression in his eyes.

Alexander had a sudden image of Lydia Kellaway wearing this locket around her neck, enclosing it in her hand every so often as she thought of her beloved parents.

Not an emotion he would ever have extended to his own parents—his iron-fisted father, his cold-as-glass mother, who’d shocked them all with her shameful affair.

Sometimes Alexander still couldn’t believe it. The Countess of Rushton, imperious to a fault with her dulcet tones and porcelain skin, debasing herself with a common soldier.

At least she’d had the sense to run off, Alexander thought. Otherwise he’d have thrown her out himself after the affair came to light.

A grunt made him look up. His twenty-nine-year-old brother Sebastian slumped into a chair, his eyes heavy lidded and his jaw unshaven. He dragged a hand through his messy hair and yawned.

“Late night?” Alexander asked, his voice tight.

Sebastian shrugged, staring at the table as if he expected breakfast to appear. He yawned again and headed to the sideboard and the coffeepot.

“Where did you go?” Alexander asked.

“Concert at the Eagle Tavern. Their pianist canceled, so they asked me to fill in. Thought I’d sleep here so’s not to disturb Talia or the old bird.”

“You thought performing at the Eagle Tavern was a good idea?”

Sebastian groaned and took a swallow of coffee. “It’s a respectable enough place. Besides, no one cares, Alex.”

“I do.”

“You’re the only one, then.”

Frustration tightened Alexander’s chest. For all his efforts following their parents’ divorce, his siblings had failed to do a single thing to help restore the family’s reputation. Sebastian cared nothing for what others thought, and if Talia had the choice, she would seclude herself at their country estate and never visit London.

Alexander, on the other hand, lived within the thick of it—attending social events, clubs, and business meetings as if nothing had gone wrong, as if their mother had not left them in disgrace. As if their deep association with Russia were not an increasing burden.

“I sent word to Father yesterday that I wish to speak with him about the management of the Floreston estate,” he told Sebastian. “There’s been some discrepancy between income and expenditure, and I’ve several tenant issues with which to contend.”

“If you wish to speak with Lord Rushton, I suggest you call upon him.” Sebastian scrubbed a hand over his face. “He can be found at Forty-five King Street, Piccadilly, in the event you’ve forgotten. Likely he’s spending the morning in his greenhouse.”

“And Talia? What are her plans for the day?”

“I think she’s got a meeting with the Ragged School Union.” Sebastian eyed him over the rim of his cup. “Told me yesterday you were haranguing her about marriage again.”

“I was not haranguing her. She needs to understand that a good marriage will help not only her, but also the family. Both financially and socially.”

“She’d be more civil if you let her alone,” Sebastian said. “Moreover, you’ll do better to worry about your own state of matrimony rather than Talia’s.”

Alexander scowled. “You think I’ve got time to find a suitable wife?”

“All you need do is find yourself a sweet, empty-headed young chit, Alex. God knows there are plenty. Better still if the girl’s father has found himself with pockets to let. You needn’t do much except wed her and bed her.” Sebastian arched a mocking eyebrow. “Neither of which ought to take you much time.”

“Blackguard,” Alexander muttered. “It wouldn’t take much time because a young chit would faint with shock before I’d even got started.”

Sebastian grinned. “You needn’t pay a wife regular visits, so long as she produces a son. Then Mrs. Arnott will be happy to keep you entertained. Word is she favors you for more than just your money.”

Alexander sighed. His infrequent patronage of the brothel was due to the need for discretion and his lack of interest in the complications of an affair.

Not to mention his distaste for marriage to a “sweet, empty-headed young chit”—no matter how beneficial such a match would be to the earldom. The very idea brought back the ugliness of his experience with Lord Chilton and his daughter.

“Wed and bed, Alex. All you need to do.”

Alexander shook his head and left the dining room, somewhat gratified at restoring his brother’s good humor—if one could call it that.

Despite their different temperaments, of his three brothers, Alexander had always been closest to Sebastian. Partly because they couldn’t compete with the bond their twin brothers shared, but also because Alexander always secretly appreciated Sebastian’s relaxed, devil-may-care approach to life.

An approach Alexander had never been able to cultivate.

And as much as they’d sparred over Sebastian’s cavalier attitude about the scandal, Alexander couldn’t help the sting of envy he felt. Sebastian did what he pleased, everyone else be damned.

He wasn’t the one who had been forced to sacrifice all his plans. He wasn’t the one who’d had to return to London to contend with the detritus of their mother’s abandonment and the subsequent divorce. He wasn’t the one who’d borne the humiliation of a broken engagement to a society debutante.

None of his brothers were.

Alexander rubbed the back of his neck to ease the persistent tension caused by the weight of responsibility. After he had finished dressing, he had picked up Lydia Kellaway’s notebook from where he’d left it on a table.

She was no sweet, uninspiring daughter of a rustic peer. If her writings were anything to judge by, she knew far more about prime numbers and differential equations than fashion and etiquette.

Perhaps that alone was the reason Alexander hadn’t met her before now. Though her father, Sir Henry Kellaway, had been a scholar of considerable repute in Chinese history and literature, he’d always been something of a recluse.

Had that been because of Lydia?

Alexander frowned at the thought. He ordered the carriage brought around, then gave the driver an East Street address that was written inside the front cover of the notebook.

As he rode, he paged through the notebook. There appeared to be no organization to the scribbles—just pages and pages of algebraic equations and geometrical diagrams.

This happens when r is the greatest of the solutions of a + ar = b + βr, a + ar = c + γr, &c. Let (k – a) : (a – κ), which we call ρ, be the greatest in the set—

Alexander gave a short laugh. Odd, he’d called her? Miss Kellaway was more than odd if her brain not only comprehended such convolutions, but also actually produced them.

A few words on the following page caught his eye.

Variables as the measure of love.

The word love was heavily underlined. This was followed by a series of equations and notes that made little sense to Alexander, aside from his recognizing the structure of differential equations and scrawled references to the Iliad, Romeo and Juliet, Petrarch.

He closed the notebook, not having any idea what to make of it. But rather wishing he did.


A short while later, Alexander descended the carriage across from a modest brick town house. A newspaper boy, his trousers tied with a length of rope, paced in front of an iron fence. At the corner, a fruit seller set up her stand and shooed away a dog pawing for scraps.

The door of the town house opened, and a woman emerged, her arms laden with at least half a dozen books. No, not a woman. Lydia Kellaway. In a black dress, her torso as rigid as a tree branch above the billow of her skirts.

Yet despite her clothes, her body appeared both slender and quite deliciously rounded, intensifying Alexander’s conviction that an unclad Lydia Kellaway would be lush, soft, and as tempting as sin.

He crossed the street, his heart slamming against his ribs with every step.

A brown-haired girl, perhaps ten or eleven and as neat as a pin in a starched pinafore, appeared at Lydia’s side to hold the door open.

“Jane, please, could you take—” Lydia’s gaze slid to Alexander as he approached. She straightened, fumbling with her books, her lips parting with surprise.

“Miss Kellaway.”

“Lord Northwood.”

God. Even the sound of her voice made his blood hot. Lyrical, with just the slightest bit of a rasp, like a good brandy that slid rich and warm down one’s throat. He wanted to hear the sound of his Christian name in her voice, wanted it to melt against his skin.

“May I?” He stepped forward to take the books from her. His fingers brushed against her arms, her gloved hands. His head filled with the scent of the air surrounding her.

“Thank you.” Lydia lifted a hand to straighten her crooked hat. Exertion flushed her pale skin, and a few locks of dark-brown hair spilled around her neck and forehead.

She placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and bent to whisper in her ear. The girl shot a curious look at Alexander before going back into the house. He looked after her with a slight frown.

“My sister,” Lydia explained. “You’ll forgive me for sending her away. I don’t wish her to know of recent… events.”

“Events?”

“Yes, the… Lord Northwood, please come inside.” She preceded him into the drawing room.

As he unloaded the books onto a table, Alexander let his gaze sweep across the room, the worn brocade sofa and chairs, the peeling wallpaper, the faded Chinese scrolls. Not a speck of dust appeared on any surface, but the furnishings bore the evidence of age and wear.

“I intended to contact you today, my lord.” Lydia turned beside the window, tugging off her gloves. “Have you got my notebook? I’m afraid I left it the other night.”

Alexander lifted his gaze from her slender white hands and tapered fingers. He slipped the notebook from his pocket. Relief flashed across Lydia’s face as she started forward.

“Oh, thank you. I’ve got so many notes written there that if I were to—” She stopped a short distance from him as she realized he wasn’t extending the book to her.

A frown creased her forehead, and she gave an irritated huff. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to make an entirely improper request before you give me my notebook back.”

“Hmm. Hadn’t planned to, but it’s an intriguing thought.”

“Lord Northwood!”

Alexander grinned and handed her the book. Their hands touched as she took it. She pulled her arm back, a faint flush coloring her cheeks.

Her reaction wasn’t coy. He knew that. It was as if she simply had no idea what to do with him, and her lack of knowledge caused her embarrassment.

Lydia looked at the front of his shirt, her white teeth biting down on her lower lip. He took the opportunity to study her in the light streaming through the window, noticing details he hadn’t the other night.

The smooth arch of her eyebrows, the faint freckles sprinkled over the bridge of her nose, the delicious fullness of her lips—no, that he had noticed when he’d been close enough to feel her breath. But now he could see the color of her bare, unpainted lips, like the blush of an apricot. She’d taste that way, too, all sweet and juicy and pink.

Hell.

Alexander took a step back, fighting to rein in his arousal. He forced himself not to skim the rest of Lydia Kellaway’s body, to rake with his gaze the curves of her full breasts, the slope of her waist, her round hips…

Stop.

For no other reason than to stop looking at her, Alexander turned his attention to the books he’d dumped on the table. For a man who prided himself on his self-control, he was reacting like a lusty greenhorn.

As he forced aside his reactions, his vision focused on the title of the topmost book. Introductio in analysin infinitorum. He pulled the books from the stack and glanced at the other titles. The Mathematical Analysis of Logic. Thoughts on the Study of Mathematics as Part of a Liberal Education.

Alexander restacked the books before lifting his head. She was watching him, her thick-lashed eyes wary, her lower lip still caught between her teeth.

“Do you read anything else besides texts on mathematics?” he asked.

“The occasional magazine or book, yes.”

“Petrarch?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You read Petrarch, don’t you? Shakespeare? The Iliad?”

“How did you—” She drew back, her lips parting on a shocked gasp. “You read my notebook?”

“Hardly. If I’d read your notebook, that would imply I understood it. Which I did not. I did, however, notice your writing about romances.”

“Lord Northwood, you have violated my privacy!”

“Mmm. Like you did mine when you invaded my house at midnight? Or when you hunted up gossip about me? Or when you skulked about unlawfully procuring my name from Havers’s salesbook?”

“Well, I—” Twin circles of pink stained her cheeks, and Alexander wondered if any other woman in the world blushed as much as Miss Lydia Kellaway.

She cleared her throat and fumbled with a brooch pinned to her neckline. “That is to say, I didn’t intend—”

“In any case,” Alexander said, “I fail to see what’s so private about scribbling a few names and equations. Now, if you’d written erotic poems or—”

“Lord Northwood.” Despite her intensely pink complexion, she lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “I happen to believe there is a mathematical basis for romantic relationships.”

He stared at her. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d told him she actually did write erotic poems—just in a different notebook.

“A mathematical basis for relationships?” he repeated, not understanding at all.

“Yes. A pattern of behavior. I am using historical examples such as Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Helen and Paris, etcetera, to test my theories and establish proofs.”

She was serious. She stood there clutching her infernal notebook, her blue eyes blinking without guile.

“Proofs of… of what?” Alexander asked.

“Patterns of attraction and rejection. For example, although Laura was a married woman who spurned Petrarch’s advances, he continued to pursue her through his sonnets. I believe I can describe their relationship by assigning variables to their emotions and creating differential equations.”

Alexander was dumbfounded. The woman was trying to quantify love.

“Lydia, I thought you were going to—”

Both Alexander and Lydia turned as an elderly woman entered, her steps accompanied by the click of an ivory-handled cane. She stopped.

“Grandmama, this is Viscount Northwood.” A hint of dismay colored Lydia’s voice. “Lord Northwood, my grandmother, Mrs. Charlotte Boyd.”

“Mrs. Boyd.” He nodded in greeting, suppressing his annoyance at the interruption. How in the name of heaven did one quantify love? “A pleasure.”

“Lord Northwood.” Mrs. Boyd looked at Lydia and back to him again. Something calculating sharpened her assessment. “Lydia has confessed she… disturbed you at your home.”

She did, indeed.

“I do apologize for her impertinence,” Mrs. Boyd added.

“No need, Mrs. Boyd. Miss Kellaway and I have come to an agreement.” He cast a quick glance toward Lydia before returning his attention to Mrs. Boyd.

“Have you?” The woman’s gaze narrowed. “Might I inquire what kind of agreement?”

“It’s nothing, really,” Lydia broke in. “I’m working on some accounting for Lord Northwood in exchange for the locket.”

Alexander studied the older woman to see if she saw through the lie, but rather than appearing suspicious, Mrs. Boyd seemed oddly pleased.

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite proper for a woman to work on accounting,” she admitted, “but I do know that Lydia will be most accurate and thorough. She’s always had a head for numbers, my lord.”

“So I’ve discovered.” He glanced at Lydia. “I’d best be on my way. I’m expected at the Society of Arts offices within the hour.”

As he returned to the carriage, Sebastian’s words echoed through his head.

Find yourself a sweet, empty-headed young chit.

Alexander wouldn’t call Lydia Kellaway sweet. She was sharp and peppery, not sweet. As for empty-headed… he almost laughed. If anything, that woman’s head was crammed with far too many thoughts and suppositions. And young? She must be nearing thirty.

He stared out the window. No. Miss Kellaway was too forthright, too opinionated, too prickly. Not to mention downright odd. She did not come from a prominent family. Society would think it a strange match. It wasn’t what people would expect of him.

Yet he hadn’t been as intrigued by a woman in ages, if ever. He didn’t understand all she was about, but he was determined to try.


He made her blush. Blush! How many years had it been since she—Lydia Kellaway, mathematical prodigy who at eight years of age studied differential and integral calculus—had blushed? At least, in a way that elicited a tingle of pleasure and the urge to smile.

And when Lord Northwood looked at her, her heart fluttered like petals in a breeze.

She wondered what he thought when he looked at her. Did he like what he saw? The heated look in his eyes suggested he did, but he was far more experienced in such matters than she was, so perhaps it was all a game to him.

Or perhaps not.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks, even now feeling them warm with color. Somewhere deep inside, in a place she rarely allowed herself to venture, Lydia remembered what carnal desire had felt like. She remembered the heating of her blood, the tension swirling in her belly.

But this… the lightness, the surge beneath her heart… this was all new. Welcome. Lovely.

Dangerous.

Lydia closed her eyes, hating the whispered warning, the reminder that not even in her imagination should she allow herself to acknowledge, let alone enjoy, the sensations Lord Northwood aroused.

“Lydia.”

Lydia’s eyes flew open at the sound of her grandmother’s voice. She sat up, folding her arms across her breasts. Shame clawed through her, even though she had done nothing wrong.

“Would you please join me in the drawing room?” Mrs. Boyd asked. “I’d like to speak with you.”

“About what?”

“I’ve several matters I wish to discuss before my meeting at the bank tomorrow morning. Ten minutes, please.”

She turned and left, her statement freezing any memory of Lord Northwood from Lydia’s mind. She smoothed the wrinkles from her dress, then scraped her hair away from her face and neck, ensuring any loose tendrils were tightly contained by a ribbon.

Apprehension rippled through her as she went to the drawing room. Her grandmother stood beside the fire, her arms crossed.

“Please,” Lydia said. “What is this about?”

Mrs. Boyd tapped her fingers against her arms. “How many times have you seen Lord Northwood?”

“Seen him? Twice, I think. Why?”

“You’re to see him more often, I imagine, if you’re working on his books,” Mrs. Boyd continued. “My friend Mrs. Keene claims he’s been intent on restoring honor to his family. It’s one reason he’s working so hard with the Society of Arts and the organization of the educational exhibition. He’s vice president of the Society and director of the exhibition. He’s also been attempting to arrange a suitable marriage for his sister.”

Ah. Likely that had something to do with why the young woman had been so upset the other night.

“I’m certain he’ll prove successful,” Lydia said. She couldn’t imagine Northwood being unsuccessful at anything.

“However,” Mrs. Boyd continued, “word is that he’s not expressed interest in finding a wife for himself.”

“And?”

“Odd, don’t you think? He’s the one who must produce an heir, after all. Though I suspect he knows that no high-ranking family wants their daughter wed to him, not after his mother’s deplorable behavior. And especially not after Lord Chilton insisted his daughter break off her engagement to him.”

Tension crawled up Lydia’s spine. “What are you implying?”

“I’m implying nothing, Lydia,” Mrs. Boyd replied. “I’m merely giving you the facts about the man, considering you took it upon yourself to visit him unescorted. I should hope that Jane’s education means as much to you as that foolish locket does.”

Lydia blinked at the sudden shift in topic.

“Of course,” she said. “Jane and her education mean everything to me. You know that.” The tension tightened around the base of her skull. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“I know you care about her, Lydia. And you’ve—”

“Care about her?” Good Lord. Did her grandmother not know that she loved Jane more with every breath, every heartbeat?

“You have done well with her,” Mrs. Boyd continued. “She’s still a bit careless, but for the most part she is a well-behaved, respectful girl. However, she is ready for a different type of schooling. The kind that will secure her a place in polite society.”

“She’s doing beautifully under my tutelage. We’ve started reading the Odyssey; we’re studying the countries of the empire; she’s learning fractions and basic algebra—”

“Lydia, Jane requires guidance from teachers who possess far more intuitive social grace than you do. She must learn proper etiquette if she is to marry well.”

“She’s not yet twelve,” Lydia protested. “I didn’t give etiquette or, heaven forbid, marriage a thought until I went to boarding school.”

“Perhaps you should have started earlier.” Her grandmother paused; then her voice sounded like the clip of scissors. “The discipline might have done you good.”

Lydia flinched, her hand clenching around the back of a chair.

The cosine of theta plus gamma equals the cosine of theta times the cosine of gamma plus the sine of theta times the sine of gamma.

“I know we’ve talked about her attending Queen’s Bridge, but even with the funds from the locket, it’s too expensive…” Lydia’s voice faded. Something in her grandmother’s expression caused a flutter of panic.

“I have discussed the matter with Mrs. Keene, whose opinion I implicitly trust,” Mrs. Boyd said. “Mrs. Keene has a widowed aunt who resides in Paris, a baroness whose late husband left her with both a fortune and his good name. Mrs. Keene has corresponded with Lady Montague about a girls’ school she recently opened in the Quartier St. Germain.”

“No.”

Mrs. Boyd’s mouth compressed. “I am not asking your opinion, Lydia.”

“You cannot send Jane all the way to France for her education.” The flutter of panic began to grow, beating hard against her chest. “You can’t do this to her.”

You can’t do this to me.

“I am not doing this to her, Lydia,” her grandmother replied. “I am doing it for her.”

“No. It’s too far. She won’t—”

“Heavens, Lydia, it is Paris, not the wilds of Africa,” Mrs. Boyd interrupted. “As you pointed out, we cannot afford to send her to any of the better London schools, least of all Queen’s Bridge. Lady Montague, however, owing to my friendship with Mrs. Keene as well as her wish to have a strong initial enrollment, has very kindly offered to provide Jane with a scholarship.”

“And you accepted?”

“I intend to, yes.” Mrs. Boyd sighed, her hand moving to fuss with her lace cuffs. “Lydia, I don’t wish to see Jane leave us either. But unless we can find a way to send her to a school in London—an exclusive school, mind you, one that will give her the education we cannot—I have no other choice.”

She lifted her head. For a long moment, they looked at each other. Lydia’s heart constricted, shrank. A thousand years seemed to fill the space between them, overflowing with regret and the pain of loss.

She wished her mother were here. Not the woman of the haunted, twisted mind, but the mother she remembered before the descent of darkness. The Theodora Kellaway of laughter and calm, of soft hands and long hair as thick and shiny as wheat.

And she wished her father were here. She needed his calm, serious approach, his perspective. Despite everything, he’d only ever wanted the best for both her and Jane.

“You still want to punish me, don’t you?” The question broke from her lips, coarse and crumbled.

“This is not about you,” her grandmother said. “This is about Jane.”

“It is about me! You’ll never let me forget what happened when you sent me away, will you?”

“Lydia!” Mrs. Boyd thumped her cane on the floor. “How dare you suggest this is in any way related to your folly? Lady Montague’s school is new, but it will certainly provide Jane with a place that is both highly instructive and properly supervised.”

Lydia stared at her. Mrs. Boyd’s mouth clamped shut as she appeared to realize what she’d said. Lydia trembled with a flare of outrage.

“No.” Her fists clenched, her eyes stinging with hot, angry tears.

“Lydia—”

“No. I won’t let you do this. I will not let you take Jane from me!”

Lydia crossed the room and slammed the door behind her. She drew in a long breath, her fingers tightening on her skirt, her blood racing through her veins.

The clock in the foyer ticked. Shadows swept across the stairs, reflected in the mirror, an ominous blend of dark and light.

Anger and hurt churned through Lydia, dredging up remnants of shame. She yanked open the front door. Once outside, she walked faster and faster until she was running, the night air stinging her face. She ran until her lungs ached, and then she slowed, gasping, pulling her arms around her body to hold in the hurt and block out the cold.

She sank onto the steps of a darkened town house, fighting to catch her breath and calm her racing heart.

Memories surfaced, but she ruthlessly shoved the images away, not wanting to see her mother’s emaciated frame, her father’s sallow, despairing expression, her grandmother’s fury.

Not wanting to see a pair of cold green eyes that could still cut her like glass.

She shuddered. The chill spread to the center of her heart.

After what seemed a very long time, she lifted her head from her knees. A layer of fog coated the sky, suffocating the moon and the light of the stars.

She rose and walked to Dorset Street. Several black cabriolets waited at a stand for hire.

A driver looked at her with mild curiosity before giving a short nod at her request. He ushered her into the cab and slammed the door shut.

Lydia closed her eyes as the cab began moving toward Oxford Street.

If p is a prime number, then for any integer a, ap − a will be evenly divisible by p.

The derivative of uv equals u derivative v plus derivative u times v.

“Twelve Mount Street, miss.”

Lydia opened her eyes. Light glowed in several windows of the brick town house. She was foolish to come here again. She knew that, and yet she asked the driver to wait, then approached the door and rang. No response. Her heart clenched. She rang again.

The door opened to reveal a straight-backed footman. “Yes?”

“Lord Northwood, please. I am Lydia Kellaway.”

“One moment.” He stepped aside to allow her to enter, then disappeared soundlessly up the stairs.

After a moment, a square of light appeared from the upper floor, and Lord Northwood strode toward her, each step so certain he appeared to be securing the ground beneath his feet. His lack of hesitation, the strength that radiated from him, made Lydia ache with the wish to possess such assurance.

“Miss Kellaway?” He frowned, glancing through the half-open door at the cab. “Are you all right?”

“I… I don’t have any—”

“Come inside. I’ll take care of it.” He gestured to the footman to pay the cab fee before turning back to Lydia. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come…” Lydia took a breath and lifted her head to meet his gaze. “I’ve come to settle my debt.”


Did she feel the same?

She didn’t look the same. She was older, of course, the edges of her face harder, the curiosity, the anticipation extinguished from her eyes, from her movements. Replaced with tight composure.

Only once since Joseph had returned to London did he notice her falter—just after her father’s funeral when she’d been standing outside the church with the girl, who’d turned to wrap her arms around Lydia’s waist and sob.

Then Lydia had visibly struggled with her own tears. A crack in her self-possession.

Before the girl had pulled away from her, a mask of calm, of reassurance, had descended over Lydia’s face.

The girl. Jane. A plain name, though she was pretty enough. She was intelligent, too, if her letters were anything to judge by. However, he required more time to probe the actual depths of her mind.

“Sir? We’re here.” The cabdriver was peering at him.

He nodded, then flicked his hand to indicate the driver should return to his seat. “Back to Bethnal Green.”

As the cab rattled away, he watched Lydia Kellaway disappear into the Mount Street town house, the tall silhouette of a man at her side.

Joseph chuckled. She might be older, but apparently her needs were the same. She was rising above her station, though, if the neighborhood was anything to judge by.

Or was she?

He knew the Kellaways had been in financial straits, even before Sir Henry’s death. What if Lydia had found a way to earn money using the talents of her body rather than her mind?

Fancy town houses here on Mount Street. Belonging to wealthy people. He would soon find out who lived at number twelve.