You swells sure know how to complicate simple things.” Fletcher eyed his reflection, clad in Hollis’s dress coat.

“You think attending the opera is a simple thing?”

“Always is down in the gallery.” He still felt more at ease in the section of the audience where the servants and apprentices and poor folk watched.

Hollis shook his head. “If you think this is complicated, you should see how my brother prepares for a trip to the theater. It is like watching a performance before the performance.”

The Darby family were termed “old money,” except society didn’t realize most of that money was gone. Hollis’s grandfather had begun draining the family coffers back during the brief reign of the Prince Regent. His father had taken up the task shortly after Victoria ascended the throne. Hollis’s older brother had inherited a fortune so small it was hardly worth the effort to spend irresponsibly.

“Maybe it’s for the best King is draining away at my income,” Fletcher said. “Being well-to-do is a lot of bother.”

“You’ve played uncomfortable roles on behalf of the Dreadfuls before. Why does it rankle so much more this time?”

He flicked a hand, frustration getting the better of him.

“Perhaps because Miss Black will be there?” Hollis asked a little too innocently.

The fact that his nervousness increased at the guess told Fletcher his friend wasn’t entirely wrong. Still, admitting as much wasn’t on his short list of things he wanted to do. “Miss Black knows my origins.”

“Does she?” Hollis clearly doubted it. “I doubt even the Dread Master knows all the details of your early life.”

“The Dread Master values privacy.”

“He’s certainly convinced you to.” Hollis set his hat atop his head. “I can’t convince you to tell me who he is, and I know more of your secrets than anyone.”

“As I said, this one ain’t mine to tell.”

“His identity impacts everyone in the society, including me. That makes it not entirely his secret.”

This was an old argument between them, one Fletcher knew how to deflect. “And the state of your family’s coffers impacts more than just you, but you’ll not hear me whispering about it to anyone.”

Hollis looked the tiniest bit repentant. His brother went to great lengths to hide the situation, in part to save his own pride but also to help assure that his son and daughter would not be rejected outright when they were grown.

“You’re telling me I can’t complain about you keeping others’ secrets when you’re also keeping mine?”

Fletcher nodded.

“Will you ever tell me who the Dread Master is?” Hollis asked. “Maybe on my deathbed?”

“Not even then.” Fletcher tossed him a grin.

“Cruel, Fletch. You’re cruel.”

“What’s cruel is these shoes. They pinch like a pensioner’s pocketbook.”

Hollis laughed. “What is an evening at the opera without a little suffering?”

“You ain’t sweetening my opinion of this mad endeavor. Keep flapping your gums and I’m likely to let Miss Black take herself to the opera.”

Hollis walked with him to the front door of Fletcher’s town house. He didn’t live in the grandest area of Town, but his address was nothing to be ashamed of.

“You’ll have the company of a beautiful and clever woman,” Hollis said. “If that’s not enough to give you some enjoyment, then I’m not certain I know who you are anymore.”

“She is beautiful,” he admitted almost without thinking. “And, I suspect, clever enough to make me feel like a simpleton.”

The carriage Doc Milligan had agreed to provide for the night sat outside. It was serviceable and clean, though little else could be said in its favor. If he didn’t already look utterly out of place in Hollis’s togs, then spilling out of that scraggly equipage to collect Elizabeth would do the trick. No doubt, Mr. King’s next installment would feature an inept buffoon arriving at the heroine’s doorstep in laughable disgrace.

When she answered her door, however, she didn’t seem the least struck by his appearance. She simply smiled, noted that he was right on time, and stepped outside to join him in the carriage, the sight of which didn’t even slow her step.

“I have heard from Miss Newport, who heard from a friend who is friends with Mr. Midgley’s sister—Mr. Midgley is the man we are spying on, you will remember—that he will be in the same box as Mr. Moon, current chairman of the London and North Western Railway.” Elizabeth hadn’t waited even a moment after the carriage door closed to speak. “I believe that box is not far from the Darby box. Near enough we should be able to watch him without difficulty.”

“Watching can be helpful,” Fletcher said. “We’ll be too far for listening, though.”

“Perhaps we shall have to make a call at their box.”

Fletcher leaned back against the carriage squabs, eyeing Elizabeth with doubt. “They’d not bat an eye iffen you dropped in, but me taking a peek, well, they’d just as like toss me down to the gallery where I belong.”

The gas streetlamps cast light through the carriage windows, gently illuminating her face. “I think you underestimate yourself, Fletcher Walker.”

“I think you overestimate me, Elizabeth Black.”

She threaded her gloved fingers, watching him with keen interest. “What if I told you Mr. King read your most recent offering and has expressed concern that you will soon surpass his sales and put an end to his reign of success?”

He hated to admit how much good that did his oft-­battered pride. And yet . . . “I’d say Mr. King is either too generous or too insecure. His writing’s something new and unique. There’s a reason he’s at the top of the heap.”

Her interest grew more pointed. “If his success relies on the newness of his approach, is there any longevity in that?”

“You care a lot about Mr. King’s success.”

“I do.” She made the admission without the least hesitation. Just how close were she and King?

He leaned forward, elbows on his legs. “Have you no care for my success?” He allowed a bit of flirtation.

She cocked an eyebrow and, with a hint of coquetry herself, said, “Oh, I care very much about your success this evening.”

“Do you, now?”

“This is my first venture into the world of clandestine spy work. If you fail, I will as well.” She leaned forward, mimicking his posture. “And I care very much about my success.”

He lowered his voice to a more intimate whisper. “How very ambitious of you.”

She matched his volume and tone. “Do you find ambition in a lady intimidating?”

“On the contrary. I find it irresistible.”

“How very un-British of you.”

He laughed. “The Brits worth knowing agree with me.”

“A shame I am unacquainted with anyone ‘worth knowing.’”

Fletcher never enjoyed anyone’s company as much as those who brought a smile to his face. She was firmly on that list.

Though he’d grumbled a great deal to Hollis about how he had to dress when among the fine and proper, Fletcher realized within moments of arriving inside the Royal Opera House that his friend had been bang on the mark. If not for the togs of refinement, Fletcher would’ve been as out of place as Prince Albert in a fish market. Instead, he walked with Elizabeth on his arm feeling entirely at home. Or very nearly, at least. He was playing a part, after all; he didn’t truly belong in this glittering world of finery. And he knew Elizabeth knew it. He would do well to remember that, no matter the enjoyment he had in their conversations.

She greeted a few people, dipped curtsies, smiled. She knew more people than he did, but he was surprised at how many familiar faces he spotted amongst the theatergoers, and not merely those in the pit and gallery.

McCallister Rhys offered a bow as Elizabeth and Fletcher approached their box. Dreadfuls didn’t often acknowledge their acquaintance outside of meetings at headquarters unless their connection was already well established and known. What was behind the unusual break from protocol? Rhys didn’t say anything. Perhaps he had been greeting Elizabeth.

“Who was that?” Her question put paid to that theory.

“A man named Rhys. He also writes penny dreadfuls. I’m surprised to see him here. He ain’t Society.”

She leaned in closer and whispered, “Are the two mutually exclusive?”

“They ain’t exactly birds of a feather.”

“Many would say we aren’t either.”

How true that was. “Seems you’re to be a risk-taker tonight.”

She set her free hand on his arm, sighing lightly. “Do not blame me if I prove terrible at it.”

“Oh, I intend to blame you, Miss Black.”

They stepped into their box, and he led her to the chairs at the front. The formalities were all seen to. She was seated. He was seated. She pulled out her fan and began plying it with grace and elegance. He told himself not to fidget or glance longingly at the gallery. If he pretended he belonged in this world, others wouldn’t wonder what he was doing among them.

Elizabeth set her hand atop his, an innocent gesture, one employed in an almost incidental manner, but the casualness of it ill-prepared him for the impact of the simple touch. His pulse pounded in his ears and chest. His thoughts momentarily emptied.

“Mr. Moon’s box is just there.” She motioned beyond him with her head. “And Mr. Midgley is in the box even now.”

Fletcher adjusted his position enough to glance in that direction without being too obvious about it. He recognized Mr. Moon as well as another gentleman in the box. He did not, however, know which of the other half-dozen men was their target.

Elizabeth, apparently, guessed at his ignorance. “He is the shorter of the gentlemen who are standing—the one with the sour face and overly thick muttonchop whiskers.”

The curtain rose. Elizabeth’s attention shifted to the stage. Her hand, to his surprise, remained on his. She may well have merely been embracing her role in their charade, but he hadn’t any complaints.

One thing he knew about operas: few were in English. This one, from the sound of it, was in Italian. He knew ­little of that language beyond “Yes,” “No,” and the colorful expressions used by the Italian musicians who busked on the streets near Covent Gardens. Elizabeth, however, became entirely engrossed in the music.

“I ain’t got the first idea what they’re singing about,” he whispered, “but it’s nice.”

“I will let you in on a secret, Fletcher. I don’t understand Italian, either.”

“Seems to me I should’ve come with Hollis. He could’ve translated.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But would he have held your hand?”

Fletcher shrugged. “He might’ve tried, but I’d not’ve enjoyed it half as much.”

“You’re enjoying it?” She sounded a little doubtful.

He raised their entwined hands to his lips. “I’m enjoying it immensely.”

Fletcher kissed her fingers one at a time, lingering over each one. His pulse picked up with each kiss, his heart pounding ever harder.

“It’s a shame some of the rules Society has,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Her voice was airy, almost noiseless.

He unbent her fingers and, palm to palm, turned her hand in his. “I’m not overly fond of gloves.”

“We’re attempting to blend in.” Her voice grew ever more unsteady. “Clasping bare hands would draw attention.”

He leaned the teeniest bit closer, dropping his voice to an intimate whisper. “Perhaps another time, dear.”

“Perhaps,” she whispered.

He threaded their fingers once more and returned his attention to the stage. They sat that way through the remainder of the first act. As the performance reached its intermission, Elizabeth slipped her hand free of his.

“Should we call on Mr. Moon’s box and see if we can get any helpful information?” She, apparently, hadn’t been distracted from their purpose, more was the pity.

Fletcher looked over at the box. “He’s ain’t there.”

“He’s not?”

No one else had left that box. “How often do gentry coves take themselves off before the opera’s over?”

“More often than you might think. They make an appearance, shake the right hands, then go spend the evening at their club.”

“I suspect he might have.”

They watched awhile longer, but Midgley never returned, neither did anyone from the box appear to be expecting him.

“Seems we’ve lost our quarry,” Fletcher said. “Not the greatest spies, you and I.”

She didn’t mirror his humor, but said, in all seriousness, “I suppose there’s no reason to remain, then.”

No reason? Was sitting together swapping banter and holding hands not at least some reason? He’d thought she’d been enjoying herself enough to stay. Fool that he was, he’d even let himself imagine she’d been pleased to be with him.

Fletcher called upon all of his acting skills and walked with Elizabeth out of the opera house without giving the least indication he was disappointed. He’d learned long ago to hold himself together in times of difficulty. When he’d been rejected from the poor schools in London for being too poor. When he’d finally been admitted to a ragged school like Hogg’s only to struggle to learn and to have the other students laugh at him every time he declared his intention to make a success of himself. When he’d endured one beating after another from masters and landladies and been tossed out on his tiny ear for objecting. He knew how to hide his pain. No one would guess it was there now—not even her.

They sent word to the line of carriages that they were ready to depart. Elizabeth did not seem in the mood to talk, so they waited in silence. Milligan’s carriage arrived. Elizabeth was handed up, but the driver motioned for Fletcher to wait a moment.

“Thought you’d want to know Mr. Midgley’s coachman said he’d be taking his master to the Serpentine tomorrow during the fashionable hour.”

That was helpful information, indeed.

Fletcher thanked him, tossing the man a gold coin, before climbing inside the carriage.

“Turns out, Elizabeth, this evening weren’t a complete waste.”

She was clearly intrigued.

“Care to undertake an outing tomorrow?”

She smiled. “Absolutely.”

Perhaps it hadn’t been such a disaster after all.