Elizabeth hardly recognized herself. The powder Móirín had applied to her hair had turned it a dark shade of gray. That, in combination with the floppy bonnet and rough-hewn fabric of her dress, truly changed her appearance.

“The lads were worried someone would recognize you,” Móirín said. “They’re not wanting to put your wee girls at risk. This’ll do brilliantly.”

“Do you often go about in disguise?”

Móirín nodded. “Brogan and I frequent rough areas of Town. ’Tis best no one knows we’ve a couple things worth filching, or some of the unsavory sorts would likely follow us. And regularly changing the way we look also helps us not draw attention.”

Here was a woman of some degree of comfort and standing, enough to live in a neighborhood populated by the middle class, who unapologetically broke with expectations in order to do good in the world in the way she preferred. Elizabeth had only begun to give herself permission to do that. Seeing someone else navigate it so effortlessly was reassuring, encouraging, exciting.

How far dared she push it? Fletcher hadn’t been entirely wrong the evening of their near-kiss. There were many who would withdraw support from her school should her name be connected with his. Not all, but some. More still would abandon Thurloe if Mr. King’s identity were known. Could she find the courage, as Móirín had, to forge her own path no matter the objections, no matter the very real risk?

“Do your brother’s friends often go along on your adventures?”

Móirín pulled open the door of the bedchamber. “Now and then. They all help each other with their various efforts. The lot of them are up to their brain boxes in humanitarian mischief.”

Did she know about the Dread Penny Society, or had the men simply convinced her they were vaguely connected philanthropists? Fletcher hadn’t given her permission to speak freely with others about what little he’d told her.

The sight that met her at the bottom of the stairs pulled a laugh from her. All three of the men were dressed precisely like struggling costermongers or bottle men, complete with smudges of dirt on their faces. Brogan had even managed to darken his hair to a less-startling shade of red.

“Don’t we look quite the picture?” Elizabeth said.

Brogan made a show of strutting about, as if he was playing the part of an aristocrat instead of a street vendor. Fletcher leaned against a nearby wall, watching the display with amusement. Stone, as she was beginning to suspect was customary for him, simply waited with an expression and posture of neutrality.

Fletcher’s gaze shifted to Móirín standing on the step just behind Elizabeth. “Did you have to make her so old? I’ll look quite the quiz making up sweet to an ancient hag.”

“Perhaps the ‘ancient hag’ hasn’t any interest in making up sweet to a soot-covered vagabond,” Móirín said. “Did you think of that?”

He looked to Elizabeth, a flirtatious gleam in his eyes. Surely his teasing and hand-holding and concern for her meant he wasn’t entirely opposed to some kind of connection between them. Surely. “Do you mean to reject my attentions, dove, simply because I’m in need of a bath?”

Stone spoke before she could. “We haven’t time for this.”

“Stop being a grump, Stone,” Brogan said. “You’ll take all the fun out of the day.”

“How’ll we know ’tis truly him if he stops being a grump?” Móirín asked. “Best let him keep grumbling.”

Fletcher held his hand out to Elizabeth. He’d done so when they’d stepped from the carriage. He’d done so the first time she’d met Brogan. They’d used their supposed courtship as a pretense for being together, but it hadn’t felt like a ruse lately. It felt like a question mark.

A hired hack waited outside the flat.

“I thought we weren’t taking hackneys since that would draw attention.”

“The afternoon’s wearing on,” Fletcher said. “We can’t waste time going that far on foot. The hack will drop us near enough our destination we can walk the rest of the way.”

Were they not concerned that would be suspicious? Especially being picked up directly outside the Donnellys’ home?

In the moment before Elizabeth stepped up into the carriage, she caught sight of Brogan tossing a penny to the driver. A penny. Oh, these men were up to their brain boxes in more than just humanitarian mischief.

Once they were all settled, Fletcher took up the matter at hand. “Do we begin at that criminal enclave near Maida Hill, then?”

Brogan shook his head. “It’d make more sense for criminals to be congregating in that area, but I keep going back to the lad being able to hear the elephants. Those beasts are loud, but they ain’t so loud that Móirín and I’ve ever heard them when we’ve been nearer that end of the park.”

Elizabeth wasn’t the least surprised that the fierce Irishwoman regularly made her way to dangerous areas of town.

“There’re also only a few bits around St. Mark’s where a criminal element could hide,” Brogan added. “We’ll cover ground there quickly.”

“I haven’t ever been on a spy operation,” Elizabeth said. “You will have to fill me in on the finer points.”

“Act like you belong,” Fletcher said. “Act like you know where you’re going. Don’t look shocked by anything you see.”

“How likely am I to be shocked?” She eyed the other men as she asked her question. Their silent, earnest expressions told her she was probably about to see a few things she was not expecting, things more drastic than three men who usually dressed like clerks or shopkeepers donning the rougher, dirtier attire of street folk.

“We’ll none of us require you to undertake this,” Brogan said. “’Tis a lot to take up without prior experience.”

“I can very easily identify the man who came to my school,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve seen him more recently than any of you. Having me nearby will help.”

“It’d be helpful, aye,” Fletcher said. “But we’ll not force you.”

“I’m not likely to be forced into doing much of anything.”

Brogan grinned. “Nothing beats a strong-willed woman, Fletch. I’m glad you introduced us.”

“Quit your flirting and tell us where we’re headed.” Fletcher did a fine job of appearing jealous. Part of the role he was playing? She couldn’t help but hope at least a portion of it was unfeigned.

“We’ll be let down on Regent’s not far from St. Mark’s Church. A quick walk’ll see us to Sharpleshall Street. There’s a section near there that’s poorer than the rest. Not particularly crime-riddled, but criminals might go unnoticed there. A hop and a jump away is another little patch of want. If we don’t find what we’re seeking there, Móirín suggested trying Portland Town. ’Tis a bit farther from the zoo, but not so far as Maida Hill, and there’s more struggling there.”

“Near Lord’s?” Elizabeth couldn’t imagine the cricket pitch, frequented by the wealthy and highborn, would attract the set they were seeking. Indeed, she knew the homes nearest Lord’s were quite fine.

“Not so far around the park as that,” Brogan corrected. “The poor often live within the shadow of the wealthy, unseen and undetected.”

That was truer than it ought to be.

“But you see them.” She addressed all three men.

“We make it our business to see them,” Stone said, his attention never wavering from the carriage window.

And here she was, making it her business as well. Apparently inching her way toward this new branch of her life wasn’t her way; she had run at it at full speed.

As they all stepped out of the carriage, Elizabeth silently repeated her instructions: Act like you belong. Act like you know where you’re going. Don’t look shocked by anything you see. She watched the men, following their lead. None walked with perfect posture or refined step, but neither did they hunch over or shuffle.

Fletcher kept close to her, giving the clear impression of being a beau or husband. She’d be less likely to find herself harassed or importuned with his claim being made so pointedly. Somehow he managed to offer the protection without making her feel weak or suffocated or a liability.

They moved along Regent Park Street with a determination that belied their uncertainty. No one seemed to note them in the least, not even the finer ladies and gentlemen they passed as they made their way past the upper-class homes nearer the park.

“We’re invisible,” she observed aloud.

“It’s both an insult and a relief, i’n’it?” Fletcher said.

“When I first came to London with no relations or connections and money enough for nothing but travel to the school where I was meant to work, my clothing old and worn and muted, I was invisible then, too. It was the most . . . free I’ve felt since leaving home.”

“Do you miss it?” he asked.

“A little at times.”

He nodded. “I used to belong to the streets. My future were a bit bleak and mostly out of my hands. But my present—­that was all m’ own.”

“Is that why you undertake these missions? To reclaim some of that freedom?”

“Heavens, no. The freedom of invisibility is a miserable sort of liberty. My escape from the streets was mostly a matter of chance. Too many children who started where I did ain’t got a shred of hope. Luck got me out. Now I’m getting as many of them out as I can.”

She took his hand, touched by his goodness, grateful for his friendship, hoping for something more.

The area around St. Mark’s proved unhelpful. Nothing in the poorer areas of the parish offered a single clue. They made their way back toward Regent’s Park, the sound of the zoo animals following them as they wound toward the Portland Town area. That seemed a good sign.

“There’s a police station on New Street,” Brogan said.

“So we avoid that area?” she guessed.

He shook his head. “I’d wager our man Allen is the sort to make camp near the police so he can track their movements and know who they’re watching.”

“And because he thinks it’s proof he’s brave,” Fletcher added.

Stone nodded. Brogan raised a brow in obvious agreement.

“He sounds lovely,” Elizabeth said, earning a laugh from two of the three. Stone, she was coming to learn, didn’t laugh often. Or speak. Or react.

Brogan motioned them off Regent onto a side street, then onto another, then another, and another. Elizabeth was beginning to see the wisdom in bringing someone along who knew these neighborhoods. She would have been hopelessly lost.

This area was poorer than the ones they’d searched first. Elizabeth could easily picture someone like Mr. Allen making his home here without drawing undue attention. His neighbors weren’t likely to be criminals—she didn’t get that impression from the humble homes around her—and he had just enough manners and he dressed in worn work clothes, not rags or tatters, that he wouldn’t pull anyone’s notice.

Fletcher met her eye, raising his eyebrow knowingly. He, too, must have thought they’d come upon a promising area for their search.

A casual stroll up and down the streets revealed nothing of significance, but the elusive sweep could be in any one of the homes. They couldn’t exactly knock on every door, asking. They needed to find them in a public setting.

“Any chance there is a pub in the area?” she asked.

“Brilliant,” Fletcher said.

Brogan led them there and inside. Elizabeth had been inside pubs in the past, though mostly those attached to posting inns on the road to London. This one was not much different. It was early enough in the day that the establishment wasn’t busy.

They were quickly deposited in a corner at a narrow table with full view of the door. They watched. And waited.

A man stepped inside, drawing the attention of her companions, who, she could tell, were studying him.

“That’s not Mr. Allen,” Elizabeth whispered.

The same thing happened several times. Weren’t they fortunate she was there to help narrow their search? They’d have lunged at every questionably dressed man who walked in the pub.

“I’m beginning to suspect Móirín exaggerated things.” Elizabeth allowed a theatrical amount of innocence into her voice. “I haven’t needed to use my boot dagger even once.”

Brogan raised his pint of ale. “To Móirín.”

They all joined in. Even Elizabeth, though she had no intention of imbibing. She knew appearing to do so would help their efforts.

As she set her glass back on the tabletop, her gaze wandered to the door just as a stout, heavyset man stepped inside.

She looked back to Fletcher. “He has just come in.”

None of the men looked in that direction. After a fraction of a moment, she knew why. Strategy. Stone casually glanced toward Mr. Allen, then, eyes on his pint once more, subtly nodded. Heavens, they were good at this.

Brogan set his empty glass on the table and rose. “I’m needing another.”

“You Irish know how to toss ’em back,” Stone muttered.

It was an odd remark coming from a man she’d seldom heard speak and never to say anything insulting.

“Take yourself off,” Brogan grumbled.

More of their act. She was beginning to recognize it more easily.

Mr. Allen sat at a nearby table. It was both helpful—they would be able to overhear more—and far more risky. The sweep knew precisely what she looked like. And the men had had their own run-in with him a number of weeks earlier.

They sat in silence, nursing their drinks, all the while listening to the conversation beside them.

“The boy won’t rat us out,” Mr. Allen said. “He cain’t. I brought him to the flat in the dark of night. He don’t know how to get back.”

“Him snitching out our location ain’t the biggest worry,” someone responded. “He knows too much.”

They were behind Elizabeth, so she couldn’t see anyone. She didn’t recognize the voice.

“I didn’t talk ’bout none of it in front of the boy.”

“Best not have.” That was a woman.

Based on the sudden stiffness in Fletcher’s posture, Elizabeth would wager he recognized the woman.

Brogan returned, dropping onto the bench across from her, a glass in hand. “Shame George couldn’t join us. He an’ the missus.”

Fletcher gave a quick nod. He set his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder and pulled her in tight, quite as if they were a courting couple who didn’t care how affectionate they were in public. Anyone looking on would think he was showering kisses along her throat rather than whispering information to her.

“Mrs. George is behind us. She’s the woman we rescued Fanny and Janey from.”

Good heavens. Elizabeth turned her head to him and whispered back. “What if Mr. Allen tells her the girls are at my school?”

“He’d have no reason to know them sisters was connected to her.”

She hoped that proved true.

Brogan coughed a little, like he’d swallowed a bit of ale the wrong way. They both looked at him. He indicated the table behind them, then folded down one finger of his right hand.

“Four fingers,” Fletcher whispered.

Four-Finger Mike.

It was all too interconnected to be coincidental. “Mr. Headley’s been associated with him,” he whispered. “But Headley ain’t here. He’d be easy to sniff out in a place like this.”

“Generally speaking, so would I,” she pointed out.

“Aye, but you’ve had help.”

That was certainly true.

Behind them, the voice she now knew belonged to Four-Finger Mike spoke again. “I told yous to silence the boy after he got away the first time. He knows too much ’bout how we operate. Cain’t risk that, I told you. But you ain’t one for listening, is you?”

Silence the boy? Elizabeth feared she knew what that meant.

Mr. Allen spoke up. “Worked three jobs with that imp in the few days he were back with me. Didn’t have to teach ’im what to do like I would a new climbing boy. You weren’t complaining when I shared the loot with you—with both of yous.”

So Mrs. George was part of this criminal operation as well.

“The Mastiff ain’t happy about this,” Mrs. George said. “There’s a boy out free what can spill a few too many secrets, and you lost ’im again. Now you ain’t got a climbing boy to help you bring in your take. And them two sisters oughta be earning the Mastiff a pretty penny, but they was spirited off too. The Mastiff’ll eat the lot of us alive if we don’t have some good fortune to pass on.”

Daniel and the Smith sisters were being discussed. How the men at her table managed to look so calm while overhearing this, Elizabeth didn’t know.

Fletcher rubbed her arm, keeping her close. He pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. Though it was likely part of the disguise, she found it was comforting, reassuring.

“We can at least tell the Mastiff we’ve ended a threat,” Mrs. George said. “Where’d you last have the boy?”

“At a girls’ school near Charing Cross.”

Elizabeth held her breath. Her eyes met Stone’s. He was watching her, something he never did. She silently pleaded with him to recognize her worry, to share it, to help. He gave the tiniest nod. It was enough. She was still concerned, but less overwhelmed.

“Do you think someone at the school took the boy?” Four-Finger Mike asked.

“Not likely,” Mr. Allen said. “Hardly noted ’im. Even helped me look for the little devil.”

“Someone had to’ve seen somethin’,” Four-Finger muttered.

How she hoped Janey had managed to disguise little Daniel well enough to not be noted.

“We’ll go sniff around the place,” Four-Finger Mike said. “Find what we can. We know someone helped the boy. We’ll find out who. Get our satisfaction one way or another.

“They’re going to my school,” Elizabeth whispered to Fletcher.

“We will too,” he whispered back. “Once we’ve a spot more information.”

“These girls at the school,” Mrs. George said. “They poor?”

“Ain’t daughters of aristocrats, but they’re grand sorts. Quality, y’know?”

“Genteel, then?” Mrs. George pressed.

The brief silence suggested she received a nonverbal answer.

“Them soft, innocent types’ll fetch a higher price than the pluckings I usually get,” Mrs. George said. “Might be m’ boys could nip off with a few. The Mastiff’d crow about that for months.”

Elizabeth dug her fingers into Fletcher’s arm, too terrified to even speak. Her girls were in danger. Desperate, immediate danger.

Fletcher pulled his arm away and leaned his elbows on the table. To the other men he said, almost silently, “We need to safeguard Thurloe.”

Stone nodded.

“We’ll hang back,” Brogan said, “then go find reinforcements.”

“Get up and leave in a huff, dear,” Fletcher said quickly and low to Elizabeth. “Not enough so as t’ draw attention, but enough as to give you a reason for leaving.”

She understood. She moved away from him as if suddenly disgusted, and stood up. With a glare and a spin, she all but stormed to the door.

She heard Fletcher sigh behind her and say, “Guess I’d best go make up sweet to the bird, else it’ll be the suds for me.”

He caught up to her on the walk not too far from the pub. He made a show of apologizing for an imagined argument. They turned a corner, then another.

Then, they ran.