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them: Lord Grail, Mr. Harvey Penland. He knew Grail, though not well. The name Harvey Penland meant nothing.
    He glanced at the clock and wrote one more note—in a code they had invented as schoolboys—to his younger cousin, Lord Jonathan Devoran St. George, otherwise known as Wild Lord Jack, so Jack would receive it before he reached London.
    With the Goatstall address still burning in his mind, Guy stalked out of his study and called for a thick cloak. Yet as he strode away down the wet pavement, he made no attempt whatsoever to face the riot of hurt and anger that Sarah’s news about Rached caused him.

    S ARAH stared down from her bedroom window to watch the lamplighter casting out the night. She had come to stay in town once as a small child, long before the widespread introduction of gas, a few years before she had gone to live with the Mansards. The streets had been pits of darkness then, the sooty glow of the lanterns barely penetrating the murk. The memory made the gaslights seem like a miracle.
    Had it been a madness to try to enlist Guy Devoran?
    Her stomach rumbled. She glanced at the tray holding the cold teapot. She had spent a good part of her savings already, and she was almost out of money. She didn’t dare order any more food until tomorrow. Nor did she dare to go out, in case Mr. Devoran sent word.
    What on earth could she do, if he refused to help her?
    She had been able to walk to Goatstall Lane, but no one who might have known Rachel there would talk when they learned that Sarah lacked the funds to reward their cooperation.
    She glanced at the clock: almost bedtime. Ignoring the gnawing hunger and fear, she began to pace, trying to count her assets and reassess what she knew.
    Someone rapped.
    Sarah jumped like a startled hare, then stared at the door for a moment. Her heart beat loudly enough to almost choke her, while one man’s name seemed to echo into the room: Guy Devoran!
    The knocking progressed into thumps.
    A gentleman would never rattle the panels like that. It was probably some slightly inebriated guest, trying the wrong room. Sarah cracked open the door.
    A boy gawked up at her. He held a large package in both arms.
    â€œDelivery for Missus Callaway. By hand to the lady herself and no one else, on pain of a whipping.”
    Sarah opened the door all the way. “I’m Mrs. Callaway.”
    The boy grinned. “The gennulman said I’d know if it was the right lady, because she looks like a mouse had dabbled his little feet in brown ink, then run all over her skin. That’s you, right enough.”
    He dropped the package, touched his cap, and ran off down the corridor.
    A flush of mortification warmed her face, but her predicament was far too serious to be upset by such nonsense. Whatever a gentleman might notice about Sarah Callaway, it was certainly not her good looks.
    She picked up the package, carried it into her room, and set it on the bed. Perhaps he had sent her some food? At the very thought, she laughed at herself. Apprehension was obviously a more appropriate reaction when a gentleman sent a lady an unexpected gift.
    Sarah pulled herself together and cut the string.
    The paper fell open to reveal a mass of blue silk. Aware of a renewed flutter of nerves, she shook it out: a blue-and-white fantasy of a peasant dress, at least a hundred years out of date.
    Caught by the sheer beauty of the fabric, she stared at the dress for a moment before she unwrapped the next layer: a white-powdered wig, set with bows of blue ribbon and tiny models of sheep— sheep? —that decorated a miniature bonnet. A dark-blue mask lay beneath that, wrapped in a white lace handkerchief. A pair of silver shoes and a tiny shepherd’s crook set with beetles’ wings and glass spangles sparkled at the bottom of the parcel.
    Tied with more blue ribbon, a bulky paper was wrapped about the handle.
    In spite of the frippery of the ribbon, the note carried a hint of