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Among other things, McBride was an apothecary. He specialized in treating ailments brought about by indiscriminate lovemaking, but he also offered a range of elixirs for those unable to make love at all. “I’ve summat fer the ups, and summat fer the downs,” he maintained cheerfully. His clientele spanned all social classes and he charged them ridiculous sums for his cures. They were usually desperate enough to pay it and too mortified to ever complain if the cures didn’t precisely work as advertised.

Lily looked askance at the noxious vapor rising up from the little pool on the counter. From the looks of things, the potion would cure the problem by eliminating the anatomical source of it forever.

“A cure for piles?” she guessed.

“A cure fer the pox. Needs a little work yet. Have ye any goods fer me today, me love?” McBride also made a tidy living as a trafficker in stolen things.

Lily dipped her hand into her apron pocket and spilled her day’s slim haul onto the counter a safe distance from the wisping puddle of pox cure: a watch fob and two silver buttons.

“Is it gold?” she asked McBride eagerly when he poked a long finger at the watch fob.

“Hmm… I dinna ken, luv. I’ll give ye four shillings fer it.”

“Four shillings!” Lily was indignant. “And do ye take me fer a fool, now, McBride?” They both took great pleasure in the haggling.

“Four shillings ha’pence, then.”

“Five shillings,” Lily insisted. McBride glared at her, outraged. She glared back.

“Five shillings, then.” He sighed. “Lily, me love, ‘tis cruel ye be.”

Lily snorted and held out her palm. She suspected she was benefiting from McBride’s soft heart. He’d tried before to give her more money man her haul warranted, but she was not foolhardy enough to protest today—not when she and her sister, Alice, needed to eat Besides, at the rates McBride charged for his potions, he could probably afford to buy a town house in St. James Square.

“And a shilling for the buttons,” she added.

McBride sighed and begrudgingly counted the coins out into her palm, mumbling something about how she was robbing him blind, she was. She handed him back the shilling, grinning impishly. “Spend it on yerself, McBride.”

He took the shilling, smiling in return. “I’ve a book fer ye, today, as well, Lily.” He was awed by the fact that Lily could read, and he saved every book that came his way for her. He’d inadvertently helped her amass a truly eclectic library, including an encyclopedia of animals, a volume of Greek myths, the works of Shakespeare, and of course,
Pride and Prejudice
and the book of bawdy stories.

“
Robinson Crusoe”
she read aloud from the cover of the book. “Thank you, McBride. I will cherish it.”

“See that ye do,” he said sternly, embarrassed suddenly by his own generosity.

Lily smiled, stood on her toes to lean across the counter, kissed his stubbly cheek, and dashed from the shop.

Gideon had returned to the Westminster chambers with a slight limp.
Bloody little pickpocket and her deadly aim.
But then again, he’d been even more impassioned than usual during his summary today; one juror had even been moved to tears. Perhaps he should
thank
the pickpocket.

“Well done, Mr. Cole.”

“Impressive as usual, Mr. Cole.”

“Excellent summary, Mr. Cole.”

Gideon nodded and murmured his thanks to his colleagues as he wended his way through the small crowd to join the other barristers in the chambers at Westminster Hall. He always allowed himself but a moment to savor a courtroom victory before he once again threw himself upon the mercy of the solicitors who milled about, looking for barristers upon whom to bestow their cases. Fortunately, Gideon, with his habit of winning, was in demand with solicitors. He was particularly in demand with one solicitor, unfortunately.

And oh, dear God,
there he was
.

Mr. Dodge was small and top-heavy; his round torso overhung two twiggy little legs, a fringe of graying hair encircled his otherwise shiny pate, and the alert beak of his nose supported a pair of spectacles through which peered a pair of sharp blue eyes. Those sharp blue eyes were scanning the courtroom for his prey: Gideon Cole.

Gideon had faced Napoleon’s hordes. He’d been in any number of bare-fisted fights. He’d once even fought a duel, though he could scarcely now remember over what.

But only Mr. Dodge could strike terror into his very bowels.

Mr. Dodge knew his weakness.

As surreptitiously as his height would allow, Gideon inched toward the courtroom’s exit.

“Oh, Mr. Cole—”

Gideon lengthened his stride, forcing the solicitor to scuttle after him in an undignified manner.

“Mr. Cole! I’d like just a moment of your time, if you would, Mr. Cole,” Dodge panted, unperturbed by this frosty reception.

“I’ve given you all the moments I intend to give you, Mr. Dodge.”

Mr. Dodge managed to scurry around Gideon’s long-legged frame and plant himself in his path. “I do think I have a case that will interest you, Mr. Cole,” he said firmly, his beaky little nose pointed up at Gideon.

Gideon groaned and covered his face with his hands. An interesting case was precisely what he feared. “Mr. Dodge, I don’t
want
to hear about any orphans cheated of their inheritances or any such tragedies.”

“But it’s not an orphan this time, Mr. Cole.”

Gideon parted two fingers and peeped cautiously out.

“It’s a widow,” Dodge informed him brightly.

Gideon jerked back. “Go away, Mr. Dodge.”

“But Mr. Cole—”

“I mean it, Mr. Dodge. Find some other foolish, softhearted barrister to torment.”

“I fear you’re the only one, Mr. Cole,” Dodge told him sympathetically. “And you’re so very good at it. You always, always win.”

“And I’m never, ever paid.”

“Oh, now, gentlemen such as yourself don’t need money, do they? You’ve a tree that sprouts pound notes on an estate somewhere.” Dodge thrust a sheaf of papers at Gideon. The case’s brief.

“Very funny, Mr. Dodge.” Gideon snatched the papers from him. “Who is this widow?”

“A dressmaker by profession. She’s worked very hard all her life, built a tidy little business for herself. And now her dead husband’s brother is trying to steal her house out from under her. Claims it’s legally his.”

“Has she any money?” Gideon asked despairingly. “Any chance I might earn more than a shilling from this?”

Mr. Dodge beamed at him. “None whatsoever.”

“I hate you, Mr. Dodge.”

“I know, Mr. Cole,” Dodge said cheerfully. “You will take the case?”

“I will look into it,” Gideon grumbled. But they both knew it was virtually a certainty that Gideon would take the case. Which would prevent him from taking other more
lucrative
cases.

Which was why it was Gideon’s own bloody fault he wasn’t yet rich.

“You’re a good man, Mr. Cole,” Dodge said softly.

Gideon snorted and made a shooing motion, a half-smile playing at his lips, and Dodge tottered cheerfully off, whistling a little tune.

Widows, orphans, the elderly… Gideon didn’t know why Dodge took on these kinds of clients. But Dodge, as a solicitor, was under no obligation to support the lifestyle of a gentleman of the
ton
, with the lodgings and fine clothing and entertainments it entailed. Dodge was already married; he didn’t need to woo the daughter of a marquis with the promise of a town house on Grosvenor Square. And Dodge, Gideon was willing to wager, didn’t have a Master Plan.

Gideon stared grimly down at the brief. He thought of Helen in Yorkshire and the last letter he’d had from her, the words cheerful and careful on the surface and wrenching beneath. He thought of Constance, and how she would greet the news that Gideon Cole all but gave away his services when she’d assumed he’d been busily amassing the sort of fortune befitting the daughter of a marquis. Astonishment, confusion, contempt… he imagined them flickering in succession across her gray eyes. She would likely feel betrayed.

She’d be right to feel that way.

Gideon lifted his head from the brief and rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. A decade after Oxford, he was still leaping to the defense of the defenseless. But he suspected the visceral pleasure he took in it had become an indulgence. The dressmaker… well, perhaps this particular dressmaker would have to fend for herself.

“Mr. Cole, there is one thing I neglected to mention.”

Dodge
again
? Gideon leveled a knee-bucklingly hostile glare at the solicitor, but Mr. Dodge seemed unaffected; perhaps intimidating glares merely glanced off his spectacles like sunbeams.

“It’s about your former client, Mr. Wesley.”

Gideon brightened a little, albeit warily. Wesley was a farmer; Gideon had shared a number of very satisfying conversations with him about the Leicester Long Wool, a breed of sheep Gideon thought might thrive at Aster Park. “How fares Mr. Wesley?”

“I’ve unhappy news, I’m afraid. Mr. Wesley has passed away.”

Gideon felt the sadness sink through him like a stone.
Well
, he thought mordantly.
This day improves by the minute
.

“But he remembered you in his will, Mr. Cole.” Mr. Dodge continued gently. “With utmost gratitude for helping him to save his farm. Here you are: thirty pounds.”

And then Dodge pushed the sheaf of bills at Gideon and tottered away again, just as though he were an ordinary solicitor and not a veritable messenger from the gods.

“Lily!” All exuberance, Alice ran to Lily for a hug. Alice had been instructed to be wary of everyone but Mrs. Smythe and Fanny while Lily was out, but Lily knew fresh gratitude each day she arrived home to find Alice safe, because reticence didn’t come naturally to Alice.

“We’ve bread and cheese for dinner tonight, dearest. Are you hungry?” The moment Lily set foot over the threshold of their room she flung the dialect of St. Giles from her like a tattered cloak. For her mother had raised Lily and Alice to be ladies. Though it had been several years since either of them had spoken to any
actual
ladies. And Lily, meanwhile, had learned the patois of St. Giles as diligently as she’d learned French; it was part of her costume, a key to her survival.

“Oh, yes! Today I helped Mrs. Smythe with the cooking and washing up,” Alice told her proudly. “And look, she gave me a penny.” She pushed a penny into Lily’s hand. It was warm and moist; clearly Alice had been gripping it all day.

“I’m proud of you, Alice. ‘Tis no mean feat to extract a penny from Mrs. Smythe. Did you perhaps cast a spell on her?”

Alice giggled. “No! She just said I was a good worker. I
wish
I knew how to cast a spell.”

A good worker. At ten years old, Alice was “a good worker.” A ten-year-old girl should be
playing
at working, not earning a penny to give to her sister to buy food. Lily thrust a sharp metaphorical elbow into the thought; she could not afford to let it catch hold of her, for there was little she could do about it. “You are a miracle worker, then. Mrs. Smythe is as tightfisted as they come.”

Mrs. Smythe had a figure like two barrels stacked one atop the other and a face as hard as a brick. Neither Alice nor Lily had ever seen her smile, but the bricklike effect was softened somewhat by the four or five long gray hairs fringing her chin, which fascinated Alice. Lily always had to remind her not to stare.

The very best thing about Mrs. Smythe was her implacability: no matter how long you had lived under her regime, no matter your circumstances, you were out on the street if your rent was late by even a moment. Mrs. Smythe’s rules intimidated the worst rogues from attempting to take rooms, which kept the lodging house reasonably safe and her rents higher than most. Lily had honed her pick pocketing skills specifically to satisfy Mrs. Smythe’s requirements.

Alice giggled again. “Maybe I
did
say some magic words without knowing it. Perhaps they were, ‘Mrs. Smythe, shall I sweep the floor now?’”

Lily tweaked her sister’s long blonde braid. “Well, from now on every time we need something good to happen, we’ll say to ourselves, ‘Mrs. Smythe, shall I sweep the floor now?’ And then we shall wait for the result.”

Alice laughed, delighted by the idea. “
Mrs. Smythe, shall I sweep the floor now? Oh, Mrs. Smythe, shall I sweep the floor now
?” she sang, skipping about the room.

Her mother, the daughter of a curate, would have been aghast at the thought of her daughters casting spells, but Lily joined in the song anyway as she sliced cheese and bread. She’d gone straight from McBride to the bread shop, and then to the cheese shop, and then bought a small nosegay of violets for Fanny, because Fanny was always kind and informative—particularly regarding the use of knees and elbows—and would never think to do such a thing for herself.

But her purchases had exhausted Lily’s take; she’d be out again tomorrow hunting for coins and watch fobs.

“If our song really is magical, tomorrow it should be raining pennies,” she said through bites of bread.

“We’ll buy shoes,” Alice said dreamily. “And a great house like the house in your story. Tell a story, Lily.”

Lily had always catalogued the world sensually, through her eyes and ears and fingertips, and her impressions spilled out in the form of stories. The old nag that pulled the flower cart became a unicorn; Mrs. Smythe became a child-eating giantess, McBride a wizard with potions that went sadly awry. She spun stories at night until the room seemed to throb with magic, giving each character its own voice, its own mannerisms; the stories warmed the two of them better than gin. And Lily knew this because she’d
tried
gin— once. Vile stuff, like swallowing sour fire. She hadn’t tasted it again.

Rather unlike Papa.

“Which story shall I tell? The one about the great house? Or a new one?”

“The one about the great house.”

“Well, once upon a time, two beautiful princesses—”

“Named Lily and Alice.”

“—named Lily and Alice,” Lily confirmed, “lived in a grand, grand house, a palace, made all of brick and marble, with rooms enough for everyone in St. Giles.”