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Viv lifted her chin and stared her ladyship down. “You may pursue the thief, of course, but I’m sure you can have no use for the corrected proofs he took. Dodsley should be able to supply you with another proof copy, a copy more to your liking.”

“Insolent girl,” hissed Mrs. Stryde. “How dare you speak to your employer in such a manner.”

“I do dare. I resign my position. I thank you, Lady Melforth, for your many past kindnesses. I will stay only as long as it takes for you to engage someone to take over my duties.”

A brief stricken look passed over Lady Melforth’s face. It might have been a plea for understanding, and Viv waited for her to say that it was all a mistake, but her ladyship’s hands closed on the silk coverlet over her legs, and she looked away.

Viv went cold. She understood the choice to lie in the moment when there seemed no other way, when everything, one’s position and reputation, could be lost forever, but to enshrine the deception, to carry on deliberately in the lie, was something else. The woman she thought her dearest friend, now knowingly denied the work they’d done together. Her mind flashed to Lark. How odd that the pickpocket in such a desperate moment had simply admitted the truth and lost everything.

It was Mrs. Stryde who spoke next. “Foolish girl. Where will you go? Your thief of a fiancé can’t help you.”

“Where I go can be no concern of yours, Mrs. Stryde. I am not without resources.” With a quick curtsy she turned and left.

*

Within minutes of leaving Henrietta Street, Lark altered his course twice. As long as he didn’t stop, the loss of Viv would not catch up with him. Part of his mind went on working, guided by the instinct to avoid pursuit. She would quickly discover the theft of the proofs, and she would be furious. She would think that he and Rook had been in on it together, and Lark could not plead his case. He could not argue that he had ended his partnership with Rook months earlier. He could not change what he had done that first day, stepping into Viv’s line of fire to save Rook. He owed Rook that. He would do it again. And he’d made sure that Viv would send the constables after him, not Rook. Angry and wounded, Rook would plunge ahead, do some reckless click, follow it up with an evening of drink, and stagger back to their old lair.

Viv would have Haxton summon a constable. She knew enough to find Adele St. Clair to ask where Lark lived. He could not go to his digs, nor could he go to Wenlocke, as Viv could as easily send constables to the duke’s house. He did not want to embarrass Wenlocke. Maybe it had been folly to steal the proofs. Lark wouldn’t know until he had a chance to look at them and discover why they pained Viv. As he moved, a plan formed. He knew a place where no one would think to look for him and where he could take all the time he needed to examine the proofs. He turned his steps toward Isaacson Brothers Fashion Emporium.

When he reached the East End square dominated by the Emporium, he could see that business was good. Old Mr. Isaacson and his brother had built a retail palace, with an elaborate portico at the entrance and floor-to-ceiling windows along the front that showed a crowded interior. Lark made his way around to the back alley where goods were delivered and asked the porter at the door for his friend Ezra, Isaacson’s son.

Within minutes Ezra showed up, dressed for the shop floor in a fashionable gray coat, pin-dotted white cotton waistcoat, drab trousers, and a lavender floral tie that managed to merge the colors into a single scheme. Lark guessed that Isaacson’s would sell dozens of those silk ties based on Ezra’s appearance alone.

“You are unfair to your customers, Ezra,” Lark told his friend.

Ezra let him in. “How so?”

“You make them think they will look as dashing as yourself.”

Ezra grinned. “What brings you back to us? Twice in a fortnight! You’ve not been shot again?”

“Worse. I must avoid the constabulary for a few days. Can you put me up?”

“That bad, is it?” Ezra gave Lark’s face a closer scrutiny. “You look done in, as if we ought to fit you up with black bands for your hat and sleeves.”

“It’s nothing. A minor wound.” Lark did his best to hold Ezra’s gaze.

“You know the room upstairs behind the cutting floor? Will that suit you?”

Lark nodded, and Ezra led the way up the back stairs they’d often used since they first met. That day they had been vying to buy the same coat from a slops seller in Monmouth Street. Lark actually wanted to wear the fine custom-made coat formerly belonging to a bankrupt tea dealer. Ezra wanted to take it apart to understand its construction. They’d compromised, and Lark had followed Ezra to the Fashion Emporium.

“Here we are.” Ezra opened the door to a spacious plain room with a small window to the north, no carpet, no curtains. “What have you nicked this time?”

“A book.” Lark noted a daybed covered in a red-and-blue Kilim rug, a plain deal table and chair under the window, and a tall blue-painted wardrobe. The place was ideal for his plan.

“Books aren’t your usual style.” One of Ezra’s dark brows went up. Another of the reasons customers bought whatever Ezra chose to wear was that he was a handsome fellow with a head of dark curls and an easy, unaffected manner. “Is it a rare manuscript?”

“It’s the key to a mystery. I need time to read it.” Now that Lark had stopped moving, the hollow in his chest had begun to ache.

“Oh, you’ll have time. In case you’ve forgotten, we close for Shabbat in a couple of hours. The place will be a tomb until Saturday night.”

“More like a grand mausoleum. I’ll be ghost then.”

Ezra sobered. “I can’t keep you company. A good son has to be at his mother’s table, but I’ll leave you some food and beer.”

“What about paper and pencils? And candles? And have you got a boy who can take a message for me?”

“Now you expect me to be a hotel. I’ll send a boy to you. Stay out of sight. I don’t want Father to think I’m breaking Shabbat for the likes of you.”