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“Have you talked to the PM? Has he seen a draft of the bill?”

“Yes. On both counts. Thanks to Mr. Hanway’s long-lived campaign for reform, Pitt is well aware of the need for change and is willing to support it.” Jonas looked thoughtful. “That philanthropic gentleman did a great deal to bring the climbing boys’ plight to the fore before he died.”

“He did,” Alexander said. “And it’s our responsibility to ensure that his efforts do not go to waste.” He glanced at his pocket watch, groaned, and rose to his feet. “Keep me informed, would you? You know I will do whatever it takes to push this bill through.”

Jonas studied him with raised eyebrows. “What has you hurrying away so quickly?”

“A musical gathering at Claremont House.”

Jonas’s expression was an odd blend of sympathy and humor. “I had heard that Lady Bloxley was in town.”

“I’m quite sure you had,” Alexander said dryly.

Jonas chuckled. “Marriage, old chap. That’s your ticket out of your mother’s clutches. Find a woman who shares your disinterest in London’s social events and you’ll spend every evening at home in blissful, uninterrupted peace.”

“How many young ladies of your acquaintance happen to favor that way of thinking?”

“One,” Jonas said with a grin. “And I made her my wife.”

Alexander shook his head. “Then I believe your advice can be considered as useless as it is moot.”

Jonas laughed. “Perhaps. But I would not dismiss it out of hand. There may be another out there somewhere.”

“Good evening, Jonas,” Alexander said, more than ready to cut the current conversation short.

“If it becomes unbearable, you know you’re always welcome at Langton House,” Jonas said, suddenly sounding contrite. “Harry would be especially happy to see you.”

The thought of his mischievous three-year-old godson could not help but bring a smile back to Alexander’s lips, and he nodded. “If the sweep hasn’t finished cleaning my study chimney by tomorrow, I will likely take you up on that offer in the very near future.”

Jonas appeared relieved. “Anytime, old fellow. Anytime.”

Moving swiftly through the room, Alexander greeted a few acquaintances with a polite nod but did not stop to speak with anyone else. A glance outside the window told him dusk was well on its way, and by the time he stepped onto the road, the butcher down the street was closing up shop, and the flower seller on the corner was rolling her barrow home for the night. He hailed a passing hackney and reached for the door before the driver brought it to a complete stop.

“Claremont House on Park Street,” he called.

“Right you are, my lord.” The driver grinned, and with a crack of his whip, the conveyance lurched forward.

The hackney gathered speed. Pressing his back against the worn upholstery, Alexander braced himself as they approached the bend in the road with no sign of slowing. The man would get him home fast, he’d give him that, but perhaps Alexander should have stipulated that he had no wish to lose his luncheon in the process.

Leaning forward, he rapped against the carriage. “Slow down, man!”

Up ahead, he heard a shout. The first voice became two, then three. Sliding closer to the window, Alexander caught the blur of pedestrians before the vehicle jolted sideways. The screech of the brake against the wheel mingled with the sounds of splintering wood and braying horses. Someone screamed. The hackney listed, one set of wheels rising over something while the others spun against the road in an attempt to find traction. Alexander reached for the door, but before he could release the handle, he was tossed violently against the glass, hitting his head right before the vehicle came to a shuddering halt.

Moving stiffly, he pushed away from the window. The glass was cracked. His head felt as though it had suffered a similar fate, but although his forehead was tender to his touch, there was no sign of blood on his gloves when he lowered his hand. The door burst open, and a burly man dressed in a worn gray coat that smelled strongly of fish stuck his head inside.

“Anyone ’urt?” he said. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running.

Alexander shook his head, then immediately regretted the action. He pressed the palm of his hand to his head, hoping it would quell the throbbing. “Nothing serious,” he said. “What of the driver?”

“’E’s well enough to see t’ the ’orses.” His face darkened. “I suppose someone ’as to do it, even if ’elping the poor girl in the road would seem more important.”

Alexander tensed. “What girl?”

“The one crossin’ when yer hackney came barrellin’ round the bend, m’lord.”

A horrible, sick feeling settled in the pit of Alexander’s stomach. Ignoring his pounding head, he reached for the doorframe. “Where is she?”

The man backed up a few paces as Alexander stepped out of the vehicle. Splintered wood covered the road, and flower petals littered the ground beneath the carriage. A crowd of people had gathered. Some of them watched in small clusters on the other side of the thoroughfare, but most were huddled around something on the ground to the left of the carriage.