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The Devil’s Sons were targeting orphanages.

It made a horrible kind of sense. Originally, they coerced young women flooding into London from the country, looking for positions in grand houses.

The young women would arrive for an interview, accept a cup of secretly drugged tea, and find themselves nailed into coffins and shipped across the Channel with no way to return.

But so many of those women had parents, siblings, friends.

People who would notice they were gone. Cause a fuss.

Demand answers. Draw attention. Orphans didn’t have anyone.

With so many foundling houses overrun, children ran away or returned to the streets with frightening frequency.

Overworked caregivers didn’t have time to worry about missing orphans, much less search for them when so many new candidates were waiting for a bed.

It was the perfect place to abduct children without anyone of importance paying the least attention.

‘Until now,’ Edward murmured to himself.

He placed the file he had brought with him on the desk, flipped it open, and removed the two notes.

One a list, the other a threat. One found in Thurston’s pocket, the other in Ivy’s.

He placed them next to each other on his desk before pulling out a clean sheet of parchment to write up a new report for the Prime Minister telling him nothing, and a separate one for the Queen telling her everything.

He was interrupted from his work by a wide-eyed Reading. ‘Sir, Lord High Chancellor Hardgrave, the Duke of Kerry, is here to see you.’

As Hardgrave walked into the office, the always unflappable Reading stared at him like a puppy might stare at a pork chop, or a child might look longingly at one of Gunter’s freshly scooped ices.

Bloody hell. My secretary is in a right dither over the Lord High Chancellor.

Edward stood from his desk, tugging down his waistcoat and jacket sleeves.

While the Prime Minister met with Edward from time to time for reports on the progress of various investigations and the overall activities of Scotland Yard, Edward rarely interacted with the Lord High Chancellor.

He was one step below the Queen and had far more important matters to attend to than anything crossing Edward’s desk.

So what the bloody hell is he doing here?

Lord High Chancellor Hardgrave shared the same colouring as his sister.

His fair hair was cut neatly, his green eyes sharp with intelligence, and his stature impressive.

However, aesthetics might be where the similarities ended.

Where Olivia Smithwick displayed an innately gregarious personality, drawing the attention of crowds like moths to a flame, Lord Hardgrave was renowned for his work ethic and reticent personality.

He was rarely seen at balls unless the Queen was in attendance.

One stern look from him could wilt the wildest of debutantes, destroy the most devilish dandy, and silence every wagging-tongued widow in the beau monde.

He was a force to be reckoned with. And he was currently in Edward’s office.

‘Lord High Chancellor, what an unexpected pleasure. Please sit.’ Edward gestured to the chairs in front of his desk as he reclaimed his own seat. ‘Reading, perhaps you could organise some tea. For Lord High Chancellor Hardgrave.’

Reading blinked three times and snapped his mouth shut as if he’d woken from a dream.

Most probably some fantasy about Hardgrave rowing down the Thames while Reading sits across from him, holding a striped parasol, reciting Shakespeare’s Sonnet 108.

Edward long ago guessed the particular tastes of his assistant.

But as homosexuality was illegal, and Edward had no desire to see his best employee and closest friend rotting in prison, or worse, hanging from a rope for the simple crime of loving a man instead of a woman, he let Reading’s private matters stay just that. Private.

‘Of course. How do you prefer your tea, Lord High Chancellor?’ Reading gifted the man with his brightest smile.

Hardgrave waved away Reading’s offer. ‘Please, don’t trouble yourself. I won’t be here long.’

Reading bowed his head. ‘Of course. Don’t hesitate to give me a shout if you change your mind.’

Dear God. He’s actually batting his eyes at the man.

‘That will be all, Reading.’ Edward’s clipped tone revived Reading’s naturally acerbic temperament as evidenced by the snippy look he shot Edward before turning and clipping out of the office.

Edward noticed he didn’t quite shut the door.

The nosy parker was probably holding his breath with his ear to the crack.

Edward exhaled a calming breath. ‘How can I be of assistance, Your Grace?’

Hardgrave tapped his fingers on his knee in a silent rhythm. ‘I am hearing troubling reports, Commissioner Worthington.’

‘Truly? May I inquire as to the nature of these reports?’ Edward was no fool. He wouldn’t tip his hand to anyone save the Queen. And Philippa, of course.

‘A secret society of peers engaging in truly nefarious behaviour.’ Hardgrave’s green gaze cut into Edward like a broken bottle. ‘If the reports are true, and word were to leak out to London at large, I shudder to think of the pandemonium it might cause amongst the rabble.’

‘May I inquire as to where you received this information?’

‘I would expect a man in your position to understand the importance of confidentiality amongst informants.’ The Lord High Chancellor seemed equally inclined to keeping his cards as close to his chest as Edward.

Edward dipped his chin in a gesture of agreement. ‘I am aware of a certain secret society of men engaging in the European flesh trade. They cater to a clientele whose tastes delve into the truly depraved.’

Flicking an invisible fleck of flint from his trousers, Hardgrave shifted in the chair. ‘And what are you doing to find these men, Worthington?’

‘We are pursuing every lead we have, Lord High Chancellor, with the utmost focus, I assure you.’

The man’s gaze lowered to Edward’s desk, catching on the notes sitting side by side. He leaned forward, snagging one of the pages before Edward could stop him.

‘Is this one of your leads?’ He flipped the page over, noting the seal before returning it to the desk in exchange for the other missive. ‘Two notes from the same man. Who the bloody hell is the Wolf?’

Edward wasn’t about to share his theory that the notes were decidedly not from the same man. ‘We are working on that, Your Grace.’

Hardgrave made a rather undignified noise, followed by a filthy curse.

‘Work faster, Worthington. It only takes a few carefully circulated rumours to spark a panic. The Queen has appointed me to lead her justice system, and by God, I will lead it with the utmost integrity. If there are members of her court committing such despicable crimes, you will find them and ensure they face justice. Do you understand?’

At five and forty, Hardgrave was young to hold such a powerful office, and it was clear he intended to impress the monarch who determined his future. Perhaps that was why he had such a fierce reputation. A combination of desperation and determination to impress was quite the motivator.

‘I understand, Your Grace.’

Lord Chancellor stood, and Edward followed his lead. ‘Keep me apprised of any new developments, Commissioner. And if there is any assistance you need, you’ve only to ask.’

Edward couldn’t fathom what help he might ask of the Lord High Chancellor, but he nodded his assent, regardless.

Hardgrave spun and pushed the door open. It nearly slammed into Reading.

‘Terribly sorry. I was just going to see if you hadn’t reconsidered on the tea.’

Hardgrave looked from Reading to Edward. ‘God’s speed in your search, Commissioner.’ He sidestepped a befuddled Reading and exited the office.

Reading rushed in, perching on the edge of the chair the Lord High Chancellor most recently vacated. ‘What the devil was that about?’

‘Devil indeed,’ Edward muttered. ‘I hope you don’t have any appointments this afternoon.’

Reading leaned forward, his pencil-thin moustache glinting in the sunlight. ‘Why is that?’

‘We have a duchess to visit.’