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H aving recognized that his instinctive opposition to Lucy spending time in police headquarters was likely to meet with neither approbation nor thanks from the lady herself, Will had decided on the way to her house that he would instead ask her for more information about her work there.

“I only learned last night that you do some clerical work for your cousin,” he said as he steered them in his curricle toward the Blackwood townhouse at the edge of Mayfair. “That is unusual for a young lady, is it not?”

Since his eyes were on the horses and road ahead of them, he only felt her sharp look before she spoke.

“I suppose it is,” Lucy said calmly. “But it is only unusual because of my family’s status. Girls younger than I am work in factories and offices every day of the year. But I hope that it will become less of an anomaly as more of us begin to take up more interesting tasks than deciding menus and sorting linens.”

“That is likely true,” Will responded, chancing a look at her, only to find her looking back at him. “But you must admit that deciding menus and the other tasks necessary to keep a household running are important in their own way.”

Was he condemning Meg to a life of frustration and boredom if he insisted on a marriage to someone of their own class? He knew his sister was clever and restless with the sorts of tasks his mother had undertaken in the Gilford estates all these years. Was unhappiness at the domestic chores she’d been thrust into as the wife of a viscount the reason his mother was so unpleasant?

It was the first time such a thought had crossed his mind, and Will felt as if his understanding of his world had been upended.

“They are important,” Lucy responded, unaware of the turmoil in Will’s mind. “But just as some men are more suited to politics, say, or the church, so too are some ladies more suited to running a household.”

“And you are not one of those ladies?” he asked, not sure why the idea troubled him, but it did.

“I didn’t say that,” Lucy responded, a little impatiently if her tone was any indication. “I enjoy my work for my cousin, but it can be tedious when there is nothing else of interest happening.”

This got Will’s attention. “You mean in the station itself?”

Lucy shrugged. “I will admit that one of the reasons I asked my cousin for the position in the station was out of interest in the cases they investigate.”

This didn’t surprise him. She was, after all, an aficionado of crime fiction. “And has it been as diverting as you hoped it would be?”

Beside him, Lucy heaved a sigh. “In truth, it’s been disheartening. As kind and clever and insightful as Cousin Andrew is, the majority of the policemen I’ve come into contact with have proven to be incompetent and often willfully obtuse.”

Before he could respond, she went on. “They are nothing like the detectives and policemen in novels. Inspector Falcon in Jane’s books, for example, is able to see through the lies of murderers with little trouble. He’s also willing to listen to women—especially those of the lower classes—when they complain of being mistreated or harmed by the men in their lives.”

Will had read all of Jane’s detective novels and enjoyed them thoroughly. But that didn’t mean he thought they reflected reality. “They are fictional, Miss Penhallow. Even Jane has admitted that Falcon is idealized.”

“Of course I know that,” Lucy said, waving a dismissive hand. “But I had hoped that exposure to actual police officers would give me some hope for their ability to put aside their own prejudices in order to solve crimes. Instead, the constables and detectives under Uncle Andrew’s authority can’t even be bothered to investigate a murder if they haven’t first been assured of its importance to someone who can further their own careers.”

Will hated that Lucy’s work with her cousin had disillusioned her like this. But it was common anytime one entered a new arena. When he’d attended his first meeting of the House of Lords, he’d been astonished at how many peers simply didn’t show up. Of course, he’d missed three of the past four years himself, he thought ruefully. But that didn’t make it right.

“A young prostitute was found murdered in Whitechapel a few weeks ago,” Lucy continued, again not waiting for Will to respond. He got the feeling that she’d wanted to complain about this topic for some time.

If he were a different sort of man, perhaps, or if this were Meg he was listening to, he’d have pointed out that she shouldn’t use such an improper word—nor should she even know that such women existed. But they were discussing Lucy’s work in a police station. The horse had been out of the barn for some time.

“And?” he pressed, when she stopped talking and stared mutely at the opulent houses that lined the cobblestone streets they traversed. He knew without asking that she was seeing something in her mind’s eye.

When she turned back to him, he saw there were tears in Lucy’s eyes. And he mentally cursed the fact they were in a moving vehicle when he was forced to turn his attention to the horses under his control instead of pulling her into his arms.

“Mary was fifteen years old and had come to London from the country with dreams of factory work, or perhaps a domestic position. But instead she was forced to work on her back.” Her voice was grim, and Will again wondered how Eversham could possibly allow her to be exposed to such tales. It wasn’t appropriate for anyone, much less a gently bred lady.

“She was beaten to death one night by her pimp when she made some comment he disliked,” Lucy continued, the fury evident in her every word. “And we know this because there were witnesses. Her neighbor in the filthy rooming house where she lived informed me when I went to question their landlady that he heard Silas King assaulting her. And now, because of the police not immediately apprehending him, Silas King has gone to ground and will likely go unpunished for this and countless other crimes for which he is responsible.”

If Lucy had been familiar with Lord Gilford in a temper, she’d have known that instead of shouting, he instead became calmly quiet.

“You. Did. What?”

But she was unfamiliar with Will in a temper. And so Lucy waved away his question. “Please don’t be tiresome about this. I took my maid with me.”

“You took your maid with you,” he restated in disbelief. “One of the most dangerous slums in London, and you took your maid with you.”

“You are missing the point, Gilford,” she said impatiently. “The constables who were sent to investigate the murder have done nothing to apprehend the man who killed Mary. Because she has no one to fight for her who might put in a good word for Constable Jenkins with my cousin when it comes time for him to be promoted. Nor does she have a wealthy benefactor to grease their palms.”

Getting hold of his temper, Will forced himself to listen to her words. It wasn’t his place to read her a scold, after all. But he would have a word with Eversham about her trip into Whitechapel at the soonest opportunity.

“Surely if your cousin’s men are so reluctant to do their jobs, then it is his responsibility to see that they do,” he said aloud.

“He does what he can, but it does little good when his own superiors don’t care about the death of a single prostitute, either.”

Unsure of what he should say, Will settled for “I’m sorry, Miss Penhallow.”

“You needn’t apologize,” she said, and there was no mistaking the determination in her voice. “I merely wanted to explain to you why I intend to do my own investigation of Vera’s abduction.”

“But I thought you said it’s crimes against the impoverished that don’t get attention from the police,” Will said, wondering what he was missing.

“That’s true enough,” Lucy said, “But I forgot to mention that when it comes to missing women of the upper classes, they are apt to dismiss the cause as nerves or female silliness. I received a note from my cousin this morning informing me that the top brass believe Vera has run home to America because of homesickness.”