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T hough Will and Lucy both wished they could track down Miss Christina Fleetwood as soon as they left police headquarters, they both had engagements they needed to keep. Lucy had promised to visit Applegate’s tea shop with Meg and Elise to inform them of everything that had happened last night in the Maitland garden, while Will had agreed to meet with Ben Woodward at Brooks’s for much the same purpose.

So, they said their goodbyes and parted ways at the entrance of the Penhallow townhouse, then Will turned his curricle toward home so that he could leave his horses and carriage in the stables he could no longer afford, and took a hansom cab to St. James’s Street, where many of London’s most fashionable clubs lay.

His memberships at such places were also outside his financial means now, but he was hoping to announce a betrothal soon. The idea of saddling Lucy with his family’s debts was repugnant to him, mostly because he feared she would never trust that he wished to marry her for herself alone and not for her fortune. But with every passing day he was more attracted to her. And he was sure she felt the same about him.

He’d simply need to find a way to make her believe his affection was genuine.

When he stepped through the doors of the esteemed gentlemen’s club and smelled the familiar scents of leather and cigar smoke, he relaxed a little and went in search of Woodward.

The American was seated at a corner table in the reading room with a whisky in hand and a newspaper spread out on the table before him.

“Oh ho,” the American said with a smirk, “the darling of the gossip pages shows himself at last.”

Dropping into a chair across from him, Will raised his brows at the quip. He supposed there was likely some talk about his and Lucy’s hug in Brook Street yesterday. And it was true they’d disappeared from the Maitland ballroom last night, but that had been explained away, hadn’t it?

“What do you mean?” he asked Woodward with a sense of foreboding.

With not a shred of apology, Woodward handed Will a copy of Town Tattle . Pointing to a particular column, the American said, “I particularly like the way this anonymous writer refers to you as ‘Willing Willie,’ though I suppose alliteration is to be expected from a publication named Town Tattle .”

Scanning the several paragraphs, Will grew increasingly annoyed. “I most certainly did not kiss Lucy in broad daylight yesterday.”

He had kissed her inside the Penhallow townhouse, where they were shaded from the daylight.

“But that’s not the most interesting part,” Woodward said, pointing to the paragraph near the end of the column. “Whoever this person is, they certainly have been keeping track of both your and Lucy’s movements in the past several days. They actually list out each meeting between you. Including that call to pay your respects to Vera Blackwood’s father and how you both disappeared from the Leighton-Childe and Maitland ballrooms together.”

Will felt his jaw tighten. “Why can’t people mind their own affairs?” he said finally. “My intentions toward Miss Penhallow are entirely honorable, but this reads as if we’ve been caught in flagrante.”

“It is the way of the world, my friend,” said Woodward, leaning back in his chair. “Besides, there is only one article about the two of you in Town Tattle , while there are seven by my count about the Blackwood kidnapping.”

At that Will’s eyes widened. Wordlessly, he turned back to the front of the newspaper and began reading the several short pieces related to the Blackwood affair. When he was finished, he told his friend, “Most of this is arrant nonsense. The man who took Miss Blackwood didn’t ‘grapple’ with her for several minutes. It was seconds at most, which concluded when he tossed her over his shoulder.”

At that moment, one of the waiters came to bring their beefsteak, and for a bit they were quiet as they tore into their meals.

“So what is the latest on the Blackwood girl’s abduction?” Woodward asked once he’d made good work of his food. “A little bird told me you were seen escorting Miss Penhallow to police headquarters this morning.”

His slaked hunger having soothed his mood a little, instead of cursing as he’d have done earlier, Will only rolled his eyes now. Quickly, he outlined what they’d learned.

“I hope Fleetwood is found soon,” he said in conclusion, “because a man who can fire a gun at a supposed friend isn’t to be trusted among civilized people.”

Woodward agreed. “Not that I am accepting of dueling as a way of solving one’s disagreements, but even in those cases there is a sense of decorum. Firing without warning at another person and then fleeing is barbaric.”

Will concurred. But then, he felt that way about most surprise attacks. His father had been stabbed to death by someone he thought was a friend. One of the reasons he was so keen on helping Lucy find her friend was because he didn’t want Lucy to suffer the loss of a friend.

“What do you mean to do about Madame Celestina, or rather Miss Christina Fleetwood?” Woodward asked now. “Is her brother hiding with her, do you think?”

“We don’t know,” Will admitted. “I’d like to think finding Fleetwood would be that simple, but beyond his agreeing to connect Hamilton to Madame Celestina, we don’t know what kind of relationship there is between the siblings.”

The friends fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts as their full bellies lulled them into a sleepy contentment for the moment.

Will yawned and idly picked up one of the other gossip papers Woodward had cluttered the table with. This one was called Teacup Tattle and Will couldn’t help but snort at the absurdity of it.

Turning to show Woodward the front page, he said in amusement, “I can’t believe you would let yourself be seen reading such a rag.”

Woodward shrugged. “In my defense, I chose these particular gossip sheets with the intention of making you laugh over them with me. That they all had at least one story about you and Miss Penhallow was simply the sugar in the biscuit.”

Shaking his head in exasperation at his friend, Will lay the paper back down on the table, but a small advertisement on the back page caught his eye.

Madame Celestina

Readings Given—Fortunes Told—Messages from Beyond Transmitted

Below the ad, an address in Holborn was listed.

Will showed the page to Woodward then rose from the table. “I need to tell Lucy about this,” he said hurriedly. “This woman might know where Hamilton has taken Vera Blackwood. We may already be too late to have prevented her from a forced marriage, but at the very least we can get her away from this scoundrel.”

As he turned to go, he realized Woodward was following him. “What are you doing?” he asked his friend over his shoulder.

“I’m coming with you,” said the American, as if Will were lacking sense. “I’d like to see this Madame Celestina for myself. Besides that, Hamilton is an American, and I’d like the chance to teach him a lesson about giving the rest of us a poor reputation.”

Too determined to get to Lucy to give her the news he’d found the medium, Will didn’t bother arguing further. Fortunately for him, the porter outside the club had already stopped a hansom for him. Flipping a coin to the man, he told the driver the direction of Applegate’s tea shop and climbed into the dank interior of the cab, followed by Woodward.

“Applegate’s?” Woodward asked with a raised brow.

“It’s a tea shop that Lucy and her friends frequent.” Will didn’t look away from the dirty window of the carriage. “Owned by a member of their book club. The Ems.”

“The Ems?” Woodward asked looking confused. “I’ve never heard the Mischief and Mayhem Book Club referred to in such a way. Is this a new club?”

“No,” Will said, turning back to face the other man. Then he explained how the club members had taken to calling it by the shortened form the Ems Club. The American’s expression cleared. “Ah, just so. The original name is a mouthful. I doubt the founders had convenience in mind when they named their column.”

Will nodded. “Or that they’d imagined the column would grow to encompass such a wide range of offshoot communities.”

“That, too. Though when one considers all the myriad places where men are able to form friendships around shared interests, it’s surprising there aren’t more such groups for ladies.”

The cab was slowing to a stop then, and the two men leapt to the street outside of Applegate’s tea shop, then stepped inside.