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Activity swarmed the Metropolitan Police’s central offices as Leo walked through Great Scotland Yard.

Rubble from the brick exterior of the building still cluttered the street.

The remains of a carriage sat outside the Rising Sun, the latter of which had born the blast relatively well, beyond its shattered windows.

Leo thought of Jasper. He’d been inside the public house when the bomb detonated.

What if he’d been outside? Standing near that carriage?

The leaden drop of her stomach angered her. Why couldn’t she despise him enough not to care?

Officers in uniform and in plain clothes, as well as citizens and reporters, were standing about, gazing upon the damage.

As Jasper had jested, he did indeed have a new door to his office—an enormous hole in the front corner of the building.

She could see straight inside the CID and partially into the offices on the floor above it.

Had the bomb detonated during the day, any number of people might have been killed.

But if the bomb had been set to explode using a timer, as the morning newspapers were saying, then the intent had not been to kill but rather to terrorize, as Clan na Gael and the Irish Republican Brotherhood tended to do.

It’s what made the suitcase bomb John Lloyd had been carrying earlier yesterday so strange. It had been constructed using gunpowder, while the others, as Jasper had revealed, had employed dynamite. Why would they have used two different types of explosives?

Leo continued toward Spring Street. While she was curious what Inspector Tomlin had thought of John Lloyd’s postmortem report delivered via messenger the previous evening, she knew better than to think he might discuss it with her.

At the morgue, a curious influx of bodies kept Claude and Leo occupied, and when it came time for tea, she told her uncle to sit and rest rather than descend into the crypt to search for the boxes of Spencer family belongings, as he’d promised to do.

It had been sixteen years. It could wait another day.

At last, evening rolled in, and Claude began his nightly cleaning of the postmortem room. Leo was seated at the desk, typing notes when her uncle called, “You’ll be late for your meeting if you don’t leave soon.”

Her fingers stalled, and her eyes rolled toward the ceiling.

She had completely forgotten. On the first and third Wednesdays of every month, Mrs. Geraldine Stewart hosted the Women’s Equality Alliance at her home on Carlisle Street.

Leo and Dita had gone to the last several meetings together, and the previous night, Dita had implored Leo to still attend, even if she would not be able to join her.

The truth was she’d have much rather skipped the meeting, but as it was important to Dita, she resolved to go.

Leo set aside the postmortem report and gathered her coat and hat.

“Thank you for remembering,” she said to her uncle as he was scrubbing down an autopsy table. She stopped to kiss his cheek, and he chuckled as if the affectionate display equally delighted and embarrassed him.

Leo went to the nearest cabstand on Trafalgar Square and rode an omnibus toward Piccadilly Circus, a route beleaguered by traffic and several more cabstand stops.

It was nearly a half hour later when she arrived at the Stewarts’ fine home.

Through the front windows, a crush of people could be seen, and when a maid opened the door to allow her entry, a low thrum of voices flowed out into the night.

The maid took Leo’s coat and gloves and indicated that she was to join the others in the large front sitting room.

At least a dozen more people than usual filled the space, with chairs lined up in rows facing the far end of the room, where a grand marble fireplace dominated the wall.

It was then that she remembered: They were to have a guest speaker that evening, a member of Parliament sympathetic to the vote for women.

Some ladies stood and mingled, while others had already taken the seats positioned closest to the front.

A few women, whom Leo recognized from past meetings, cast her assessing looks.

Without greeting her, they continued with their conversations.

The women here were a mix of classes, though most were wealthy and dressed in the finest fashions of the day—certainly far better than what Leo wore.

Her dark, blue-and-black pin-striped skirt and matching short coat hadn’t a single frill or flare.

As she wended her way toward one of the middle rows, nodding hello here and there to those who acknowledged her, she noticed their strained expressions. The hushed conversations too.

She lowered herself into a cane back chair, curious as to the mood of the room.

A woman seated two chairs over peered at her. “You are Miss Brooks’s friend.”

“Yes, I’m Leonora Spencer,” she said, reminding the woman of her name. They had already been introduced twice before, but while she recalled Mrs. Emma Bates well, the widowed sister-in-law of Mrs. Stewart, their hostess, apparently could not say the same for Leo.

It wasn’t too much of an insult. Mrs. Bates seemed to be an aloof sort, and Leo suspected hers wasn’t the only name the woman couldn’t hang on to.

In her middle thirties or so, she had the appealing features of a much younger woman.

Tall with a full bosom, narrow waist, supple, unlined skin, and glossy blonde hair.

“Ah yes, I remember now. You are the woman from the morgue.”

Leo couldn’t quite tell if Mrs. Bates was disapproving. It sounded more like an observation than a judgment. She decided not to waste time discovering which it was.

“I am here alone tonight, as Miss Brooks was feeling unwell,” Leo said, moving on.

If Dita ever wished to confide in any of the WEA ladies about her former beau, that would be her choice. However, Leo imagined it would be a struggle for anyone to claim connection to a police constable who had been planning to bomb Scotland Yard. Even Dita.

“It is just as well for your friend,” Mrs. Bates said with a heavy sigh that lifted her generous bosom with theatrical flair. “Sir Elliot isn’t coming.”

“The guest speaker?” Leo asked with a twinge of disappointment.

It was immediately followed by hope that the meeting might disperse early.

She felt a little guilty, but it had been a very long day.

As fiercely as she believed in the rights of women in politics, she also longed for something to eat and a chance to put up her feet.

“A messenger just arrived with the news. My sister-in-law is quite wounded,” the other woman said, her eyes searching the room for Geraldine Stewart. “She was assured of Sir Elliot’s support.”

Her eyes came to a rest, and Leo followed the direction of her gaze.

Mrs. Stewart and her husband stood within the entrance to an adjoining room.

She was a formidably tall woman of about thirty years.

Unlike some of the women she’d met at the WEA meetings, Mrs. Stewart hadn’t been put off by Leo’s work.

In fact, she’d seemed impressed by it. She had the slightly unnerving habit of maintaining unblinking eye contact while in conversation, though now, with her brow knit in distress, she didn’t appear so intimidating.

Mr. Stewart took his wife’s hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. It was an intimate display. One of support and mutual concern for the disappointing turn of events. The last few meetings Leo had attended, he’d been present as well.

“Mrs. Stewart is fortunate to have a husband who supports her cause,” Leo said.

The topic of women’s suffrage, in general, wasn’t popular among men.

For the bulk of history, men had been accustomed to leading the world of business, education, and politics, all of which seemed to revolve solely around them, with women relegated to being their caretakers as wives, mothers, sisters, or daughters.

However, there were changes afoot, with more and more women beginning to enter the workforce and delaying marriage. Much like herself, she supposed.

“Geraldine captured herself a man of superior sensibility,” Mrs. Bates agreed. “Porter truly is an exception to his sex.”

Porter Stewart stood a half inch shorter than his wife, but that in no way made him diminutive. He was polished and self- possessed, with a pencil mustache and a benign grin. A striking man by every account.

Mrs. Bates gave another sigh, though this one was of a different variety. “It is why I doubt I shall ever remarry.”

Leo shifted her attention from the Stewarts and peered at Mrs. Bates. She wasn’t certain how to respond to such a statement, though it would be rude or dismissive to say nothing at all. She parted her lips to offer a banal “I hope that isn’t so,” but a rising commotion cut her off.

Twisting in her seat, Leo witnessed the throng of well-dressed ladies parting for several blue-uniformed Metropolitan Police officers.

Detective Inspector Tomlin was at the head, his expression fixed in a pugnacious glower.

Stunned, Leo got to her feet as Tomlin came to a stop in the center of the room.

He was close to the row in which Leo stood, though he did not seem to see her.

“I am looking for Mrs. Geraldine Stewart,” he said loudly.

Mr. Stewart stepped forward. “What is the meaning of this, officers?”

“Mrs. Stewart. Where is she?” Inspector Tomlin reiterated.

“I am right here,” she said. “As my husband has just inquired, why have you and your men come?”

The inspector looked her over, his scowl deepening. Then, he signaled to the uniformed officers. They surged toward the WEA leader.

“Mrs. Stewart, I’m placing you under arrest in connection with the bombing at Scotland Yard yesterday afternoon and the death of Police Constable John Lloyd.”

Gasps of alarm fired off throughout the room. Leo’s jaw went slack as the constables reached for Mrs. Stewart.

“This is madness!” she cried.

Her husband came forward to block them. “I demand to know who you are, sir, and what evidence you have to make these wild accusations against my wife.”

“Step aside, or I will place you under arrest as well for obstructing an officer of the law in his official duties,” Tomlin shouted as more panic and confusion rumbled around the sitting room. A few ladies near the back pushed each other to flee the meeting altogether.

Mrs. Bates bumped into Leo as she shuffled past her in the row of seats. It jolted some sense into her, and she raised her voice to be heard above the din.

“Inspector Tomlin!”

He cocked his head at the sound of his name but was busy gesturing for the constables to put their suspect in handcuffs and to block Mr. Stewart from intervening.

Leo followed Mrs. Bates as she moved straight toward her sister- and brother-in-law.

“Think of the children, Porter,” she urged, taking Mr. Stewart’s arm and stepping between him and the officers to dissuade a second arrest.

“I am no murderer or bomber,” Mrs. Stewart declared loudly. “I demand to know your evidence against me.”

“You’ll hear all about it at Scotland Yard,” Tomlin replied with a goading grin.

“Detective Inspector Tomlin,” Leo said again, and this time, he turned his head. His mouth creased into another scowl.

“My God, woman, why am I not surprised to find you here?”

She ignored the turning heads and accusatory looks that she might know the man who’d so suddenly become their enemy. “The Women’s Equality Alliance is a peaceful group. It doesn’t endorse or organize bombing campaigns, and neither does Mrs. Stewart.”

The constables shuffled past, bringing the shocked WEA leader with them. “Porter!” she cried as they took her from the room.

“I’ll summon our lawyer, darling! I’ll put a stop to this!” he shouted.

Inspector Tomlin watched the arrest with a satisfied expression. It turned Leo’s stomach. He then turned his smug grin toward her. “You’re a member of this radical women’s group, are you?”

“It is hardly radical to petition for the right to vote,” she replied.

He ignored her and stuck his hands into his pockets.

“Interesting how you were the one to suggest the suitcase PC Lloyd was carrying belonged to a woman. The crafter’s mark was located on one of the remaining leather pieces, so we tracked the shop down and showed the owner the partial monogram that you yourself told us about. ”

A spike of warning darted into her stomach. He’d sweetened his tone, speaking to her as if she were a little girl with nothing but cotton fluff between her ears.

“The letters I saw were GL ,” Leo said.

“Indeed. A partial monogram. The shop owner recalled the valise well, including the lady for whom he’d made it. Geraldine Stewart. Any guesses as to her middle name, Miss Spencer?”

Mr. Stewart and Mrs. Bates were standing by, listening. Now, they both murmured their disbelief.

“Lynette,” Mrs. Bates whispered, then clapped her lace-gloved hand over her lips as if she’d just committed some mutiny.

“I don’t believe it,” Mr. Porter goggled. “I need to speak to my lawyer. Emma, will you see to the children?” he requested, turning to Mrs. Bates, who took his arm and led him from the room.

Leo turned back to the detective inspector, who was still quizzing her with a mean glare.

“You know what else is strange, Miss Spencer? Lord Babbage was due to come to Scotland Yard yesterday for a meeting with the Commissioner. With your connections to the Yard being what they are,” he said, unmistakably referring to Jasper, “might you have known about Babbage’s appointment?

Maybe even let it slip to Mrs. Stewart beforehand? ”

Lord Babbage was a well-known conservative member of Parliament, and he was wholly against giving women the right to vote. She lifted her chin at his devious insinuation.

“Now, here you are, attending a meeting of this so-called alliance ,” he went on. “And you were near PC Lloyd when the bomb detonated.”

The spike of warning she’d just had redoubled. “What are you suggesting, Inspector?”

He leaned forward, baring his teeth. “I’m suggesting you also come to headquarters so I can question you properly about your involvement.”

She gaped at him. “I am not involved in any fashion.”

Tomlin crooked his finger to the remaining constable at his side. “Put Miss Spencer in the back with our suspect. And don’t forget the cuffs.”

He stood aside, allowing the constable to come forward. “Hands, miss.”

Humiliation and fury slid through her as she stared at the iron cuffs held up for her. She set her jaw, determined not to make a scene. Several ladies were still present, and they would spread the news of the double arrests with alacrity.

“Question me all you like, Inspector. I have nothing to hide,” Leo declared as she held out her wrists.