Chapter One

JULIE

The woman slid three photos to me across the table, her manicured nails immaculate. “I know you don’t want to believe me. But you need to look at these.”

I was already on my feet, having told her—Frances Boyle, she said her name was—that we had nothing further to discuss. She had no business coming to me with this preposterous story, and certainly not here at the library where I worked. Her manner suggested she wasn’t used to people saying “no” to her, but I wanted her gone.

Yet I couldn’t help glancing at the faded snapshots she’d spread in front of me. All showed the same grouping: a couple, seemingly in their forties, and two teenagers, a boy and a girl.

“That’s my family,” she said, a rasp deepening her voice. “My parents with my brother and me. That was the year before Papa died.”

Against my will, my eyes were drawn to the man in the photos. “Papa,” she’d called him. He sure looked like Dad. My memories of him were vivid, though I was only eight when he died. That dark hair, cut short, with a white streak just off-center. Neat ears, firm chin, and warm smile. And those pointed eyebrows: unmistakable.

But I’d never seen the other people in those photos before.

Heat flared at the back of my neck, and the walls of the small meeting room felt like they were closing in on me. I shook my head, trying to clear it. I wished I’d thought to bring a bottle of water in with me.

Frances leaned forward, the gold chain around her neck glinting as she moved. “From your reaction, Julie, I’d say you recognize him.” Her gaze intensified. “Now do you believe me? Our father had two wives, two families. Yours and mine.”

This couldn’t be true. I gripped the edge of the table and took a deep breath, fighting to get my emotions under control. Who was this woman and what was her game? Inspecting her more closely, I guessed she was in her late forties, a little older than me. Well-groomed. Stocky but not fat. Wearing cropped pants and a short-sleeved silk blouse, a good choice for the hot weather we were having. Her clothes looked expensive, more Nieman Marcus than Walmart.

“Can you show me some ID?” I demanded. Maybe I should have asked for that earlier.

She smiled coolly and reached into her leather bag, pulling out a passport. The photo was definitely her, but with shorter hair. Her name: Frances Louisa Boyle. Date of birth: 1975.

“Wait a minute. Boyle?”

“That was Papa’s name—James Boyle.”

The tightness in my shoulders loosened. “So. That’s not my dad.”

“When he married your mom, he used the name James MacMillan.”

That was Dad’s name—but this was ridiculous. She was claiming not just that he’d had two families, but two names.

She sat back abruptly. “I can see you’re having trouble accepting it,” she said. “I understand. It’s hard to take in.” Her expression hardened. “I only found out after Mama died in February and I was going through her papers. I found some old letters tucked away, referring to his other family.” She raised her eyes to mine again. “Your family.” After a moment, she added, “I have a couple of the letters with me, if you want to see them. They’re in my safe at the hotel.”

My mouth tasted of something bitter, metallic. “What are you after?”

She clasped her hands together. “I had a private investigator locate your mother, your family. I came here to find out more.” Her gaze swept over me. “I thought it was best to come to you first, to see if you knew about it. Before I approach your mother.”

“You can’t be thinking of disturbing my mother with this!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s why I’m here. To find out what she knew, or knows, about what happened.”

If Frances confronted Mom with this story, it would devastate her. “Give me some time to think about this first.” There must be some way to check this woman’s claim. “Can I have copies of those photos?”

She pushed them toward me. “Those are for you.” She rose and pulled a card from her purse. “I realize you may need a bit of time to get used to the idea. Here’s my cell number. When you’re ready, give me a call.” She dropped the card on the table. “But don’t take too long. I can play tourist here in Ottawa for a couple of days, but then I’ll need to talk to your mother.” She straightened her shoulders and left.

I watched her cross the library’s open lobby, passing Tony at the info desk, heading toward the main entrance. I paced back and forth in the hallway, fuming. What she was claiming couldn’t be true.

But a coldness was rising in my stomach. Could Dad really have done this to Mom? To us?

#

Returning to my office, I closed the door and collapsed into my chair, my stomach churning. I dropped my head back against the headrest and stared blankly at the ceiling. Frances’s story kept echoing through my mind. It had to be nonsense…except for those photos. That guy did look like Dad.

When she asked for me by name at the front desk, I had hoped the interruption would be short. I hadn’t anticipated how shaken our conversation would leave me.

I needed to get back to work; I had to post next month's staff schedule soon. But after staring at my computer screen for a few minutes, I picked up my phone to call Caroline.

She and I had been friends since our university days in Toronto. I was studying library science and she was a psychology grad student. We met when we both moved into a shared student house near campus and clicked from the beginning. We’d stayed close friends ever since.

I came back to Ottawa after graduating. When she moved to Ottawa as well, joining the psychology staff at the Royal, our friendship grew. She had become my rock, the person I turned to first for advice.

“Do you have a few minutes?” I asked.

“I do. What’s up?”

I quickly recapped my meeting with Frances and the story she’d told.

“That’s quite the tale.” Caroline’s voice deepened. “But you don’t think it’s true?”

“I’m not sure.” I wanted to say no. But those photos had left me with doubts.

“Have you told Matt?”

My husband. “No. I haven’t had a chance.” I wasn’t even sure I wanted to tell him.

“Or your mom?”

My jaw clenched. “If Dad had another family, if he deceived Mom, I don’t see any need for her to know about it after all these years. She’d be heartsick.”

“But you say Frances wants to talk to your mom. How can you prevent that?”

“Maybe I can’t. But I wish I could find out first…”

“If it’s true?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a foolproof way to check. A DNA comparison.”

Trust Caroline to have a scientific suggestion. “Yeah. But I don’t know if Frances would agree to be tested.”

“Why wouldn’t she? She’s the one who says you’re related.”

I sighed. “Testing takes time, and I don’t think Frances wants to wait.”

She paused. “Do you know about Ancestry.com?”

“…I’ve heard of it, but don’t really know—?”

“It’s a site where people upload their DNA, and check to see if they match with anyone. I keep hearing about people finding linkages there to relatives they didn’t know about.”

“So we could check that site to see if we’re related to Frances?”

A doubtful tone entered her voice. “Well, maybe not, if you’ve never sent in a sample. If you send one in now, it could take several weeks for results to show up. And you don’t even know whether anyone on Frances’ side has uploaded there. If not, there’d be nothing to match to.”

I grimaced, disappointed. “Doesn’t sound like DNA’s going to help us. In the short run, anyway.”

“Yeah, maybe not. So let’s look at this another way. Is Frances’ story plausible? Could that have happened?”

Frustrated tears were pressing behind my eyes. “I don’t think so. But I wish I remembered more about our family, how things were before Dad died. I was so young, and my memories are pretty thin.”

“How about your brother? Would he remember more?”

I sat up at the thought. “That’s a good idea.” Patrick was four years older than me, so his memories of our family life back then would be better than mine.

#

Calling Patrick was complicated by the fact that he lived in Canberra, where he moved when he married Melissa six years ago.

Checking my watch and doing a time conversion, I realized it was still the middle of the night in Australia. But if I called around 4 p.m. my time, it’d be 6 a.m. there. I didn’t know what shift he’d be working—he was a paramedic with the Capital Territory Ambulance Service. If he was on the day shift, he’d be up. I’d text to see if he was awake.

He replied with a yawning-face emoji, but I took that to mean I could call. He answered on the first ring, “Yeah.”

I cut our usual time-and-weather chitchat short. “Listen. A woman came to see me today with a weird story.” I blurted out Frances’ claim that Dad had had two families, ours and hers.

His reaction was immediate. “That’s ridiculous.”

Thank you. “I know, right? It’s just not possible.”

“Wait, let me put on some coffee.” A series of indistinct sounds came through the phone. Then he was back. “Tell me the whole thing. From the beginning.”

I ran through it all, starting with Frances showing up at the library, and ending with her dropping a card as she left.

“Ridiculous,” he repeated. He was silent for a moment. “You think it’s Dad in those photos?”

“I don’t know.” I breathed out. “It looks like him. But photos can be manipulated…”

“Can you send me copies?”

“Sure. Hold on. I’m sending them now.”

While he waited for the images to arrive, he asked, “Are you thinking it’s some kind of scam?”

“Well, what could she be after? It’s not like there’s any inheritance or anything…”

He gave a small cough. “What about Mom? Are you going to tell her?”

“No! Can you imagine her reaction?” I swallowed. “Even raising it…I don’t want to spoil her memories of Dad.”

“Hold on—the photos are coming through.”

***

Excerpt from That Other Family by Lis Angus. Copyright 2025 by Lis Angus. Reproduced with permission from Lis Angus. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Now

“They found Mom. You need to come home.”

Her older sister Gaby wasn’t one to waste words.

Connie should have been relieved, comforted, something. Unfortunately, it was fifteen years too late for that. And anguish she had buried deep in her body, and mind, erupted with a vengeance.

She cooled her heels in San Diego until the last possible moment to return for the funeral. The less time spent there, the better. New Jersey triggered chilling images tethered to that night. To the last time she saw her mother.

The plane thumped to earth, delivering Connie Tucker to the past with a bounce. Everything about this state was a rude wake-up call. She couldn’t wait to board the return flight to California. At fifteen, she left New Jersey in a rage, thrown out of the only home she’d known, dumped thousands of miles away on a relative she’d never met. Nerves twitching, her insides were a stew of anxiety and bitterness, wondering how people here would react to seeing her. Connie shook her head to tamp down the unruly thoughts and scold herself. They were the ones who should be nervous.

Down the parkway in the rental car, exit onto Lenox, right onto Mercer, left onto Third Street. Past Antonio’s Pizza where she and Gaby bought slices on their way home from school because who knew what their mother would cook for dinner. Past the playground attached to St. Gabriel’s. At the corner of Mercer and Third, a few patrons ambled in and out of a bodega. The street was mostly empty. Her heart bounced in her chest.

42 Third Street. She lowered the car window, her breathing shallow at the sight of the ancient Lincoln in the driveway. The blue paint polished and gleaming. “Buy American” was her father’s motto when Connie was a kid. The same automobile she and her best friend Brigid had “borrowed” until Gaby blew the whistle on her. Grounding was followed by exile two months later. She swallowed raging emotions—love, hate, sadness. If Connie closed her eyes, her parents magically materialized on the porch swing, creaking steadily back and forth on warm summer nights. Sometimes Uncle Charlie sat on the steps and the three of them drank beer, Charlie telling stories and her father laughing. But that was before.

Connie stepped out of the car and surveyed the neighborhood. Much had changed and much had remained the same. Down the block, Porter’s Bar and Grill still boasted the neon signs out front advertising beer, wine, and food. After his stint on the police force, and her mother’s disappearance, her father found employment at the bar—back then a hangout for current and former cops, a nerve center for law enforcement chatter. Old Man Porter was fond of her father, of the whole Tucker family.

Despite the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky, the area was tinged with gray. Sunny in San Diego and sunny in Hallison, New Jersey were two different animals. But even worn out as it was, her Jersey home beckoned, a magnet luring Connie into a tangle of sensations and history. Part of her, she hated to admit, yearned to be here again, but before nostalgia could overwhelm her, she stiffened her resolve: do her duty to her mother and then back to the other coast.

The day was already sweltering, humid air like a wet sheet clinging to Connie, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her shirt dotted with damp patches. Urban smells permeated the neighborhood—exhaust, heat shimmering off the pavement, cooking odors. Third Street radiated a kind of shabby warmth despite reopening sharp wounds. As she climbed the steps to her family’s front door, a voice boomed behind her.

“Connie Tucker!”

She whirled to her left. “Rosa!” she sputtered. Rosa Delano. Standing on her front porch. Daughter of the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Delano, whose front yard featured neat flower beds and trimmed bushes. The woman who’d been a kind of second mother after Connie’s first one disappeared.

“Yeah, that’s me.” A cigarette dangled from between bloodless lips, graying hair a tangle of frizz, her expression sullen.

She’d aged. And not well.

Rosa smirked. “Came home ’cause they found your old lady, huh? Si-mone.” Hands stuffed in jeans pockets, she extended the second syllable to mock the dead woman. “Bunch a bones by now, I guess.”

Connie’s stomach lurched, her fingers forming a fist. Attack mode. Breathe, she told herself. Stay in control. She’d forgotten how mean Rosa could be. In and out of the Delano house when Connie was growing up. Sometimes gone for months, once even for a whole year. Neighborhood gossip churned out tales of Rosa’s arrests for petty, and not-so-petty, crimes, their father warning Gaby and Connie to stay clear of her. That was easy to do since she was away for much of their pre-teen years.

“Wonder who buried her? Si-mone.”

Connie refused to take the bait. The hell with her. “Tell your mother I’ll stop by later.”

“Fat chance. You keep away from her.” Rosa opened her screen door. “Guess you figured Si-mone was still alive all these years, huh?”

The question split the air like the crack of a whip, jerking Connie’s head backwards. “How dare you talk about my—”

Rosa laughed in triumph. “Ha! Listen to you. ‘How dare you?’ Always did act like you were better than everybody else. Always had to have your own way.” She slouched into the Delano house and let the screen door slap shut behind her.

Heart hammering, Connie was left to wonder probably for the thousandth time how sweet, generous Mrs. Delano could live with someone as nasty as Rosa. According to Connie’s mother, she was already a troublemaker when her parents were killed in a car crash and she was adopted by Mrs. Delano at thirteen. Connie was only two or three when Rosa rolled in next door like a storm front that never budged. Now, twenty-seven years later, her words hung around Connie in the ether, burning through a tangle of jumbled ideas and leaving the charred truth—Connie had figured her mother was alive somewhere.

Needing a minute, she stepped back from the front door and confronted the Tucker residence, which exhibited contrasts identical to most of the other homes on the street: window frames in need of scraping and painting, and her mother’s favorite old-fashioned glider—and slightly rusty matching metal chairs—crowding the porch, hinting at benign neglect. Yet, two flower baskets hung from hooks on the porch pillars with cascading red, yellow, and blue blooms. Someone tended to those plants. Gaby, no doubt.

Connie steeled herself, donning emotional armor. Knocking brought no response, neither did pressing the bell, broken years ago and apparently never repaired. She’d kept a key to the house—from spite—and jiggled the lock a fraction, the way she’d done as a teenager breaking the curfew her father had tried to establish.

The door swung open.

With the windows shut tight, primal odors hung in the air like church incense. Lingering smells of baking, fresh laundry, furniture polish. Connie pulled a carry-on suitcase into the house. “I’m here.” Where were her sister and father? The car was in the driveway. She’d texted her arrival time and expected someone to be in the house to meet her. Instead, she was greeted by silence. Perfect.

A chair in the hallway held a stack of mail. Circumventing the living room to her right, Connie moved straight ahead to the kitchen. A used coffee mug and bowl sat in the sink. Otherwise, the room was orderly, a table in the breakfast nook had placemats, The Star-Ledger, and a vase of flowers. The sweet scents of lilacs and roses filled the air.

Back to the hallway she stopped in the arched entrance to the living room. Taking it all in. A new couch and the worn leather of the old recliner, her father’s favorite piece of furniture, and a flat screen television. The coffee table was the same. Also, the rug she and Gaby had danced on with their mother to ABBA all those afternoons. Their beautiful French mother.

A rush of memories confronting her on all sides, blocking progress, keeping her captive, nowhere to go but back into that night.

***

Excerpt from The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth. Copyright 2025 by Suzanne Trauth. Reproduced with permission from Suzanne Trauth. All rights reserved.

From Chapter 1

When a man gets hit by a .45 ACP Flying Ashtray or three, by all that's ballistically holy, he ought to get dead and stay dead.

All manner of official paperwork swore he was dead. All of it based on a bogus death certificate filed by parties unknown in the Cuervo County Coroner's Office, with copies popping up like blowflies on a cow carcass. Even the federales had him playing poker with the Devil, his prison mugshot tucked away in ATF and DEA files, DECEASED stamped across his face in bold, black letters.

The con was slick and easy. Money changed hands, files were swapped or ditched, reports were shredded or faked. Somebody else's corpse became him. The relentless power of bureaucratic incompetence and inertia did the rest.

Yessir. According to all that yellowing, lawdog paper, he was nobody they had to worry about no more. Finito. A shade. A ghost who said adios. A good thug now that he was a dead thug. Muerto.

Not hardly.

That's what John Wayne said to all those hombres who thought he was dead in Big Jake. With a growl and a scowl.

Not hardly.

He liked that. Matter of fact, he just trotted out the Duke's line to a guy he used to be tight with. Caught up to him climbing the three cinder block steps to the front door of his desert double wide.

Tapped him on the shoulder, saw the wild-eyed fear when the dude turned and saw who the finger belonged to. Blurted out: "You're supposed to be dead!"

Not hardly. Said it with a growl but no scowl. Then grabbed him by a greasy hank of raven black hair, yanking his head back and cutting a crimson smile across his throat from ear to ear. With a bone-handled straight razor. His favorite.

Threw the guy into the sand at the side of the steps. Listened to the choking gurgle and death rattle. Then licked the blood off the blade.

Not hardly. He tilted his head back and laughed. Savored the kill. Alone and alive. An endless dome of stars glittering in the midnight sky above the rocky desert outback near Radium Springs, New Mexico. No moon. A dead man at his feet. Used to be a member of his crew. Frankie Sheridan.

Met him at Pelican Bay. An Alice Baker brother doing a long stretch for bank robbery. Had a shamrock tattooed on his chest with the initials AB in capital letters—Alice Baker, Aryan Brotherhood. Blood in, blood out. Ex-Army. Knew his way around diesels, alarm systems, and weapons.

Sent him a ticket to Texas when he got out. Made him a member of his crew, smuggling guns and drugs out of a ranch north of Faver, the Cuervo County seat, a bent outfit that ran cattle for cover and fleeced bitter and gullible white trash while promising them the return of the Republic of Texas for Caucasian Christians only, a New Zion based on God, guns, guts, and the Good Book. Niggers, Jews, Arabs, and Spics need not apply.

Bad move. Frankie was a ratfuck snitch. Uno chivato. Not to the lawdogs. Just as bad, though. Frankie sold him out to a rival outfit of gunrunners and drug smugglers. Kept them one step ahead of him as they chased a third outfit that held a cache of stolen military hardware everybody wanted.

Rockets, bloopers, mortars, and full-auto carbines and rifles. Bang-bangs that could tip the scales on both sides of the river. All in the hands of a crew fronted by a flashy woman in jeans, tall boots, a bolero jacket, and a blonde wig. A wet dream for the pendejos she hustled.

La Güera. Just the thought of her caused his molars to grind. He wanted her dead. No, he needed her dead. She and her lover were the reason his life got flushed into the sewer, his crew dead, his stash of guns and drugs long gone. Had him climbing out of the shitter, clawing to the top of the dung heap. Again.

He caught the lover. Sliced off his manhood. Slit his throat. Then chopped off his head and butchered his body to stuff into a giant barbecue smoker. Tucked the man's jewels into his mouth as the crowning touch to a cannibal's mesquite-smoked delight.

Not the same. Didn't have her. She still needed to feel his blade, feel his eyes boring holes into hers as he gave her that crimson smile. He needed to lick her blood off that sharp stainless steel. Taste it. And grin. Only then would the circle be complete. He'd be whole again.

Well, not completely whole.

His right eye was gone, blown out by a glancing hit from one of those .45 ACP slugs that also shattered the orbital bones. Nothing extensive plastic surgery, bone implants and a new glass eye couldn't cure. Had to stack plenty of cash up front to repair damage that severe.

Gave that part of his face a waxy texture straight out of Madame Tussauds. But it sure beat wearing an eye patch and the lopsided face of a Dick Tracy cartoon villain.

His left knee was also shattered, replaced with a titanium joint that allowed him to walk with only a slight limp. Another five-figure hit to his stash of greenbacks.

The man who fired those rounds was also on his payback list. An ex-cop. Big-ass older fucker with a gray beard. Said to be a washed-up Dallas P. I..

Beg to differ, sir. Sumbitch sure kept him from getting to her during that clusterfuck in the West Texas desert. A real Wild West shootout between rival drug gangs wanting the blonde bitch's bang-bangs.

He was oh-so-close to grabbing her up, dodging bullets and bodies, closing the gap between him and Ol' Dude, who was carrying the bitch draped over his right shoulder. He screamed her name and leveled an M-16A1 at the both of them.

"La Güeraaaaaaa! I got you, bitch! Got you now! Gonna slice you wide open and watch you bleeeeeeed!"

Ol' Dude spun on his heel and emptied a 1911 mag at him offhand. Yelled this: "Not today, you cockbite motherfucker. Not in this lifetime or the next." A lefty. On target without dropping the bitch. Only thing that kept him alive was a Kevlar vest that caught the Flying Ashtrays that would have shredded his chest.

Washed-up, my ass. The man wrecked me. His time was coming, though. Count on a reckoning. Soon. But not now. He was working his way up the ladder of a list he kept in his head. One body at a time.

Frankie was the bottom rung. La Güera was at the top with Ol' Dude second. Five other rungs between Frankie and them.

Time to get gone. And get busy.

***

Excerpt from The Fatal Saving Grace by Jim Nesbitt. Copyright 2025 by Jim Nesbitt. Reproduced with permission from Jim Nesbitt. All rights reserved.

Chapter I

It was the custom of Colonel Sir Joshua Williams to invite his veteran officers to his house each Season to commemorate the Battle of San Stefano. After dinner, the closing ceremony was invariable: First, the ladies rose, the young in their pale blues and pinks and the more matronly in their deeper reds and purples. They smiled and departed, leaving the table surrounded by men in their scarlet coats, adorned with medals glittering by the light of dozens of beeswax candles in their silver holders. The liveried footmen filled the port glasses and left as well, closing the doors behind them.

One former company captain looked around, taking note that he was the youngest battle veteran there—the toast would fall to him. Others had moved on or died. He had himself missed last year's dinner, spending it on the Afghan border, dressed like a Saracen and getting his skin burned black while trying to uncover the secrets of that land's sullen and violent inhabitants. Even the task he had to complete after leaving tonight, difficult as it seemed, was nothing compared with that.

The colonel caught his eye, and so the captain stood. Every man stopped talking as the captain raised his glass, and then they stood at attention. He remembered the words easily, and in a strong voice he said, "Did our battle line ever break?"

"No!" shouted the company.

"Why did it not break?"

"We are the hard men," they replied in unison.

"Gentlemen, to our departed brothers of the First Northumberland Foot," called the captain. They drained their glasses and slammed them down, then burst into applause. The dinner was over.

The captain—indeed, he suspected, the other officers as well—was reflecting on how this dinner came about in a year of peace. The English and their allies had defeated Napoleon for the final time at Waterloo two years past now in 1815 and life was moving on—the best people were all in London this time of year, with no war to talk about, just fashions and parties and theater and how good it was to be able to import from France the best claret again.

They rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, and the captain sought out Lady Williams, the colonel's wife.

"My Lady, thank you for your invitation."

"It is I who should thank you, captain. These dinners mean so much to the colonel as he ages, having all his officers around."

"And he means so much to us, Lady Williams, the pleasure and honor are ours. I am only glad I am back in London so I can attend."

"Yes, he mentioned you found a position in the Home Office?" She showed as much surprise and curiosity as a lady of her breeding dared reveal. The captain knew the look—how did a man of his obscure background land what appeared to be a distinguished government position? Despite its simple name, the Home Office had become, since its founding some 25 years before, one of the most powerful and overarching government ministries, with responsibility for security and safety within the British Isles. The Home Secretary was one of the most influential men in England. How Winter had advanced his career in that august body was beyond reckoning.

"Yes, my lady. The work is interesting, but at times onerous, I'm afraid. Indeed, my masters call me even now."

"At this hour, captain? How tedious for you. But again, I am pleased you could come. Give my warmest regards to the Earl and Countess."

The captain said goodbye to his colonel and a few other officers, and the butler saw him out. He walked to the nearest stand and engaged a hackney cab to Bow Street Court. A few heads turned as he entered the building, but no one accosted him. A clerk gave him the barest nod but said nothing as he entered a room.

A few minutes later, the captain came out. He was no longer in his regimentals, but in rather shabby outfit, almost rural, with a slouch hat. Down the hall, he entered another room, where a squad of Bow Street Runners awaited—constables, employed by the local court at Bow Street, to keep order and seize felons. Winter suppressed a grimace. They were poorly trained and poorly paid, but it was pretty much all London had for law enforcement. Many still thought the idea of a formal professional constabulary too much government interference—too un-English. So, the Runners would have to do. At least they were willing and obedient.

"We have already gone over where you should be standing," said the captain. "You know how important it is you aren't seen." There was more than instruction in his voice--there was menace.

"Yes, sir," said the most senior constable present.

"Then take your places. I'll be along shortly."

Moving quickly, he left the building and walked along dark streets that became progressively dirtier and more dangerous. He saw men hiding in the shadows, those who preyed on the weak and unaware, but nothing happened to him.

Eventually he came to a building that was well-lit, at least by the neighborhood standards. It was certainly the noisiest venue in the street. The cracked and faded sign marked it as The Three Bells.

The Captain entered—a few were eating off dirty plates, and almost everyone was drinking beer, or something stronger. Slatternly women laughed and tried to slip away from the half-drunk men who loudly pursued them. Some allowed themselves to be caught, and there was more laughter and then a talk of money. The whole room smelled of smoke and grease, and the floor was sticky from weeks of spilled ale.

Few paid attention to the captain, but a fat man walked up to him surprisingly quickly for someone of his bulk.

"Oh captain, I am so pleased, do you think—"

"Shut up. Where's Sally? She was suitable last night, and she'll be suitable tonight."

"Sally—oh there she is." He pointed to a tallish girl wearing more makeup than an actress. A large man in worker's clothes, probably a stevedore, thought the captain, had grabbed her and placed her on his lap. She didn't seem to mind.

The captain strode over, grabbed the woman by her wrist, and pulled her off the man's lap.

"Come, my girl, we have an appointment as you well know."

She yelped with surprise, then gave a shrug and followed. The large man stood up.

"See here—I saw her first," he said. His accent wasn't London, which explained everything.

"Good for you," said the Captain, and pulled the girl across the room. The big man started to follow, but two of his friends grabbed him.

"Now Jake, no need to cause trouble," said the first, who was clearly local.

"Cause trouble? I'll flatten him—"

"No, you won't. You don't know, you're new here. For God's sake, that's the Captain, a soldier, they say he was, and you don't want to start something with him—I've seen what happens to those who do—"

"That's right," chimed in the other friend, also a Londoner. "Remember Big Nick—used to be here, no one stood up to him, but he challenged the Captain…" he shuddered.

"And what happened?" asked a skeptical Jake. Both men look their heads.

"We never saw him again. He wasn't arrested. They didn't find his body—he was just…gone. So just stop thinking about it. There are plenty of other girls."

But Jake still felt he had to make a show of standing up for himself.

"So, you're telling me it would be a mistake to call him out?"

"Your last mistake," said the first man. Then very softly, as if he was afraid of his words, he said, "He's called Winter. If you're thinking of staying in this part of London, you would do well to remember that name."

#

Captain Winter—indeed, that was his family name—dragged the girl along to the same place as the night previous, with a hope of better hunting. He told her to ply her trade in this alley and then set himself up again behind some empty crates that had once held vegetables, brought to London from the farmlands. Winter was a country boy and knew the smells. Memories of his childhood came back, which kept him from getting bored. He had learned to keep himself occupied while waiting indefinitely for something to happen. Few realized how much time in the army was spent just waiting. In the army, patience was usually rewarded with a battle, and tonight, he hoped, it would be rewarded with the capture of a killer.

Although the evening had been spent remembering battles past, he put those out of his mind and thought about grain at harvest time on the estate, the bacon being smoked, the farm workers shearing the sheep and the earthy smell of the fine horses—especially the joy of riding them through the earl's lands, with Charlotte, chattering and giggling. Half his mind focused on the scene in front of him, while the other half wandered back to a past Twelfth Night: The coach had been stopped 10 miles from Rockland Court by a surprising snow, so he had borrowed a big white horse from the coaching inn and set out against all advice.

It was hardly an elegant mount, more suited for pulling a plow than for carrying an officer, but it was strong, and Winter had urged it through the drifts. Charlotte had seen him from her bedroom window high up, and as he approached the manor house she had raced down and out the door, wrapped in her rabbit fur cloak.

"You made it! I never thought you would!"

"I'm a gentleman—and a gentleman always keeps his word." Once he was inside, servants came to relieve him of his wet outer garments, leaving him in his red coat. A footman pressed a hot cup of wassail in his hand, and he let himself be led into the library, where a fire was roaring. The earl and countess joined them, chiding him for taking such a risk in stormy weather, but he had just laughed.

Cook outdid herself that day, with a magnificent roast, and while the Earl noticed Winter's insatiable appetite, Winter noticed Charlotte hardly ate anything, hanging on his every word. The family stayed up late, until Winter fell asleep in a library chair, and the countess sent a reluctant Charlotte to bed. But when he was alone, Charlotte slipped back down and, on his brow, planted a kiss she mistakenly thought he wouldn't notice, before tiptoeing back out again.

A noise brought Winter back to the present. His hand checked the pistol on his lap, caressed the smooth wood stock, felt the metal trigger. Then he reached for the blade hidden in his boot—thin, but strong, with a razor edge on each side. He was ready.

The girl he was watching meanwhile had apparently lost herself in an impossible daydream, walking slowly, and idly playing with her hair. For now, she could imagine being the well-kept mistress of a gentleman—she was still young and fairly pretty. In another year or two, she would be neither. Winter had wanted an attractive girl, but more than that, an obedient one. That miserable fat procurer had told him the first night that the man was killing the best of them, and feared "sweet little Sally" would be next.

"She was born to this, she was, captain, she’s natural for it," he had said.

Winter had told him to shut his mouth. But the man spoke anyway. He'd need more of a motivation to keep quiet, thought Winter, entertaining pleasantly dark thoughts about what he'd like to do to that bastard--thoughts he knew he couldn’t act on.

It was the third night. Winter had narrowed down the location, but couldn’t be completely sure. The killer was also easily spooked, and if the night was too lively, he didn’t show. But this evening was perfect, foggy, with little moon, in an alley a short walk to St. Jude. Wasn't he the one for lost causes? How perfect.

The girl had been complaining after two empty nights, but when Winter pointed out the options to walking out under his protection, she sulkily cooperated.

There was the barest illumination from the busy street near the alley, and Winter had a lantern, lit but masked, at his side. He had told the constables to stay some distance away and hidden, but within whistle call. They were getting bored too. But perhaps tonight. Hadn't Colonel Williams once told him, “You’re a good officer, Winter, but even better, you're a lucky one."

Winter had tried to anticipate everything, but he knew that was impossible. The noise of a boot lightly treading on a cobblestone and Winter had the pistol out, but even he wasn't fast enough: The man was quicker and darker than he had expected. It took him a second to have his arm around the girl, and a knife to her throat. But he hadn’t yet cut her when Winter had opened the lantern, stood, and aimed the pistol.

"Let the girl go and drop the knife." The man's eyes darted in each direction, but Winter blew the whistle and a moment later they heard running feet, and the squad of Bow Street Runners was on the scene. They looked uncertain at the standoff. Winter hoped they would follow his directions.

"Escape is impossible. Let the girl go, surrender, and you will have a fair trial."

And the man laughed, slightly hysterical. It was as Dr. Wolfe had said, some men were sick in body, and some sick in mind.

"Yes, a trial, and then a hanging. Well, I can take one more—one more sinner off the streets."

The Runners had brought lanterns too, and now Winter could see his face, and his clothes. Yes—a gentleman. He knew there had been a reason they couldn't find him. They were looking in all the wrong places.

The girl gurgled in absolute terror as the blade came ever closer, and Winter knew it took a lot to frighten a woman in her line of work.

"If you spill one drop of her blood, I swear you will not leave this alley alive."

"Rope or ball, it's all the same."

"No, it's not. I'll shoot you in the stomach. You might live a whole day like that, in agony you can't begin to imagine." He held the lantern up higher. "Look at me and realize I am not bluffing."

Winter saw the eyes waver and knew he had won. Before any battle, he could always look at each one of his men and tell: Who would stand to the end. Who would panic. Who would freeze.

"It would seem we have a draw, then," said the man.

"We do not. I am going to count down from five. Then I will shoot right through the girl—"

At that she screamed, and the man held her tighter.

"I will shoot right through the girl and at this range the ball will go directly into you. The girl will die instantly, but London has plenty of whores and one less won't be a problem. I'm counting now. When I reach one, I'll shoot."

The scene froze, like just like the beginning of a battle. The Runners looked both curious and frightened. The girl was now hysterical. And the man—he would break.

"Five…Four…"

"But—you're a gentleman," said the killer, who had in the short time taken in Winter's voice and demeanor, which came through despite his clothes. Winter almost laughed.

Three…Two—"

The killer threw the girl and raised his hands, still holding the dagger. He was mad, but not stupid.

"You have made a sensible decision," said Winter. He laid the pistol on a box. "Now give me that blade and come with us peacefully to Bow Street."

But the eyes darted to the discarded pistol, and he suddenly came at Winter with the knife poised to bury itself in his chest. A moment later, however, the dagger was flying, and Winter had landed a fist full into the man's face. He felt into a heavy heap on the ground, as he bled from his nose.

"Well don't stand there gawking, tie him up before he wakes. And someone pick up that blade—it will be needed for the trial." Two of the Runners woke from their stupor and did as they were told.

"I…I've never seen fighting like that, sir," said the senior Runner. "You kicked the knife right out of his hand."

"It's French street-fighting. I learned it from a French prisoner."

"Very impressive, sir, but if I may take a liberty, you shouldn't have put your pistol down while he was still armed."

"But it was intentional. I didn't want to miss the pleasure of beating him senseless." And Winter smiled humorlessly. He was an odd one, the Runners knew, and you couldn’t be sure…

Winter turned his attention to Sally, huddled and whimpering in the corner. "It’s all over, my sweet." His voice was very gentle, and he reached a hand out to her. She took a breath, then looked Winter in the eye.

"You bastard," she said, and followed with an impressive stream of invective.

"Our regimental sergeant major was known throughout the army for his skill at cursing, but you have him beat." He laughed.

"You were going to shoot me!" she said.

"I knew he'd fold. You were never in any danger. I told you that you would be safe, and you are. Now for being such a good girl, I'm going to give you a reward." He held out some money, and she stared as if she couldn't believe it. Then her hand reached out quickly and snatched it.

"Do I have to share it with…"

"I won't tell if you won't," said Winter.

"Uh…Captain…?" The constables were leading the prisoner away, stumbling and still a little stunned, and one of them was holding his lantern high into a corner of the alley. "I think I found another one."

Winter sighed and walked over. Yes, there was another woman, but he quickly saw this was something different. She was dressed in dark clothes, not the cheap gaudy dresses Sally and her cohorts wore. And her throat was untouched. Winter bent down but couldn’t immediately see a wound—and there was nothing stuffed into her mouth. The captured killer hadn’t done this one.

He stood up and sighed again. "You two—take him back to Bow Street and return with a cart, anything to carry this body away." He turned to the other two Runners. "You—take the girl back to tavern." He pulled some more coins from his pocket and handed them to one of the runners. "Get her something to drink and a hot meal." She looked even more pleased at that. "Then bring that fat bastard back. I want him to look at this girl."

"Yes, sir."

"And you—Johnson—do you know where Wilkie Lane is? Go to number 7 and you'll find a Dr. Wolfe there. Wake him and tell him I'll need him to see a body tonight."

"But, sir, orders are—"

"Orders are as I give them."

"Yes, sir."

The Runners hurried off to their tasks, and Winter was left alone with the dead woman. He took a closer look at her. Although Winter had ordered the procurer to the scene, he was sure she was not a woman of the streets. She looked clean and healthy. Her hands were soft. The woman’s dress was simple and sober—perhaps a maid on her day off, but that didn’t entirely fit either.

The young woman was beyond modesty, and Winter began looking for a wound. He found it, just under her ribcage. A very nasty hole. He stood and flashed the lantern around—no blood.

The Runner returned with the procurer, puffing and sweaty, although the night was cool.

"Captain, captain, they tell me you caught the man—I cannot tell you how grateful I am. At last, my girls are safe. They haven't been going out in the streets, and the money—"

"Your business dealings are of no interest to me. This dead girl is." He shined the lantern on the body.

"Oh, I say, Captain, not one of mine. Although I wish she had been, a pretty girl."

"I didn't think so, but I need to be sure."

"Poor little girl. These streets just aren't safe for young girls such as her."

"Your sentiment does you credit," said Winter.

"Thank you, Captain."

Sarcasm was wasted on him.

"You're dismissed—get back to your tavern. And clean it up. I'll be back in a week and if I don't like the way it looks then I’ll wake a company from the Middlesex garrison, arrest everyone, and raze your tavern to the ground. I don't care who your protectors are." And he had the pleasure of watching him run away as fast as he could with his bulk. No doubt he'd contact his patrons, to find out just how powerful Winter was—could this mysterious gentleman really shut him down? Well, at least Winter had scared him for a while.

Winter and the remaining constable waited for the cart for the body.

#

Wilkie Lane, where Dr. Wolfe lived, ran to about a dozen houses, a little scuffed but generally in good repair, and quiet. People kept themselves to themselves here, and few Londoners from other parts of the city found reason to visit.

Winter had the constable drive there and told him to stay outside with the cart. The man had had the forethought to bring a bottle of ale and some bread and cheese, and didn't seem too upset at the prospect.

Throwing the body over his shoulder, Winter entered the house, which Dr. Wolfe had left unlocked in anticipation of Winter's arrival. The doctor was dressed and in his well-lit examining room, his face impassive behind his beard.

"Don’t you ever have crimes during the workday?" asked Wolfe.

"The criminal classes work better by night," said Winter, and placed the corpse on the table.

Now Winter could see—she had been a very pretty girl, with a clear face and hair that held the remnants of a fashionable style.

"A better class of victim than usual," said the doctor. "Who is she?"

"I don’t know. She was found in an alley. There's an apparent knife wound in her side."

"We'll come to that presently. First, let’s see what we can uncover." He prodded her, then ran his hands over different bones. "This one got plenty of food." Next, he pried open her mouth. "A suitable diet."

"But her dress is plain. I guessed a superior servant, a parlor maid or lady's maid. But I looked at her hands, and now in the light, I'm sure she wasn't. They're too soft. Even lady's maids should have pinpricks from sewing or other signs of work. This woman did nothing."

"Gentry?" asked the doctor. "Should I even be examining her, then?"

Another man might've taken the doctor's reluctance for fear, but Winter had seen Wolfe calmly dressing wounds on a battlefield while musket balls flew around his head. The doctor had no fear. He had wanted to study wounds, so he just showed up at the regimental HQ and offered his service on the front lines. The need was great, so no one was in a position to turn down a volunteer doctor, even a foreigner and a Jew. And as it turned out, he saved lives and limbs. He earned Winter's respect, and then his friendship. Winter made it clear that any man who had a problem with Dr. Wolfe, had a problem with him.

"Do whatever you need to. But time isn’t unlimited. A woman of her class will be missed, and I can't keep the body forever."

"Then you'll be my assistant." They wrestled the dress off the girl.

"She was a lady. Those are expensive and fine underthings. No servant would wear those."

Winter looked up from the body to see a wry smile on the doctor's face. "Dare I ask how you come by that knowledge, my friend?"

"My position has forced me to educate myself in many different subjects," responded Winter, coolly.

"Someday the king will realize the sacrifices you have made in his service, and you'll get a knighthood," said Wolfe. "Now let's see this wound." He examined the slit in the woman's side. "Did you see lots of blood?"

"None. Not under her or nearby."

"Then she was killed elsewhere. There should've been a lot of blood. Now, as to a weapon." He pulled out some lenses. "This is different from the last ones I examined. Not only the location on her body but a much different weapon, not thin and sharp, I'd almost say a bayonet. But—there's some tearing, as if the blade had a nick. I wonder…." He frowned. "Come with me."

They walked back to the kitchen. "Let's hope Miriam doesn’t find out I was here. This is her room only." Miriam was a cousin of the doctor's, who cooked and kept house for him, with the assistance of local girl who lived out and did the heavy cleaning. Efficient and hard-working, Miriam was loyal to the doctor, but had disliked Winter from the moment she met him, and no amount of time would change that.

Kitchen knives were hanging on a rack. Wolfe selected a couple, thumbed the blades, and carried them back to the examining room. He held them against the wound. "That is my conclusion, Captain. If we assume kitchen knives are much alike, that's what killed this girl. Cooks keep them sharp, but over the years the blades get nicks, chopping through bone. She would've died quickly."

"But why a well-born girl in a servant's clothes? And why no jewelry?"

"Wouldn't anything have been stolen from the body?"

"There are no signs that rings were wrenched off quickly, or necklaces pulled off a neck. I think jewelry was removed and clothing changed, to disguise her. She was wearing something else when she was killed—we know that, because there's almost no blood on the inside of her dress, and no corresponding cut in the dress."

Wolfe stepped over to his lenses, chose one, and bent over to get as close as possible to the wound.

"Hand me my tweezers," he said, and Winter did. The doctor held his glass with one hand and manipulated the tweezers with great care into the slit. "Very good." He gingerly carried the tweezers to an odd device, almost like a sextant, and placed what he captured in the tweezers on a small glass plate. He adjusted the device and looked through an eyepiece on the top. "Very good, indeed. Captain, this is a microscope. Just as telescopes make far things close, this makes small things big. Look—tell me what you see."

Winter squinted into the eyepiece. "Blue threads."

"Exactly. When the knife went into the girl, it pushed threads from the dress into the wound. She was wearing a pale blue dress."

"You have exceeded yourself, doctor. You've worked a miracle."

"Only the good Lord above works miracles," said the doctor.

"Your Lord or mine?" asked Winter, smiling.

"Aren't they one and the same?" asked the doctor, mildly, and Winter laughed.

Dr. Wolfe turned back to the body, and explored her hands, and feet and various joints. It was almost impossible to imagine this girl in a fashionable dress, dancing at one of the Season's parties. And Winter didn't try. He had seen fields of men like that, and thoughts about the lives they had led before, the lives they would never now lead, could only provoke madness.

"There is little roughness. The young lady did not walk much and did no work, as you guessed. Additional proof she was a lady of leisure. But if it helps you, she broke the smallest finger on her left hand. They either didn't send for a doctor quickly enough or he was clumsy. There would've been some permanent stiffness."

"They should've called for you."

"Yes, I am the first physician the English gentry considers," he said, dryly.

Then Dr. Wolfe thought for a moment and laid his hand on her abdomen. "My friend, I think the young lady has one more secret to give up. Hand me that tray of tools…" Wolfe's fingers worked quickly and surely, his brow furrowed as he focused on his tasks. Then he allowed himself a smile of triumph. "It is as I thought. The young lady was with child."

"You're certain?"

"Within the first three months, I believe. She should've known." He shrugged. "Unless she chose not to know."

"So, I have a pregnant woman from a good family in a part of London she shouldn't even have known about, let alone entered, in a dress that wasn't hers. This will be a little harder than finding out who decided to rid London of whores."

"And that reminds me. How does that investigation fare?"

"I actually caught the man this evening. I found this girl in the same area, and first thought she was another of his victims."

"Congratulations on your success."

"Yours too, doctor. You were the one who identified the kind of blade it was." The doctor had examined the murdered ladies of the street and had concluded the blade was expensive and well-cared for, hardly something a common criminal would carry. "You were right. He was mad." Winter made a grimace. "Somewhat like our king, I suppose." It wasn't openly discussed in Society, but King George III had become "unwell," as it was politely said. His son had been given most of the king's power, his royal purse and the title of "Prince Regent"—all of which he used more to pursue pleasure than to govern.

"The murderer or your English king—beyond my poor skills. But I am pleased I could assist with your case. Can I find you something to eat before you go?"

"Thank you, but I should be getting the body back to Bow Street. Someone is probably looking for her." And hunger was the only thing keeping him awake.

"Very well, but as your friend and doctor, I ask you to take care of your health."

#

Winter and the Runner drove back to Bow Street, where the body was placed, and Winter arranged to be informed if anyone inquired after a missing woman. He thought finally to get back to his lodgings for food and sleep, when he received another surprise: Sir Alston Tenebrac himself. Winter had rarely seen him outside of chambers at Whitehall, but even in Bow Street's rough quarters he looked much the same. He wore plain but beautifully tailored clothes that suited his short stature. His pale face, which rose to a perfectly bald head, was dominated by two small eyes, as dark and sharp as obsidian, and they darted around, missing nothing.

"Sir Alston. A pleasure to see you here."

"And a great surprise, I am sure." His voice was just over a whisper, but it caught your attention. Sir Alston was a lawyer, and they taught you those tricks of the voice, Winter had heard. "I hear you caught the man responsible for those dreadful murders of prostitutes. Slitting their throats and stuffing bible verses into their mouths. How did you catch him? I look forward to your report, but surely you can give me a précis now."

Winter didn't ask how Sir Alston had found out so quickly. It would've been impertinent, as well as pointless—Sir Alston seemed to hear everything.

"The bible verses stuffed into the girls' mouths, in the opinion of a physician I consulted, suggested a madman, sir. One with a peculiar religious bent. I inquired at various churches to see if the ministers had been visited by anyone displaying unseemly religious fervor and found something else—someone had disturbed a different church near each murder on each night. But nothing was stolen or damaged, so no reports were made. It seems he went to pray after each killing. I mapped the murders and churches and could draw a line from the fashionable neighborhoods deeper into the poor areas. After each murder, he had to descend deeper to find a new victim, but he never was far from a church. That pointed to a gentleman—"

At that word, Sir Alston raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Also, the weapon was an expensive blade. He was clearly not a resident of the area. Knowing he had to be near a church but not far from an area prostitutes walked, and that he had to travel a little further each time, I narrowed down the places."

Sir Alston nodded. "It sounds like you planned a military campaign."

"That was my training, sir."

"Of course, of course. I am pleased at the resolution. The matter was becoming increasingly gossiped about by the servant class, and when that happens, it's only a matter of time before their masters hear about it. But to new matters. On arriving here for a discussion of the case with the magistrates, I heard you have deposited another body. A woman apparently from a good family."

"That is the only aspect that is apparent, sir. I don't even have an identity. I assume you want me to investigate, sir?"

"That would seem advisable, Captain. But with tact and discretion. I want to be kept closely informed on this." He looked Winter up and down. "You might want to refresh yourself first, though."

"My thoughts exactly, sir."

"Then I will wish you good day." He took several steps, then turned. "Tact and discretion, Captain."

#

Winter's timing was fortunate—breakfast was just being served at the Cravell house. Violet, the little maid, was racing around the table with hot toast. Mr. Cravell sipped tea sparingly, as if he was afraid to spill on drop on his unfashionable but extremely respectable suit. Mrs. Cravell's eyes looked for any sign of imperfection, from the table settings, to the position of the teapot, to the behavior of her two boys.

"It's not polite to whisper," she admonished them.

She stopped searching when Winter walked in. "Bless me, Captain Winter, I said to Mr. Cravell, I hoped Captain Winter would make it to breakfast. We have set you a plate. You look like you need a good meal."

"Yes, bless you, Mrs. Cravell, you are correct. I trust I will not offend you, but I was traveling extensively tonight and am still in my riding clothes."

"Nonsense, Captain. You were working hard on the King's business. Take a seat and think nothing more of it."

He looked around the table, and his eye landed on a new occupant, a young woman with an outdoor complexion and the peculiarly rich flaxen hair you found in the old Saxon families. Her dress was plain, but suited her nicely rounded figure. This girl is a dairy maid, concluded Winter. He had known such girls in his boyhood, with their strong hands and creamy cheeks, and he remembered the songs they sang with their gentle voices while they worked.

This particular girl had soft grey eyes that looked at him with curiosity and perhaps some amusement.

"I haven't had the pleasure," he said, gravely.

"I am sorry, Captain," said Mrs. Cravell. "I was going to make an introduction after you had had a little tea. Miss Charity Thorne, may I present Captain Edmund Winter, who works with Mr. Cravell at Whitehall. Miss Thorne is my niece, my brother's daughter." She paused for full effect. "Captain Winter is foster brother to the Earl of Rockland. He is originally from Rockland Court, and now the Earl and Countess are up for the Season, aren’t they, Captain? They are no doubt with the Hon. Miss Charlotte Fitzhugh, the countess's niece, daughter of the late Viscount Devereaux, and granddaughter of the Duke of Vale."

There would be no changing the words to that song. It was Mrs. Cravell's favorite.

"Your servant, miss," said Winter. Yes, that must be amusement in those eyes. "I hope your journey up to London was pleasant."

"Very much so, Captain. It's my first visit to London, and I am finding it most interesting."

"No one can help but find London interesting," he said, and started to eat. Mrs. Cravell was beaming at him, for some reason. "Mr. Cravell, I met with Sir Alston at Bow Street. I expect he may be there for some time. So don't be surprised if he is not in the office when you arrive."

"I have been in Sir Alston's service for 20 years, and have ceased to be surprised at anything he does," said Mr. Cravell, in his usual somber tone. It was as if he had gone into mourning when Queen Anne had died a century before and still hadn't come out. He was Sir Alston's chief clerk, which is how Winter had come to rent a room in their house. "I thank you, though, for the information. I trust your meeting at Bow Street was due to a successful conclusion in your task?"

"Very successful, thank you, Mr. Cravell. Sir Alston seemed pleased."

"Very good, then," said Mr. Cravell. The boys glanced at Winter, who was a figure of romance and mystery to them and resumed whispering. Mrs. Cravell's eyes darted to Miss Thorne, who spoke. "May I inquire about the nature of your work for Sir Alston, Captain? I understand from my uncle that you work in a bureau of the Home Office."

Winter, happily in the middle of a sausage, had to think. Mr. Cravell looked like he was going to answer the question, but a furious look from his wife silenced him.

"My particular bureau is concerned with curbing the criminal classes, Miss Thorne, as the Home Office overall is concerned with upholding the law. My military experience and travels abroad have given me some peculiar knowledge, and I advise their lordships in government as best I can. I file reports for the most part; it's rather dull."

He didn't think to say more, but Miss Thorne continued to look at him expectantly, as if he were in the middle of a story she wanted him to finish, so he continued. "You may not be aware, but London does not have a professional police force—that is, men who are trained and paid to prevent crime and catch criminals, unlike Paris, which has had such a body for many years."

"That's very interesting, Captain. We hear so little of the world outside of Cheshire back home." Winter could think of nothing else to say, as he became acutely aware of his clothes, inconsistent with the rather clerkly job he had just described. He felt her intelligent eyes on him; this young woman knew he didn't spend his days behind a desk, or his nights riding a horse. She probably didn't believe he was an earl's foster brother either.

She spoke again. "So, Captain, if I understand you rightly, Paris has a—what you called a 'professional police force.' And London—well, London has you." There was merriment in those eyes now.

Yes, Miss Thorne was definitely laughing at him.

***

Excerpt from Winter's Season by R.J. Koreto. Copyright 2026 by R.J. Koreto. Reproduced with permission from R.J. Koreto. All rights reserved.