By the time that Rosalie let herself into Helen’s house in Clerkenwell, it was almost midnight. Lighting the lamp in the kitchen, she made a pot of tea quietly so as not to wake anyone. Then she sat down by the embers of the fire, still huddled in her cloak. Tonight had been a disaster—not least her encounter with the Captain, who’d managed to disturb her peace of mind in a manner that she guessed would cause her more than one sleepless night.

      Why was he there?

      Be honest with yourself, Rosalie. Why did any men go there? They went, of course, be they lords or tradesmen, to ogle the girls and pick out one for an hour of lechery upstairs. And at a place like that, her sister’s seducer would have found it easy to spot Linette, with her head full of fanciful dreams.

      She drew some blank paper from a nearby table towards her and by the light of the lamp started writing, assuming the easy-going tones of her alter ego, Ro Rowland. Since childhood, she’d found that it helped to write. Her earliest stories had been fantasies, a way of escaping into a place where happy endings existed. Later she’d found that wit was an even more effective weapon against the cruelty of strangers and this was now Ro Rowland’s world—a world not one of heartbreak, but of wry, almost cynical humour.

      Tonight your fellow about town Ro Rowland took himself to the well-known Temple of Beauty. And there he observed … The Captain. Damn him, damn him. She stared into the distance, her thoughts unravelling once more. A fencing master, Sal had said.

      It had been a long time since Rosalie allowed herself to think of any man with anything other than suspicion. Yet the thought of an hour alone with that dark-haired rogue, using the private room in Dr Barnard’s house for the purpose it was intended, set off a disturbing wobble somewhere at the pit of her stomach. She could not forget the rough silk of his lips and tongue; the warm, muscle-packed strength of his body—his aroused body—moving against hers … Oh, Lord. You stupid fool.

      Suddenly she heard footsteps out in the hallway and Helen padded in, her long nightshirt covered by a large India shawl. Rosalie jumped to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry, Helen. I didn’t mean to wake you!’

      ‘I was awake anyway. I heard the hackney and I’m just so glad you’re back safely … Rosalie, why are you still wearing your cloak?’

      Because I’m wearing next to nothing underneath it! Airily Rosalie replied, ‘Oh, I’m a little cold, that’s all. Would you like some tea?’

      ‘Yes, please.’ Helen pushed her loose brown hair back from her face, adjusted her spectacles and flopped down in a chair. ‘How did you get on at the Temple of Beauty? Was it full of fat old roués?’

      ‘They weren’t all old!’

      ‘But they’re all despicable, the men who patronise such entertainments! Oh, I knew that you shouldn’t go.’

      Rosalie decided there and then that it just wasn’t safe to tell her friend any more. ‘I was perfectly all right.’ What a terrible lie. ‘It was actually quite boring.’ An even worse lie. Rosalie quickly poured Helen’s tea and curled up on the small settee opposite her. ‘Helen, did you manage to get The Scribbler out everywhere today?’

      Helen immediately looked happier. ‘I did. That piece you wrote about the swells in Hyde Park is going down an absolute treat.’

      ‘Good! Though I hope none of the men I described recognises himself; I’d really hate to get you into trouble. Did you take Toby with you to deliver them?’

      Helen sipped her tea. ‘Yes, but I left Katy with Biddy; she’s happy with her.’

      Biddy O’Brien was a warm-hearted young Irish neighbour who kept house for her brothers, all in the building trade. She came in every day to clean Helen’s home and the children adored her.

      ‘Thank goodness for Biddy,’ said Rosalie fervently. ‘But, Helen, you really should allow me to pay you for letting Katy and me stay here.’ She had offered before, but had always been refused.

      Helen chuckled. ‘Your Ro Rowland articles are payment enough, believe me. I’ve never sold so many copies of The Scribbler, and people are always asking me who the real Ro Rowland is!’ Her face suddenly became more serious. ‘We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I. You expose the wealthy by making fun of them, whereas I hope to shame them by pointing out the truth. Just as in my report the other day about that haughty woman—the wife of an earl, no less!—who had a young maidservant whipped and dismissed, simply because she accidentally dropped a vase. A paltry vase, Rosalie!’

      ‘I know. The poor, poor girl …’ Rosalie hesitated. ‘Helen, I did just wonder. If this earl or his wife should hear of your article …’

      ‘I mentioned no names. And even if they guess, they’ll not dare to take action. That would be as good as admitting their own guilt!’ replied Helen crisply. ‘You know, it’s as if the so-called lower classes aren’t human to these people! Though it’s one thing for me to be as outspoken as I am, but quite another for you, you’re so much younger. Sometimes I even wonder if you should be writing your articles for me.’

      ‘What, me stop being Ro Rowland? Dear Helen, I adore writing; if you didn’t print my pieces in The Scribbler, I’d find someone else to publish them, I assure you! I am twenty-one, after all! I love exploring London, and all the fascinating people I meet on its streets …’ Her smile faded. ‘Well, nearly all of them.’

      ‘Be careful. That’s all,’ said Helen crisply. ‘And, Rosalie dear—’ Helen was already delving into a pile of notes on the table ‘—if you’re determined to keep writing as Ro Rowland—’

      ‘Try to stop me!’

      ‘In that case, I thought that this might be just up your street, because I know that you were, only the other day, starting to write an article about the rapacious landlords of London who let out hovels for high rents to desperate people!’

      Rosalie nodded. The practice known as rackrenting was a subject close to her heart, not least because of that dreadful room off the Ratcliffe Highway where her sister had