“It serves me well enough. And a hat, Freddar. Not a beaver hat. Something less conspicuous than beaver.”

“Less conspicuous,” Freddar repeated, as if he didn’t understand the word.

“I’d like a plain hat,” Leo clarified.

Freddar frowned. “As you wish, Highness,” he said primly, his curtness signaling that he was being made to do this under duress.

Kadro and Artur, too, seemed to participate in Leo’s excursion under duress. He overheard Kadro complain to Artur that the English coats were restrictive.

But Leo rather liked it. And he liked the plain hat with the wide brim. He was able to wander the wide lanes of the Leadenhall market with scarcely a notice.

The market was fascinating. So many people, so many animal carcasses! It wasn’t that Leo had never been to markets—he’d visited them on occasion in Helenamar. But those ventures were always done with a coterie of royal observers, and the visit arranged so he’d see only what the hosts wanted him to see. In England, he’d had opportunity to enter markets, of course, but there had never been any need to actually do so. The idea of wandering through stalls of meats and leathers and various goods he did not want had never crossed his mind.

Well, he had no idea what he’d been missing! He’d commanded Kadro and Artur to wait at a public house near the entrance of the market, so that he might stroll at his leisure. Just the number of beef carcasses alone hanging from the tops of the stall fronts were a sight to behold.

He was so entranced with the number of people and the sale of the meat that he very nearly collided with an old woman who was carrying the carcass of a sheep wrapped around her shoulders. She looked through him and carried on to her stall, one foot before the other, trudging along as if no one else was in the market.

Costermongers moved in between the shoppers, barking out their wares, singing about their fruits and vegetables, their herbs and flowers. People crowded the stalls, bartering for their cuts of meat. Ale was sold out of carts, and gentlemen strolled through the lanes with tin tankards. An enterprising young man had roasted legs of mutton to sell, too, and the smell made Leo’s mouth water.

On another aisle were leather goods. Belts and knife sheaths, saddles and shoes. Leo walked past a heated argument that had broken out at one tanner’s post. The gentleman apparently thought the tanner’s price for leather to make boots was exorbitant. The tanner accused the gentleman of sullying his reputation and took a swing.

Leo moved on to the poultry stalls, where live chickens and skinned chickens existed side by side, the latter hanging in rows above the stall. He lingered in this lane, pretending to look over all the birds, then walked back and looked again, waiting for a glimpse of Miss Marble. He was beginning to think that she had avoided him once again, but then he spotted her. She was walking with another woman, engrossed in conversation.

He had not counted on there being anyone with her. That was alarming all on its own, but then Leo happened to notice something else that caused his heart to skip a few worried beats. Just behind Miss Marble, a very ornate hat and a tumble of blond curls beneath its brim was moving steadily toward him, like the prow of a ship making its way to the quay. Good God, that was Lady Caroline strolling the market aisle on the arm of a gentleman.

What in blazes was she doing here, at this market? It had been only three days ago he’d seen her in bed looking as if she’d just crawled back from the jaws of death. How in heaven had she untangled the mess of hair he’d seen on her head, much less coiffed it into curls? And how could she look so pretty after appearing so emaciated?

Miss Marble and her companion stopped at one chicken stall and studied the birds. Leo ducked behind a stack of crates stuffed with live birds and held his breath against the stench, impatiently waiting for Lady Caroline and her escort to stroll past. They were not alone, he realized—two ladies dressed similarly to Lady Caroline strolled behind them, looking terribly ill at ease.

When he saw the group of them go round the corner into the lane of beef, he darted out from behind the crates, very nearly knocking them over, and drawing the immediate ire of the proprietor.

Miss Marble didn’t see him at first. She was laughing with the other woman, who, Leo realized as he drew closer, was also from the Hawke home. Bloody hell, who was next? The butler? Beck himself? He stepped out of their line of sight and bumped into a lad carrying a basket of cakes. He held one up. Leo dug in his pocket for a coin and handed it to him in exchange for a cake.

“A crown?”

Leo momentarily turned his attention from Miss Marble and looked at the coin in the lad’s hand. “Looks like it is,” he agreed.

“The cake, it’s a half penny, milord,” the lad said.

“Is it?” That seemed awfully inexpensive. “Buy yourself a treat, then,” Leo said, and with a friendly pat to the lad’s shoulder, he moved past him, following Miss Marble and the other maid as they moved down the aisle while munching on the cake.

He feared he was going to have to resort to extreme measures to separate Miss Marble from her friend, but suddenly, Miss Marble’s friend turned down another aisle, and Miss Marble walked up to a poultry seller. Leo quickly hopped forward and sidled up to her. “Miss Marble.”

She gasped. Her hand went to her throat. The man behind the stall looked at him curiously, then at Miss Marble.

“Please don’t draw attention,” Leo muttered.

Unfortunately, Miss Marble could not appear to be anything but alarmed. She seemed frozen with shock. He did not understand her shock. She’d told him to meet her here—did she think he would not?

“Say something,” he urged her, and forced a smile for the poultry man.

“Something amiss here?” the man rumbled.

Miss Marble managed to gather herself. She said to the man, “Two of your best chickens, if you please. Make certain they’re your best—they’re for Lord Hawke.”

The man nodded, took butcher paper and turned around for his stick to reach the carcasses hanging above him.

“Wrap them well,” she said, then gestured for Leo to step into a tight passage between two stalls. She stepped in behind him, glanced over her shoulder, then dipped into a curtsy.

“Oh no, no,” Leo said, reaching to lift her up, but drawing back his hand before he touched her, uncertain if he ought to, given the circumstances. “That’s...that’s hardly necessary, given this...ah, arrangement,” he stammered, seeking the right word.

“Please, Highness, what do you want of me?” she begged him. “I’ve done all I can do. I told the gent that I couldn’t help more.”

“The gent? What gent? Do you mean Lysander? But he gave me your—”

“Who?”

Leo paused. “Lysander, the Alucian.”

She shook her head.

Leo frowned with confusion. “But he gave me your name. What gentleman are you referring to?”

“Don’t know. I only know the Weslorian girl.”

“Who?”

“Isidora Avalie,” she said.

Leo’s heart lurched. That was one of the names.

“She’s the one you want, isn’t she? I told you, I can’t help you. I told the other gent that, too, when he came looking for her. Lord Hill, he turned us both out, and without any pay. Lord Russell, he didn’t like the way Lord Hill had done it, but he was kind enough to take me in until I could find another position. But Isidora, he wouldn’t take her, not her, because she was Weslorian, and he said he’d not involve himself in that. There, I’ve told you all I know, and now I really must go, Highness! If I lose my post, I’ve nowhere to go!”

“Hawke won’t turn you out—”

“He will, Highness, he will! Please, let me go.”

“Take a breath,” he said, realizing it was his own chest that felt tight. He was far out of his depth.

“I tried to help Isidora, on my word, I did, but she...she...” Miss Marble suddenly burst into tears.

“Oh no. Goodness, no,” Leo said, putting both hands up. “No, Miss Marble, you mustn’t weep. Why are you weeping?”

“She had no place to go, either, and now she...oh, she’s lost, the poor soul. Lost!”

Leo’s breath caught. “Do you mean she’s gone missing? Or...” He winced. “Dead?” he whispered.

Miss Marble looked up from blubbering into her hands and pinned him with a ferocious look. “She ain’t missing or dead. She’s working in a house of ill repute, that’s what. Right at Charing Cross. What was she to do? I begged Mrs. Mansfield to find something else for her—”

“Who is Mrs. Mansfield?” Leo asked, his head spinning.

Miss Marble’s eyes narrowed. “She owns the house where Issy stays now,” she said stiffly. “She said Issy was as safe with her as she was in some grand house, and if I didn’t leave her be, she’d take me in, too.” She glanced over her shoulder and gasped. “Molly’s looking for me! Please, Highness, don’t ask me again, I beg you.”

“Just one last question—who is the other gentleman who asked you about your friend?”

“I don’t know.” She turned to go.

“Wait! Where is Mrs. Mansfield? Where might I find her?”

“Charing Cross,” she repeated irritably.

“But Charing Cross is...”

It was too late—Miss Marble had fled, returning to the poultry man to collect her bundle, then rejoining her friend without once looking back.

Leo stepped out of the space between the stalls and looked around him. How the devil was he supposed to find a brothel with nothing more to go on than it was at or near Charing Cross? That wasn’t a street—it was a juncture of many streets.

He began to walk, his head down, thinking. He had no idea what he was doing, much less what he meant to do if he found any of these women. He was chasing rainbows and wandering around meat markets.