“This is where they said they were going.” Derek nodded at the building. “It’s a sort of cabaret or music hall.”

“It’s very busy, isn’t it?” Estelle murmured.

“It’s extremely popular.” He glanced at India. “What do you think?”

“Sin is usually popular,” she said with a casual shrug. “We will indeed remain in the carriage. I believe you were right.”

He raised a brow. “Again?”

“Again. And you needn’t be smug about it.”

He chuckled. “Oh, but I enjoy being smug.” He grabbed the door handle. “I would wager the doorman knows Val by sight. It won’t take me long to see if he’s here or not.” He opened the door and smiled wickedly at India. “You should probably give me a token for luck.”

Estelle nodded. “Like a knight of old going off to do battle.”

“Don’t be absurd. He’s venturing into a veritable den of iniquity not a duel to the death. And I daresay it’s not the first time.”

“Still, a token for luck. A glove perhaps or—” his smile widened “—a kiss.”

India arched a brow in disdain, but the oddest thing happened to the pit of her stomach.

Estelle clucked her tongue. “Goodness, Derek, you are naughty.”

He grinned in an unrepentant manner. “I know.” He nodded at India. “She likes it.”

India gasped. “I most certainly do not!”

He laughed, stepped out of the carriage and turned back to India. “Are you certain about that kiss?”

“Quite certain,” she said firmly, ignoring a vague sense of regret. Still, a kiss? She would never so much as consider such a thing. “Besides, a kiss here in this part of Paris, at this time of night, well, I can only imagine what an observer might think. People would jump to all sorts of conclusions, and Estelle and I wouldn’t be the least bit safe. Even in the carriage.”

“Now you’re probably right.”

“I know.” It was her turn to sound smug.

“I shouldn’t be long.” He nodded and headed toward the music hall.

Estelle switched to the opposite side of the carriage, and both women tried not to stare at the passing scene. They couldn’t help themselves. It was impossible to ignore. Here were the pleasure seekers of Paris. Well-dressed gentlemen reeking of wealth and elegance mingled with working men, rougher in appearance in clothes that had seen better days. The women, too, were mostly of a working class although, judging from the appearance of a great many, not all their work was respectable.

Estelle nodded toward a particularly garish-looking woman. “Do you think that she is, well—”

“Yes, I think she probably is,” India said uneasily. She was not so sheltered as to be unaware of women who sold their bodies, and probably their souls, to survive. God knows there were plenty in London. Nor was she so narrow-minded as to believe these women had a choice. More than likely circumstances of birth and poverty had left them few options in life. Legitimate work for women, especially those of the lowest classes, was scarce. Why even someone such as herself—of good family and modest means—had little opportunity for honest employment. She was well aware that a dire fate was never far from any woman who had no husband or family to depend upon.

“India!” Estelle grabbed her arm. “Look, across the street—isn’t that Frederick?”

“I can’t tell. He’s too far away.” India peered at the top-hatted figure headed away from them.

“I can’t make him out. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.” Estelle reached for the door.

“You’ll never catch him. I’ll go.” Even as India opened the door, she knew this was not her brightest idea. “Stay here.”

She jumped out of the carriage, dodged the oncoming traffic and fairly sprinted to the other side of the street. She hurried after the man, striding ahead of her at a leisurely speed. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noted he was unaccompanied and wondered where Lord Brookings was.

“Professor,” she called. He was still a few strides away. She picked up her pace. “Professor.” She reached out and grabbed his arm.

He turned, and she realized her mistake.

“I beg your pardon.” He directed a disgusted look at her hand on his arm.

She released him at once. “My apologies. I thought you were someone else.”

“No doubt.” He was the right height and build as the professor and even sported the same style of beard, and he was certainly English, but there the resemblance ended.

“I am sorry.” She took a step back.

“As well you should be.” His bushy brows drew together. “An Englishwoman like yourself. I assure you, I am not in the market for what you are selling.”

“Not in the—oh!” She gasped, indignation washed though her. “I’ll have you know I am not selling anything. This was an honest mistake.”

“A mistake perhaps but allow me to question the honesty of it.” He huffed, turned and strode away.

For a moment, India could only stare. How dare he! Why, she’d never been so insulted in her life! Just because a respectable woman wore a purple dress in a questionable area of a city did not mean she was an...unfortunate! That gentleman—although one did have to question that—deserved a stern dressing-down on the insulting consequences of jumping to conclusions. And she was just the woman to do it! She took a step after him and caught sight of Estelle gesturing from the window of the carriage. India pulled up short.

What on earth was she thinking? Certainly his insult had earned him an impassioned rebuke, but nothing, save perhaps a measure of self-satisfaction, could be gained by going after the man. And what would Derek say if he knew she’d left the carriage after she’d said she wouldn’t? She turned toward the carriage.

“What a shame, mademoiselle.” A large, dark-eyed brute with an unrestrained mustache and stubble on his chin stepped in her path. His French was not as refined as hers, but she had no trouble understanding his words. Or the look in his eye. “To be tossed aside that way. Stupid English.” He turned his head and spit in a most revolting manner.

“I beg your pardon.” She drew herself up to her full if inadequate height. “I am English.”

“My apologies, mademoiselle. But you are the English rose, and he is a fool.” He leaned close, the garlic on his breath nearly overwhelming. “And I am a lover of flowers.” He grabbed her arm.

“Unhand me at once.” She tried to shake off his hand, but his grip tightened. She couldn’t recall ever having been afraid before, but what was surely fear rose in her throat.

“I would do as she asks if I were you,” a familiar voice said casually.

Relief washed through her. “Derek, I—”

“Shut up, India,” he said in English, then returned his attention to her admirer. “It would be in your best interest to release her.”

“Why? She is available, is she not?” A predatory gleam showed in the brute’s eyes. The man was a good half a foot taller than Derek, broader and harder looking. Derek was obviously no match for this man. “And I like them small and spirited.”

Derek stepped closer to the man and spoke low into his ear. The brute’s eyes widened; he let her go at once and leaped back. He crossed himself, staring at her as if she were the devil incarnate. “Mon Dieu.” He turned and sprinted away.

“Come along, India.” Derek grabbed her elbow and hurried her toward the carriage. “Now.”

“What did you say to him?” She looked over her shoulder. Her assailant hadn’t so much as slowed his step.

“I told him I was a doctor, you were my patient who had escaped from my care and you were highly contagious.”

India could barely keep up with him. “What did you say I had?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said in hard, clipped tones. They reached the carriage, he yanked open the door and practically tossed her inside. She plopped down beside Estelle, who patted her hand in encouragement. Derek gave directions to the driver, then took his seat. She couldn’t see his face in the dark interior, but it wasn’t necessary to know he was annoyed with her.

“Are you all right?” Estelle asked, concern in her voice.

“Quite.” India summoned a measure of calm. “Obviously that was not the professor.”

“But it was very brave of you to go after him.”

“Brave?” Derek fairly sputtered with outrage. More than merely annoyed then. “Stupid is a more accurate term.”

“I have always heard there was a fine line between bravery and stupidity,” Estelle said, obviously trying to be helpful.

“Derek, I—”

“That was the most irresponsible, foolish thing I have ever seen.” Anger underlay his words. “You promised to stay in the carriage.”

“We thought we saw the professor, and we didn’t want him to get away.”

“It didn’t seem stupid at the time,” Estelle added.

“I expected better. From both of you,” he snapped. “Do you know what might have happened to you?”

“I believe I have some idea.” India folded her hands together in her lap to still their shaking. She pulled in a deep, calming breath. “And I am never irresponsible.”

“Ha!”

“So, am I to assume you did not find my husband?” Estelle ventured.

“I did not,” he said sharply. “The doorman told me he and my brother were there briefly and then left. Apparently to return home.”

“Oh, that is good to hear.” Estelle breathed a sigh of relief.

“Derek.” India braced herself. “In hindsight, as much as it pains me to say this...” She was not used to admitting her mistakes. She was not used to making mistakes. This was far more difficult than she had imagined. “While it did seem necessary at the time, I did not give my actions due consideration. I acted upon impulse—which I might point out I am not prone to do—as well as in a most, well, less than responsible manner. I have no excuse. I don’t understand it myself—”