After a day of catching up on sleep after leaving the Keene mansion that morning, I stood looking up at an unassuming townhouse, identical to the other twenty in this row, not shabby, but not elegant either. Average, homely. It was precisely the sort of residence one would think a chief detective of Scotland Yard might occupy.

I tucked the slip of paper that Harold had brought me from Bernard, who had, against all semblance of cherished service, snooped through Mr. Langley's office to find Chief Detective Ryland's home address, into my bag. I glanced quickly around to make sure no one was watching. The block was quiet at this time of night but I didn't trust it. I looked at the front door. That wasn't an option. Detectives worked late hours and I doubted Mrs. Ryland would be up for my excuse for visiting her husband at such an hour. Besides, being seen entering a Chief Detective of Scotland Yard's home would end any relationship that I had with the Keene's before it could begin.

So I headed to the back of the townhouse and peered inside. It was dark and empty. I paused. Was Chief Detective Ryland even married? I had just assumed he was. The sound of a bottle shattering against the pavement emanated from my right side and my gaze snapped to the darkness there. I sighed. I couldn't stand here all night.

I moved to the back door. Locked, of course. Then I went to the window. Unlocked and cracked. I rolled my eyes. Some detective. I pushed the window open and slid inside. It was big enough and low enough that I could practically step right into the house. I brushed off my hands as I turned back to shut the window which was clearly more designed for keeping men out than women.

I turned to head deeper into the dark house, pausing to allow for my eyes to adjust. Once they did, I looked around. Dirty dishes on the coffee table, open newspapers scattered on the couch, shoes in a pile by the door. Chief Detective Ryland was definitely unmarried. He was also definitely not home. So I pulled the curtains, lit a candle, grabbed a newspaper, settled into his armchair, and waited.

It wasn't long before I heard the tapping of hooves on cobblestone and glanced at the clock. Half past midnight. Not terribly late. Though it seemed the Chief Detective might disagree, as haggard as he looked when he opened the door. That is, before he leapt nearly off his feet at the sight of a crimson haired young woman seated casually in his armchair, reading his newspaper in the dead of night.

"Who are-" he started, wide eyes casting over me as a hand flew to his chest in fright. He blinked once, calming. "Miss Porter?"

I smiled and set the newspaper down upon the side table.

"Good evening, Chief Detective," I said in greeting. "I hope I haven't given you too much of a fright."

"No, I- it's quite alright. I only- what are you doing here? The last I'd heard, you'd boarded a ship with Alexander Langley, bound for America."

"You mustn't believe everything you hear, Chief Detective," I told him, rising from the seat as he closed the door so that we could speak as equals. "Do you know, for some reason I'd imagined you were married?"

"Thank heavens I'm not so I've not got to explain this," he gestured toward me and I smiled. He chuckled, running a hand through his greying hair. "What can I do for you, Miss Porter?"

"George Keene," I said simply. The effect was instantaneous. His eyes widened briefly before he regained control and cleared his throat, straightening his shirt as he avoided my gaze. "So you do know. Might I ask, then, why you've taken no action against the man?"

"We don't know," he claimed quickly. "We only suspect. And with a man like George Keene, we must be certain. Not only of what he's doing but that we can ensure he goes to jail for it. But the Keene's, they're connected, very well connected. The man's got members of Parliament attending his son and daughter's birthday. And half of the London elite have done business of some kind with him. We simply don't have the necessary evidence against him or his family to ensure any sort of success at trial."

I watched him carefully, the way he ran a hand through his hair as he shook his head, upset by his own limitations.

"What if I could get you the evidence you need?" I asked him and his eyes snapped to mine. I spoke again, quieter. "I have an in."

"An in," he repeated.

"We could work together. No one ever suspects a woman to be working with the police."

He narrowed his gaze and watched me for a moment, as if trying to determine if this was a trick or, more likely, if I was capable of following through with what I promised.

"Why do you want to go after the Keene's?" he asked after a moment. I smiled.

"Give me the file you have on them and I'll tell you," I said and his brows creased.

"We don't have a file at the station. I told you, George Keene has powerful connections. If they were to discover that we were even thinking about investigating him-"

"Not the file at the station. Yours. The one you keep."

He did not do so well to hide his surprise this time. His expression told me that my presumption was correct. A good detective like him, a man who truly cared about right and wrong, wouldn't be abiding by what the Keene family was doing, no matter who told him to. Without another word, Chief Detective Ryland left the room and headed upstairs. A moment later, I heard him rifling through some drawers. A few minutes after that, he was descending again, rejoining me in the living room below, this time with an overflowing manilla envelope in his grasp. He sat it down on the coffee table. I reached for it but he beat me there, holding it closed and looking at me. A deal was a deal.

"My father owes him money. Gambling," I told him and he softened, removing his hand from the folder. "Well, not Keene specifically. One of his henchmen. I don't suppose my father would be worth George Keene's own time."

I plucked the folder from the table and flipped it open, eyes scanning the official notes inside the cover.

"Mr. Langley and I began investigating my father's debtors months ago. They led us to George Keene," I told him. I looked up and met his eyes. "They burned our shop. They broke my brother-in-law's hand. They slashed my stomach open and nearly killed me."

The Chief Detective's jaw hardened as his face turned white but I held his gaze. I needed him to understand how dangerous the Keene family dynasty was.

"There's no report of such an incident," he sputtered, finally. "You didn't go to the police."

"Why?" I asked, holding up the folder. "So you could put it in here?"

He had the grace to look ashamed at that.

"They're hurting people, Ryland, threatening them," I told him. "I'm going after them. With or without you. All I'm asking for is an ally. All I request is information. If I'm successful, you can take the credit. If I fail, we never had this conversation."

He watched me for a moment, considering. Finally, he broke out into a smile and I felt the tension I hadn't known I was carrying release from my shoulders.

"Does Alexander Langley know you're saving his life?" Chief Detective Ryland asked and I stilled. Of all the questions I'd expected him to ask, that was not one of them. But he merely smiled. "Let's ensure he doesn't. He would hate it."

I couldn't help but smile back as Chief Detective Ryland took the folder neatly from my hands and sat upon the couch, gesturing for me to join him. I did and we spent the next few hours going over the information in his folder. He told me what he knew and what were just his suspicions and I told him of my plan. In the end, I directed him to send any information to Bernard or Harold if he needed to get in contact with me and left his home, making my way, in the early hours of the morning, back to my studio apartment.

I slept for a few hours when I arrived and arose with the sun to a new day, feeling more comfortable in my plan than I had before.

I kept the names of possible accomplices that Ryland had given me the night before in mind as I set to trying on several of the dresses of Elena's that Harold had brought over, trying to decide upon one for the ball I was attending this evening. Just as I had zipped up a ridiculous red gown with a plunging neckline that I felt quite certain Elena would have never worn in her life, there was a knock on the door. I crossed the room, expecting Marie with word of lunch as I had slept through breakfast, but my mouth fell open at the sight of Nathaniel Harrison at my door.

"Mr. Harrison!" I gasped, peering past him at the empty hall beyond. "What are you- how did you find me? Did Harold-"

"Don't be upset with the boy. I followed him," he said and I shook my head as he pushed his way into my room. "You and Alexander aren't the only ones capable of conducting an investigation."

I closed the door and turned to face him, hands on my hips.

"Shouldn't you be on your honeymoon?" I asked with a raised brow.

"We're leaving this afternoon. And before we do, I would be remiss if I did not ensure your safety," he said, glancing about at my lodgings. "You've asked me to keep this from my best friend and from my new wife. Fine. But I know that if something were to happen to you, neither one of them would ever forgive me."

My shoulders fell at his words. I could not deny the truth of them. I knew the position I was putting him in and the least I could do was abide by his checking on me. I turned away, walking back to the mirror, looking over myself in the reflection.

"Thank you," I told him and saw him nod behind me. "I know that I've asked a lot of you. But I am grateful that you trust me enough to go to Edward rather than Alexander."

I glanced at him over my shoulder and he nodded again, giving me a tight-lipped smile.

"You really think he's in danger?" he asked. I took a breath.

"I do," I answered and noticed his shoulders fall. That wasn't the answer he had hoped for. "And it's my fault."

Mr. Harrison's eyes ticked up to me again.

"Your father-" he started.

"I don't want to risk anyone else's safety," I interrupted him. "You cannot come here again. And you can't tell Elena where I am. Mr. Harrison-"

"I understand."

We stood there for a moment, just watching one another, appreciating our mutual love for the Langley family. He rocked forward on his heels once, hands in his pockets, before taking the few steps toward the door to my antiquated apartment. Once his hand touched the doorknob, he turned back around to me.

"By the way, they made it to America," he informed me and I felt my breath hitch, either in relief or in the pain of knowing that he was really gone, an entire ocean away. "Elena received a letter just this morning. I thought you might want to know."

With that, he was gone, leaving me behind in my depressing studio apartment, my heart in pieces.