Hester was accustomed to the mild abuse and knew it was only Nell’s way of covering her fear and her pain. This was the fourth time she had been there in the month and a half since the house had been open.

“Yer’d think since yer’d looked arter soldiers in the Crimea wi’ Florence Nightingale an’ all, yer’d be a bit gentler, wouldn’t yer?” Nell went on. “I bet yer snuffed as many o’ our boys as the fightin’ ever did. ’Oo paid yer then? The Russkies?” She looked at the needle Margaret had threaded with gut for Hester. Her face went gray and she swiveled her head to avoid seeing the point go through her flesh.

“Keep looking at the door,” Hester advised. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“That supposed ter make me feel better?” Nell demanded. “Yer got that bleedin’ fat leech comin’ in ’ere again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jessop!” Nell said with stinging contempt as the street door closed again and a large, portly man in a frock coat and brocade waistcoat stood just inside, stamping his feet as if to force water off them, although in fact it was a perfectly dry night.

“Good evening, Mrs. Monk,” he said unctuously. “Miss Ballinger.” His eyes flickered over the other three women, his lips slightly curled. He made no comment, but in his face was his superiority, his comfortable amusement, the ripple of interest in them which he resented, and would have denied hotly. He looked Hester up and down. “You are a very inconvenient woman to find, ma’am. I don’t care for having to walk the streets at this time of night in order to meet with you. I can tell you that with total honesty.”

Hester made a very careful stitch in Nell’s arm. “I hope you tell me everything with total honesty, Mr. Jessop,” she said coldly and without looking up at him.

Nell shifted slightly and sniggered, then turned it into a yell as she felt the thread of gut pulling through her flesh.