I'd sent a message to Louisa Brandon earlier, giving her my apologies for missing my appointment that afternoon. She'd demand an explanation when I saw her again, and I'd give her one in due time.

Someone had nailed boards over the ground floor windows of number 22, and the door still sported scars from rocks the mob had flung. Otherwise, the house was still, as calm as if the rioting had never taken place. The railings flanking the stairs to the kitchens remained whole and upright, the columns to either side of the front door were unblemished. The cobbles onto which Mr. Thornton had fallen had been trampled by horses and carriages and foot traffic, his blood already erased.

Despite the afternoon's excitement, number 22 was an ordinary house, no different from its neighbors to either side. But I had come to pry out its secrets.

I stepped up to the scarred door and plied the knocker. In a few moments, an elderly retainer with a hook nose opened the door and peered out.

"I would like to see Mr. Horne, if he's in," I said.

The door closed to a sliver. "We are much indisposed at present, sir."

"I know. I saw what happened to your windows." I thrust my card through the crack. "Give him this. I'll wait."

The retainer lifted the card to his rheumy eyes, studied it carefully, and opened the door a little wider.

"I will inquire, sir. Please follow me."

He let me inside, ushered me to a high-ceilinged reception room at the back of the house, and left me there.

I looked about after he'd departed and decided it a pity that the windows hadn't been smashed in this room as well-it would have made an improvement.