True, Denis had assisted in many of the problems I'd solved in the last year or so-the murder of Josiah Horne in Hanover Square, the murder of Colonel Westin, the affair of the Glass House, the murder of one of Denis's own lackeys in Berkshire, and the mystery of Lady Clifford's missing necklace. He enjoyed helping me then reminding me that someday I'd be asked to pay him for his favors.

Denis lived in a fine house in Curzon Street, had power and money and servants to do his bidding, and held many a lord, MP, and respectable gentleman in thrall. He owned them outright-paying their debts, gaining them seats in Parliament, or assisting them in other plays for power.

He did all these favors for a very high price-the gentlemen were then obligated to make things happen in Commons or the Lords or in the courts, all for the glorious cause of making James Denis more money or bringing him more power.

He wanted me to work for him outright. I do not know quite what he wanted me to do, but it could not, in the end, be good. Denis did not help others from kindness-he was a businessman, and he always made a profit. He was simply better at the business than any of the men who paid him.

"He helps only for a price," I said to Bartholomew. "Remember that."

"Right, sir."

Bartholomew bustled into my bedchamber, where I could see him placing my shirts into the wardrobe. By the time he emerged, I'd scribbled a note on a half-sheet of saved paper, blew on the ink to dry it, then folded it over once. "Please take this to Mayfair, to Mrs. Brandon. I need her help in a matter."

In the letter, I asked Louisa to have a young woman formerly known as Black Nancy to come to speak to me. Louisa had taken Nancy, a game girl, under her wing and found her honest employment in Islington. However, if anyone knew or could find out what went on with the girls in Covent Garden, it would be Nance, and I'd welcome her help.