After the third glass, her shaking at last began to cease. She leaned against the worn wing chair, her eyes closing. I fetched a cloth, dampened it with water at my wash basin, and began to wipe the blood and grime from her hands.

Sitting this near to her let me study her closely. Her eyes were dark blue, wide, and handsome, and her hair, now tangled and loose, was darkest brown, bearing only a few strands of gray. Her mouth was regal and straight, the mouth of a woman not much given to laughter.

She was a lady, highborn and wealthy, who had been to a ball or soiree or opera. Who had managed to get herself away from her carriage and servants to walk alone to the unfinished bridge at the Strand for her secret errand.

I still did not know who she was.

Grenville would know. Lucius Grenville knew everyone who was anyone in London. Every would-be dandy from the Prince of Wales to lads just down from Eton copied his dress, his manners, and his tastes in everything from food to horses to women. This famous man had befriended me, he'd said because he found me interesting, a relief from the ennui of London society. Most Londoners envied me my favored position, but I had not yet decided whether I should be flattered or insulted.

"Will you tell me who you are?" I asked as I worked.

"No." The voice was matter-of-fact, the timbre rich and warm.

"Or why you went to the bridge?"

Her closed eyes tightened. "No."

"Who was the man who accosted you? Did you have an appointment to meet him?"

She opened her eyes in sudden alarm. Then she focused her gaze on my left shoulder, holding it there as if it steadied her. "He was a beggar, I told you. I thought to give him a coin, because he was pitiable. Then I saw he had a knife and tried to flee him."