Yet the men she passed were not too deeply involved with business that they did not see her. She attracted many curious stares, and one gentleman in a full-bottomed wig stopped outright in his tracks to gawk at her.

Pulling her cloak closer, Anne gave the gentleman a polite, cool nod, but kept walking. A footman trailed close behind her.

“At which of these coffee houses will I find my husband?”

The footman shrugged. “He always leaves the carriage and walks in. I never even been here before.”

Meaning Anne had no guide for this new, masculine world of Exchange Alley. A cartographic challenge, then. The native populace always knew where they were, but it was left to the cartographer to learn the landscape.

The scent of coffee and the sounds of men’s voices thickened the air. Everyone walked with great purpose, else they huddled close in grave conversation. Signs adorned each storefront. LLOYD’S. NEW UNION. NEW JONATHAN’S. JERUSALEM. Inside, a continual supply of coffee and newspapers was provided. A far distant country from the gossip and idleness of genteel women. A palpable energy buzzed, making her heart beat faster.

Or perhaps it was not the energy of the place, but Anne’s errand.

She ducked her head into one coffee house, and scanned the crowd within. Startled eyes turned to her. So many men, but none were Leo. Moving down the street, she peered into another, yet the results were the same. The process repeated itself, again and again.

“Are you sure he is here?” she asked the footman.

“Coachman told me he dropped Mr. Bailey here this morning.”

There was no help for it but to ask. She stopped a man hurrying by. “Excuse me, sir.”

The man took in the details of her clothing, her fine cloak, her soft hands. He blinked in surprise. “Madam?”

“I seek Leopold Bailey.”

He frowned. “The Demon? You’d best keep away from him, madam, for he’s been on a tear these past days. Either makes a man laugh with joy or weep with despair, as the humor takes him. A demon, indeed.”

“That demon is my husband.”

“Beg pardon, madam.” The man gave her a shamefaced bow. “At this time of day, you’ll find him at the Albatross. Which is just around the corner. Third shop on the left.”

Anne murmured her thanks and walked on. Each step made her pulse drum harder.

A sign painted with a large seabird told her she had found the place she sought. She gazed through the dust-streaked windows. Her heart leapt up to lodge in her throat. There he was, sitting at a table with three other men. The men listened intently to whatever it was Leo said, nodding and scribbling in small notebooks.

Gathering her courage, Anne moved to the door. “Wait out here,” she told the footman. Then she walked inside.

Smoke from countless pipes striped the walls, and the floorboards tilted unevenly. Tables were jammed close together, men huddled around them, and she heard words such as interest, profit margin, and dividends. She knew what those words meant now. Yet this still was a strange and alien place.

Anne kept her gaze fixed on her husband’s tawny head, and his wide shoulders. His back was to the door, so he did not see her approach. The men seated with him did, and one by one, they fell silent and stared as she neared.

Leo turned, frowning. His expression shifted to one of pleasure. Followed by fierce concern. He rose in a single, sinuous motion and stepped close.

“Something has happened,” he said. “Are you ill? Hurt?”

She shook her head, though she did feel both ill and injured. “We must speak.”

“Not here.” He took her hand and led her from the coffee house, without saying a word of farewell to the men with whom he had been conversing. “There’s a tea shop not far.” His stride long, he strode down the alley, Anne hurrying to keep up.

They left the close alleys and coffee houses, and walked on until he guided her into a shop with a clean bow window. Here, the air smelled of congou and butter, and framed prints of pastoral bridges adorned the walls. Though the hour was still early for ladies of fashion, there were yet a few women gathered at the tables, their calico gowns of good but not exceptional quality, their hair and hats artfully arranged by an unseen maid. The wives of the merchants who worked a few streets away.

She and Leo took the table in the corner. Dishes of tea appeared before them, served by a rosy-cheeked girl. Anne watched the leaves swirl within her cup, caught in miniature vortices.

“I’m half sick with worry,” Leo said. “And you’re pale as frost. Tell me what has upset you.”

To give herself a moment to compose herself, she took a sip of tea. “The mine,” she said at last.

Leo’s expression tightened. He leaned back. “Your father’s investment is safe.”

“I don’t give a damn about the investment.”

Several feminine gasps sounded in the quiet of the tea shop.

Lowering her voice, Anne said, “There was a collapse at the iron mine in Gloucestershire.”

“Word circulated this morning.” His gaze was shuttered. “Three men died. How did you learn of it?”

She would not look away from his storm gray eyes. “I had one of the footmen making inquiries, keeping me abreast of any developments.”

“Then you and I know the same things.”

“You know far more than I do.” She leaned over the table. “Such as: the cave-in at the mine.”

Cold sickness spread through her when he did not deny this. He looked away, his jaw tight.

“How? How could you know? Unless ...” She swallowed. “It was planned. Deliberate sabotage.”

His gaze snapped back to hers, angry. “Not deliberate. Simply ... an act of God.” A bitter laugh escaped him.

“Men were killed. Somehow you knew. And did not try to stop it.”

“I tried. But couldn’t.” Self-recrimination roughened his voice.

“How, Leo? How did you know?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She stared at him. “I cannot believe you would say that. To me, out of everyone.”

The agony in his eyes carved her apart. “It has to be this way.”

“You’ve shown me that we can shape the world as we see fit, make it bend to our will. Whatever secrets you keep, you do so for your own benefit.” Eyes hot, she pushed back from the table and headed for the door, ignoring the stares of the tea shop patrons.

Leo’s hand formed an iron band around her upper arm as he stood next to her. “Stay here,” he bit out to the footman.

Anne had no idea where they walked, until they emerged on the embankment. A dank, thick scent rose up from the dark Thames, and close by came the din of London Bridge. Vessels plied the water, tall-masted ships at anchor, and small rowboats ferrying people through the dangerous currents beneath the bridge.

She felt a choking sensation in her throat, as she and Leo faced each other. The treacherous river was to his back.

What Lord Whitney had said, it could not be true. It could not, for if he did speak the truth, it meant that the Devil was real, that there was actual magic in the world, and wickedness embodied. It meant that not only was there genuine evil, but her husband had willingly bargained with it.

Her heart and mind reared back.

“I swear to you, Anne,” he said now. “Nothing between us is any different.”

“You’ve no idea how much I want to believe that.”

He reached out and ran the back of his fingers over her cheek. His gaze was bleak. “We can make it so.”

His fingers drifted up from her cheek to wind through her hair. Oh, she loved his hands, broad and rough. She loved the strength of him, and how, when he touched her, his eyes flashed silver. Seeing her, seeing into her. A simple touch, yet with it, she felt the chaos of the city retreat, the perilous river recede.

A curl tumbled down as he tugged a ribbon free. He stroked the coil of hair, longing in his eyes, but then his gaze turned distracted as he wound the ribbon around his finger.