London’s bawdiest slum rang day and night with the sounds of gin, sin and filth, yet the Society for Wayward Women remained a haven of safety. No untoward attacks or robberies occurred within its hallowed walls. Ruffians and robbers alike gave the locale a respectable berth, mainly out of a reluctant respect for the kindly Vicar Ashton.

Julia climbed the narrow steps leading to the front door. She loved this building. Once a brothel spattered with filth, it now gleamed, sparkling under a new coat of paint in startling contrast against its grime and soot-covered neighbors.

Stepping into the gleaming entryway, she smoothed her dress. A simple round gown, it had been divested of bows and trimwork and seemed startlingly plain when compared with the costly garments that now filled her wardrobe. Here she was once again plain, simple Julia Frant. The transformation did not lighten her spirits.

It was time she faced the truth: she was a total failure as a reformer. Not only was the Society still without a project to help the women, but Alec was just as sinful, just as seductive, just as prideful as he had been the day they had wed. Oh, she had managed to win a few compromises, but he’d undergone no real transformation of character.

Unfortunately, she could not say the same for herself.

Julia brushed a hand over her mouth and shivered. She never knew when Alec would appear to demand his forfeit, and she spent each day and the better part of each night wondering when the next kiss would come and how wantonly she would react. To her dismay, there was no predicting either.

She was both fascinated and terrified, dreading and yearning for his touch, and all the while sinking ever more under his spell. Of course, a spell of Alec’s weaving was hardly the stuff of nightmares; it was more that of dreams—hot, sensual dreams that left one lying awake in the middle of the night, yearning and trembling with raw lust.

Julia fanned herself with a limp hand. She was weakening. Every day brought her a step closer to begging for more than a mere kiss. And Alec had let her know by look and touch that he would be more than willing to comply.

If she didn’t come up with another way to reach her stubborn, lustful husband soon, she would be just as lost to sin as he. Refusing to dwell on such unhappy thoughts, she gathered herself together and entered the office.

The vicar rose from his chair at the head of the table, his thin, patrician face creased in a welcoming smile. “There you are, my dear. We were just about to begin.”

“About time you arrived,” growled Lord Kennybrook, shooting her a sharp glance from under gray, bushy brows. “Late. Just like a dratted female. And after making us move our meetings to this ungodly hour of the morning.”

Julia smiled. “Are you trying to raise my hackles, Lord Kennybrook? I should warn you it won’t work.”

His brown eyes twinkled from beneath fierce brows. “Why not?”

“I don’t have the energy. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Or the night before. Or the night before that. Actually, she hadn’t had one good night’s rest since her wedding night.

“Trouble sleeping, eh?” asked Lord Burton, full of bluff sympathy. “You’re just in time, then. Tumbolton here was just about to explain one of his queer philosophical notions.”

Kennybrook snorted. “That’s enough to put any soul into a trance, listening to such drivel before the sun’s fully up.”

Julia regarded the small group about the table with a fond smile. The disparate assemblage that made up the Society’s Board of Directors had come together under the gentle persuasion of Vicar Ashton. Men of position and wealth, they freely gave of their time and expertise for the simple reward of helping others. Julia loved them dearly and considered them the closest thing she’d had to a family since leaving Boston.

Vicar Ashton picked up a sheet of paper and peered at it through his spectacles. “I am pleased to announce that the Society for Wayward Women currently has enough money to establish any number of businesses.”

Mr. Tumbolton leaned over to read the sum at the bottom. “I vow, but that is a lot of money.” He coughed, the shallow, racking sound plunging the meeting into momentary silence.

Dr. Crullen shook his head. “You should not be in London, Augustus. It is poisonous to someone with your lungs.”

Julia caught the faint scent of peppermint. The doctor kept a store of candy in his pockets for his younger patients, though Julia believed he ate more than he ever gave away.

Tumbolton pressed a handkerchief to his colorless lips before taking a shuddering breath. “I can’t leave yet, Marcus. I’m in the middle of developing my new theory. It’s due at the publisher next month.”

“You won’t be around to do anything if you don’t take heed,” warned Lord Burton, his heavy jowls quivering with each word. “But I must admit we need your help if we’re to decide how to fix this sum from the new sponsor, whoever he is.”

Kennybrook narrowed his gaze on Julia. “This new sponsor bothers me. Something smoky about him, damn if there isn’t.”

Lord Burton nodded. “Shame we lost our last sponsor. He was a great man. I always thought John was the—”

“He was, indeed,” interrupted Lord Kennybrook with a meaningful glare.

“Oh, yes,” replied Burton hastily. He cast a guilty glance at Julia. “No more to be said about that.”

Vicar Ashton favored the assembly with a sad smile. “We still haven’t found a solution to our problem. I begin to fear we may never find one.”

“Humph. I still think a sausage factory is the thing.” Lord Kennybrook said. “There’s a huge demand and not enough suppliers. My own chef told me so. Perfect time to go into the business.”

Julia shook her head. “It is much too unsanitary.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “All that fresh meat. What could be better?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Just about anything.”

Kennybrook’s face folded into a scowl and Dr. Crullen interposed, “I cannot think of a large scale project for the women, but I do need a housekeeper. Mrs. Jenner has decided to return to the country to be with her daughter. Perhaps I could hire one of the women to take her place.”

“It’s hard to find good help,” Mr. Tumbolton commiserated. “I need someone to do my laundry.”

Julia wished Hunterston House were larger. At the most she could employ two or three women, and then she would have to deal with the fact that they were untrained. Of course, she and Mrs. Winston could instruct them, just as they had Muck.

“Heavens!” Julia cried. “That’s it! Mrs. Winston has been looking for a cook for weeks, and Lady Birlington is short a maid, and the Duchess of Roth said she’d give her left eye for a maid that could braid hair!”

Lord Kennybrook snorted. “What good is all that? Even with Tumbolton’s laundress, that places only four women and we have hundreds to see to.”

“Exactly! We will set up a company to train the women of the Society to become the best servants London has ever seen. We’ll run a servant referral service!” Julia drummed her fingers on the table, excitement buoying her spirits. “I know of a dozen matrons, the best of the ton, who are looking to hire maids, cooks, housekeepers—oh, all sorts of servants.”

The vicar stroked his chin. “Julia, I believe you have something there.”

“It is a healthy, respectable occupation,” Tumbolton said, giving a thoughtful nod. “And it certainly would not take much effort to begin.” He beamed with growing enthusiasm. “We should start immediately.”

“There’s only one flaw,” Dr. Crullen said. “In order for this effort to succeed, we will need a spokesperson who will vouch for us. Preferably someone within the ton itself.”

Kennybrook waved a hand. “We’ll get Lord Burton’s new ball and chain to do it. Have her blow it about town a bit. Won’t take long once the females start chattering.”

Julia looked hopefully at Lord Burton.

He folded his hands over his stomach, his fleshy mouth pursed into a frown. “I doubt Marie would be able to do much. She hasn’t quite ‘taken’ as she’d hoped.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I suppose I should escort her about more. But all that gadding about makes me bilious.”

Frustrated, Julia turned toward Lord Kennybrook. “Surely you know someone.”

“I know lots of people, my dear. But most are well past the age of changing servants. Unless, of course, one of theirs die.” He brightened. “Perhaps there will be a shocking influenza season this year.”

“I hope not,” interjected Julia hastily. “Surely someone—” She stopped. Could she? Dared she?

“What is it?” asked the vicar.

Perhaps if she were discreet, all would be well. She simply could not allow her wonderful idea to fall by the wayside. “I know just the person to help. Leave it all to me.”

“Wonderful!” Vicar Ashton exclaimed, his gentle face wreathed in smiles. “I knew we could count on your ingenuity.”

The rest of the assemblage agreed heartily, beaming at Julia with pride. Perhaps that was why Muck had been placed in her path—to show her the way for the Society. Everything made perfect sense.

At the thought of Muck, Julia glanced at the clock. The tailor was due at Hunterston House within the half-hour for the final fitting of Muck’s page uniform. She had taken great delight in ordering the child’s clothing for his grand debut this evening—more than she had in her own.

Her stomach tightened. How she dreaded this evening. Swallowing her nervousness, she stood. “I hate to leave, but I’ve pressing duties.”

The gentlemen rose, Mr. Tumbolton reaching the door first. “Allow me to escort you.”

“That is quite kind, but there’s no need. I have a carriage waiting.”

Kennybrook and Burton converged on her with all the pompous assurance of old age.

“Let the boy escort you,” Kennybrook said.

Burton nodded. “Can’t forget you’re—”

“Too young to be traveling without an escort,” Kennybrook finished with a stern glare at his companion.

Color tinged the end of Lord Burton’s bulbous nose. “Yes, yes, of course. Too young.”

“Sapskull,” Kennybrook muttered under his breath. He limped forward to take Julia’s hand and pat it fondly. “We’re just concerned for your welfare, my dear. Allow us to walk with you.”

Julia was forced to allow the gentlemen to see her out, hoping against hope they would not notice anything untoward. Luckily, the open door of the carriage hid the Hunterston crest, and after Mr. Tumbolton assisted her inside, the men turned back toward the building, arguing over something. In relief, Julia motioned to Johnston to be off.

As the carriage rumbled over the cobbles, away from the sights and smells of Whitechapel, Julia settled into her seat and began making plans. Perhaps she wasn’t such a failure as a reformer, after all.