As she hovered on the rain-soaked pavement in front of the Chelsea town house she was about to infiltrate, feeling hot beneath her woolen cloak, Hattie Greenfield couldn’t help but think back to the last time she had run from her protection officer. It had resulted in an altercation with a toad of a policeman and a dear friend being held at Millbank prison. She supposed all the most perilous adventures began with escaping dour Mr. Graves. All the best ones, too.

She eyed the lacquered front door atop the steps. The iron-cast lion’s maw holding the door knocker had absurdly long, pointy teeth. The warning that she was about to enter the lion’s den was almost too shrill to ignore for someone selectively superstitious. But this time, her adventure wasn’t an inherently risky women’s rights march on Parliament Square; it was a private art gallery tour. Perfectly harmless.

She lifted her skirts in one hand and began the ascent.

Her friends would point out that the gallery was owned by Mr. Blackstone, a man society had nicknamed Beelzebub, and that he also happened to be her father’s business rival, and no, she shouldn’t be found admiring his Pre-Raphaelites unchaperoned.

However, it was safe to assume that Mr. Beelzebub wasn’t present; in fact, very few people had ever seen him in the flesh. Second, she had registered for the tour as Miss Jones, classics student at Cambridge, not as Harriet Greenfield, Oxford art student and banking heiress. Third, the full tour through his gallery of arts and antiques comprised a handful of other young art connoisseurs and likely their chaperones, and the invitation in her reticule said she was keeping them waiting. The tour had begun at two o’clock sharp and her small pocket watch was all but burning a hole through her bodice.