Lucy demanded some time later, when she was apprised of her newest rôle in Pickett’s investigation. It was now late afternoon in Covent Garden’s bustling piazza, where the morning’s fruit and vegetable sellers had yielded pride of place to the orange girls, flower-sellers, and prostitutes who would offer their various wares to theatergoers later in the evening. Lucy’s incredulity was of sufficient volume to cause several of these young women to look her way; a few offering bawdy speculations as to what her companion desired, and generously volunteering to furnish any services which Lucy might be unable or unwilling to render. “I want you to go to Seven Dials and search the rag shops,” Pickett echoed, resolutely ignoring these suggestions, although his ears turned pink. “Ask the barker if he’s had a pair of stained white pantaloons from a valet in the Albany.” “Stained with what, pray?” “Blood, if I’m lucky. Champagne, if I’m not.” Lucy planted one hand on her ample hip.
