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Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat behind her desk as if she had not moved in hours. Ink. Paper.

“Madam Dove-Lyon,” Nagy said. He didn’t bow. He took off his gloves and laid them on her blotter. “I’ve come with a request.”

“Most requests arrive by invitation at a welcome hour,” she said, not rising. “Yours barged on the same day as a threat.”

“You employ foreigners,” he said. “You give them access to the homes of the ton. On behalf of His Imperial Majesty’s legation, I will examine your staff list; if you fail to provide it, I shall refer the matter to the Alien Office. For public safety—and for your reputation.”

“No.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked back down at the papers on her desk.

“You employ Jews.” The word “Jew” left his mouth like something rancid; Sander tasted acid and kept his fingers splayed on the door instead of closing them on him.

When Mrs. Dove-Lyon lifted her chin, the room found its spine, and a clean wind went through him—pride, steadier than rage.

“You don’t deny the Jew in the kitchen. And this one’s at the door even!” He pointed at Sander, who remained steadfast by the door. I only obey Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

“Does the Prince Regent fear raisin buns,” she asked, “or the ones with cardamom and lemon peel?”

“Unrest.”

“Jews don’t cause unrest. Threats to anyone’s life or livelihood, however, do. Perhaps you ought to stop going after hard-working and talented people, Nagy,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke through her lips as she only when provoked.

“Unwise in light of the rising threats from Jews. Some of them run their own businesses these days. What else do you want to allow them? Emancipation?” he spat as if the idea of treating Jews like people were preposterous.

“Bow Street answers to our magistrates, not Vienna,” she added, with the unexpected burn of steam. “Remember that when you wave a seal at me again.”

Sander stayed by the door. She hadn’t signaled to close it; he didn’t. Rosine was his to keep whole. His palm brushed the bun in his pocket as if it were a charm. Better beside her and seen than safe without her, he thought.

“Am I needed downstairs?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked Sander as if giving a prompt to end Nagy’s visit this time.

“The Count of Pembroke waits below, madam,” Sander said. “He asked for chess and appeared to be acquainted with Nagy.”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said without looking away from Nagy. “Let London hear that we play chess at the Lyon’s Den.”

“London must remain civilized,” Nagy said. “Civilized men do not frequent places that employ outcasts… Jews.”

Silence held the room a heartbeat. Then Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood. The air paused.

“Say what you wish and be gone,” she said.

“In Moravia—a Habsburg crown land under Vienna—‘civilized’ is defined in the Familiantenrecht,” Nagy said triumphantly as if limiting the rights of Jews were a virtue he personally subscribed to.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised a brow, and Sander explained. “It limits how many Jewish households may exist. Most times, only the firstborn son is allowed to marry; the others are pushed to emigrate or to wed unseen.”

Mrs. Dove-Lyon glanced his way. “It forces them to leave the land.”

“It’s a marriage law that chokes families so Jews don’t spread too far,” Nagy added, as if he tried to control the overgrowth of vermin. “And yet, many merchants keep their legal domicile in Moravia to satisfy the rule while they trade in Vienna. Others leave for places the rule doesn’t reach—Upper Hungary, for one.”

“This is London,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon snapped. “Jews don’t fall under this law here.” She inhaled audibly. “You enjoy saying ‘civilized’ while you count other men’s names,” she added, very calm. “Say the rest.”

Nagy obliged. “Under the Aliens Acts, Crown Street keeps registers. Provide your staff list, and I shall place it where removals are decided. A memorandum to the Custom House and your hogsheads at the West India Docks, learn to sleep behind a gate. A note from the Austrian legation crosses a desk in Downing Street faster than your baker crosses a yard. A whisper on Mark Lane, and millers demand cash—or forget you entirely.”

“What’s your threat?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s patience had left her voice.

“You see? I need not break a door to close a house.” Nagy crossed his arms as if he’d already won and cleansed the Lyon’s Den and soon all of London of Jews.

“There it is,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Ink in place of courage.” Sander knew Metternich did not need doors; his ink went through keyholes. She laid one gloved finger on her ledger. “My accounts are clean: rents paid, duties met. Tell the Custom House to read its columns; tell Mark Lane I pay on delivery. As for Crown Street—send your list and I shall send my counsel. And if Vienna wishes to instruct St. James’s on civility, it will find my patrons already fluent.”

Her gaze sharpened. “You will not reach for my staff through paper. If you try, you will meet me there.”