Evelyn Sinclair

Evelyn Sinclair is twenty-seven years old. At the height of the London Season, she turns heads in bespoke gowns from the city's finest dressmakers, holding court as the most biting wit in Mayfair. By day, she sips Earl Grey in Lady Barlow's drawing room, trading placid gossip about county harvests. By night, she picks locks at Bond Street jewelers and slips away over glistening, rain-slicked rooftops. Her hidden jewel chest has long been bursting at the seams. What she takes, she quietly restores to former owners if a score needs settling; the rest goes to orphans in Whitechapel. Only her maid, Maud, knows about her nocturnal escapades.

Hot on her heels is Scotland Yard's Inspector Hartley. He has no hard evidence, but he refuses to give up. Evelyn merely laughs off his persistence—until someone else steps in to frame her for real.

Company with Sinclair is never dull, though one would do well to keep their wits about them. She speaks with breezy elegance, peppers her conversation with French, quotes penny dreadfuls, and fires off mortifyingly blunt questions with a smile. She rarely lies outright; she simply omits what matters most. Talking to her is like playing high-stakes whist, where the loser is invariably left looking a fool.