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Who was he? Was he really The Dark Knight? She had no proof the man was some sort of vigilante for justice, just rumors and tales she’d managed to turn into a folk hero all of London was loving.

Was he worth that admiration?

He did save you from four ruffians with foul intentions.

Well, yes, but had he only done it for his own foul intentions?

She decided to try again. “Excuse me, I really don’t mean to be rude, but are you The Dark Knight? Oh—and thank you for saving me.” So far, so good; no swatting. She swallowed and continued. “What’s your name? Where do you live? How old are you?”

Important questions her readers would want answered.

Not nearly as important as her questions: Why do you do the things you do? Why do you care so deeply about the undesirables living here? Do you live among them? Your clothing says you might, as do the calluses on your hands and the way you handle a weapon. Are you a dockworker? Someone who’s been hurt in the past and now you fight valiantly to keep that from happening to others?

Or were all her stories lies?

This week—if she even lived to tomorrow—she was going to have to put out a paper without the support of the Duke of Effinghell’s money. Somehow.

An exclusive interview would save The Daily Movement.

An article about how the chief editor had—rather foolishly—allowed herself to be beset by ruffians, only to be saved by an intimidating man who refused to answer her questions…that might sell papers, but only to make her a laughingstock.

Abruptly the man halted, and she released an involuntary little squeak.

When he turned, Olivia saw the ground beneath his boots—the only thing she could see in this position—was better lit. When had they left the East End?

She couldn’t tell where they were, but there were obviously streetlamps and—she craned her gaze upward—carriages.

Her mysterious benefactor stepped up to one, wrenched open the door with his free hand, and tossed her inside.

By the time she’d scrambled to her hands and knees, he’d slammed the door behind her.

Gasping, Olivia lunged for the door, pushing it open, fearing her story—the way to save her paper—was disappearing.

Had disappeared.

The pavement was empty.

The Dark Knight—and his answers—had disappeared.

“Well, miss?” The hackney driver’s tone was bordering on disrespectfully gleeful. “Yer gentleman friend didn’t say nothing about where to take ye”

Olivia sat back on her heels, heartbeat finally slowing to something approaching normal for the first time all evening.

He was gone.

He’d saved her from those men, refused to answer her questions, and brought her to safety. He hadn’t been gentle, nor kind…but he’d saved her.

What did she know?

He was no gentleman, that was for certain. Gentlemen didn’t fight the way he did, nor dress in the coarse wool he wore.

He wasn’t as large as the stories claimed, but he was tall, broad. He was graceful, in a savage sort of way. He was angry. He carried a darkness in him.

Olivia swallowed. Could she turn that into a story? Did she have enough to weave a tale—perhaps if she couched it as hypothetical, and didn’t identify herself?

She slumped against the bench. Drat.

The story could be easily written, but it wasn’t going to be enough. It wasn’t going to be exclusive, and it wouldn’t sell The Daily Movement. It wasn’t going to sell her paper.