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She needed something else. She needed more investors. She needed the investors she still had to stop pulling their funding.

Her stomach growled.

She needed to eat.

With a sigh, Olivia pulled herself up onto the seat and reached into her pocket. The creamy chunk of gouda was a little battered, but its buttery Dutch goodness would soothe her soul, the way of tea or prayer or fresh air. Perhaps once she no longer felt so empty, she might develop another plan of action.

From outside, the cabbie called down, “Miss? Where to?”

With another sigh, she gave the man her address, then pulled closed the door.

She’d gone into the East End because she had to, faced danger and worse because she was hopeless.

And now?

Now Olivia was going to have to come up with something truly daring.

Chapter 2

As Alistair’s pen scratched across the paper, he absent-mindedly fingered the bruise above his ear with his other hand. The skin was tender, but luckily the spot was hidden by his dark hair.

One of those bastards had managed a rare lucky blow.

Alistair had heard the woman scream, had stepped into the alley, and had immediately understood what was happening. In his midnight sojourns, he’d seen more than his share of prostitution, of women being taken willingly and hard and fast up against a wall.

Usually, though, such women were silent, or urging her client on with lackluster, “Ooh, yes, guv, ye know how to please a woman,” mutterings.

Except in the case of Sweet Caroline, whose shouts of “Yes! Like that! You great big corking elephant of a man!” were recognized—and ignored—across Whitechapel.

This woman had been screaming because she didn’t want what was happening. And as soon as he’d seen what was happening, he’d understood. He’d had his revolver with him, of course, as well as several blades.

But Hiro’s training had taught him other ways, especially when his opponents had an evenly matched reach—and one of them had been almost as tall as Alistair. So he’d picked up a pole from the rubbish heap, and when the woman had run for him, he’d ensured she would remain out of harm’s way.

The bit with the cigar had really just been to get their attention.

It worked.

Alistair hissed as his forefinger probed the injury. Perhaps he should have had Hiro treat it this morning, but as it was, the younger man had given him a stern frown when he’d served Alistair his coffee, letting his feelings about another nighttime excursion be well known.

But there was something…exhilarating about pitting himself against someone who wanted to kill him. Not sparring, not practice, but actual combat—and for a good cause.

He’d had no qualms about striking those men as hard as he could, after he’d heard their plans for the lady.

And oh yes, she was a lady. What in the hell she was doing in Spitalfields at one in the morning…he couldn’t begin to guess. But once he’d thrown her over his shoulder in an attempt to vacate the area as quickly as possible, her speech—her incessant questions—had proven her breeding.

Which is why he’d taken her straight to a better part of town, hailed a hansom, and tossed her in. He trusted someone as talkative as she could find her way home.

More than once he’d been tempted to stop and find out her name, find out more about her.

But Alistair was a duke trotting about after dark in the East End, and he wanted no questions asked.

She had known about The Dark Knight. She’d identified you.

Well, yes…but was that surprising?

The papers had recently become obsessed with The Dark Knight—the sobriquet had been the work of a particularly enthusiastic writer at The Daily Movement—and he wasn’t certain if that was a good or bad thing.

On the one hand, his life’s work was to highlight the failings of the British social system and how so many of her citizens suffered…so it was possible the sensationalist news surrounding The Dark Knight would bring those inadequacies to light.