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A man—she had to assume it was a man, because bears surely didn’t toddle around the East End—was turning from the same street she had. A coincidence? Or was he following her?

Why would he want to follow her? She wasn’t dressed nicely, and she’d made certain to remove her mother’s cameo and tuck it into her stocking drawer for safekeeping. She had nothing a robber would want.

Unless he thinks you’re one of Maisy’s…associates?

Oh dear.

She managed to pick up her pace even more.

Honestly, the next time Maisy agrees to tell you her story for a price, perhaps invite her to your office? Her office leaves a bit to be desired.

Olivia was able to admit to being a bit hasty. But could she be blamed? If Maisy’s information had nothing to do with her brother or the rest of Blackrose’s agents, it almost certainly was related to The Dark Knight, an equally juicy story.

The last time she’d interviewed Maisy, it had been about the actions of the East End’s own vigilante. Olivia’s paper, The Daily Movement, had been the first one to report on The Dark Knight—a sobriquet she herself had penned. He was said to be a giant of a man, as large as two normal men standing atop one another’s shoulders, with tremendous strength and speed. Apparently.

He’d first come to London’s attentions last year, although it was rare anyone could get a story of a reliable sighting. So far, all of his appearances had been in defense of a weaker human; he’d fought off robbers and rapists and housebreakers, all attempting their evil deeds in the worst parts of London.

The Dark Knight had supposedly saved women and children from burning buildings, jumped through windows to save babies from rabid dogs, and carried helpless maidens away from their attackers. At this point, if Maisy told her he’d also invented Yorkshire pudding and saved the wedding of Alan-a-Dale, Olivia would believe it.

London loved a hero, even a dark and mysterious one like The Dark Knight.

The sobriquet had been chosen before she’d understood how he, too, was working to help the poor denizens of the East End. He wasn’t a criminal, he wasn’t a greedy landlord like the ones she regularly lambasted in her articles…but he was tackling the issues in a much more hands-on approach.

An exclusive story about him would absolutely sell papers. Desperate times, and all that.

Olivia peeked over her shoulder once more. And she absolutely was desperate. Not just desperately hungry, although that was becoming impossible to ignore.

Three months ago she’d lost her lodgings. Two months ago she’d had to let go half her staff, and cut back the printing of the paper to once a week instead of daily. Last month, she’d painfully started to sell off what remained of her mother’s jewelry.

She was desperate.

She needed this story for this week’s edition. Londoners would buy copies, to read a first-hand account of The Dark Knight, or further information about the long-dead investigation into Blackrose’s traitorous activities.

Well, drat. There were two men behind her now. Was Spitalfields this way?

Was Spitalfields any safer?

Was there this much fog in her neighborhood?

Olivia finally managed to put on even more speed, until she could no longer be said to be walking. Jogging perhaps. A genteel gallop. Whatever it was, it was making her wish she’d worn a more supportive corset.

She crossed her arms over her chest to attempt to halt the awkward bouncing of her bosoms, and began to look for an establishment she might duck into. An inn, a coaching house, or perhaps a millinery shop open late for all those after-midnight hat emergencies.

Even a tavern—anyplace with other people.

Other people who might not want to follow her in the dark. Extra points if they would be willing to be interviewed.

Unfortunately, Bethnal Green was mostly residential. No, that was too kind of a word for such a slum. Bethnal Green was where people went to sleep, because they had to sleep somewhere. These buildings weren’t homes. As she’d written two weeks ago, in an article which had engendered several scathing letters from landlords, the whole area could do with a deep cleansing.

Possibly via fire.

There were three men behind her now, and Olivia was beginning to breathe heavily.

Why hadn’t she brought one of the other editors with her? One of the male editors?

Because Roberts is sixty and a deacon in his church, while Miller spends his nights at home with his wife and infant daughter. Jeffries would have gladly come with you, but he is barely eighteen, covered in spots, and you suspect he carries a torch for you.

True. However, perhaps even Jeffries would’ve been a smart idea tonight.