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Not coming would have been smarter.

Well, yes, but she needed this story. She needed anything to keep The Daily Movement ahead of the other London papers. Her father had built the paper from nothing and left it to her. Since her brother’s disappearance…

Well, since then, the paper was failing. In the last two years she’d lost her major investors, and as each one left profits became smaller, triggering another investor to pull his funding. The most recent decision, the Duke of Effinghell pulling his considerable support, had prompted her to do something as desperate as sally into one of East End’s lesser neighborhoods after dark.

There are four men now, if we’re keeping track.

Olivia told herself she wasn’t panicking, but it was a lie. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, her breathing becoming more ragged.

It was either panic, or a result of the effort required to hustle her preferred-to-be-sitting-behind-a-desk, not-used-to-this-much-exercise self away from ne’er-do-wells.

Perhaps they only mean to ask you for the time. Or sell you a secondhand pie. Or want to talk to you about welcoming Jesus into your life?

Right on cue, there came a call from behind. “’Ere now, lovie, slow down. We just want a little talk, right lads?”

The chortles sounded evil.

Against her better judgement, a little squeak emerged from her lips, and Olivia managed to turn her trot into a full-on run, cloth-wrapped cheese bouncing against her leg.

Perhaps she could outrun them?

Their boots hit the cobblestones in time with hers.

She couldn’t outrun them.

Resisting the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, Olivia catalogued her options with a cool head and calm intellect.

…or rather, the opposite of that.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

The words repeated in her head, a sort of mantra-turned-prayer, proof to any deity listening that she didn’t require proselytization.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Since she was apparently incapable of forming a more coherent prayer, she had to trust He would be able to figure out her intent.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

There was an alley up ahead. No lights, anywhere, except the moon, but the deeper shadows of the alley might make a good hiding spot. She could duck down into one of those patches of darkness, and allow the men behind her to scamper by.

Perhaps they were just late for an engagement?

Her mind focused now on her breathing—and not falling over—and the cold spike of fear in her veins, she did as planned.

More or less.

Panting in desperation, Olivia ducked into the alley, ran as far as she could before tripping over something hard beneath a layer of rubbish, fell into the rubbish, muffled her cry of surprise and pain, then pulled herself behind a different pile of rubbish, her unpleasantly damp hand pressed to her mouth to stifle her sobs of fear.

And her excessively loud breathing.

Olivia vowed, if she got out of this, to cut back on her cheese consumption.

Whoa, whoa, let’s not be hasty.

Fine. She’d take daily exercise instead. A constitutional.

Better.