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Peter Kendrick marched onward through the endless tunnel and straight toward the chamber he knew he’d find at the end.

The light from the oil lamp he held in his right hand lit the path forward.

His left fingers tightened around Miss Hastings’s hand in an effort to offer whatever assurance she needed.

Despite her determination to join him and his men in this search, he’d sensed her unease since they’d entered the morgue. As far as he could tell, it had increased as they’d ventured farther into the hospital’s underground hallways.

While her refusal to head above ground vexed him – why insist upon doing something uncomfortable when it was unnecessary – he had to admit that he was impressed. The woman was fully intent on facing her fears. Why, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps because she hoped to vanquish them once and for all?

This thought made him wonder at the cause of it. In the short time he’d known her, he’d judged her to be the practical sort. No nonsense. Efficient. Unafraid of chasing a killer.

Until they’d arrived here.

His chest filled with warmth as he drew her along.

Despite her complaints about his smoking and her infuriating stubbornness, he liked having her by his side.

Strange, since he’d never felt the need to keep anyone safe before.

Yet somehow, this petite woman who always faced him with unyielding fierceness, who regarded him with a censorious gaze and constantly criticized him, instilled in him the need to comfort and protect.

Her small hand gripped his with enough force to tell him that she was depending on him to get her through this.

They reached a metal gate, unlocked and partially open.

Kendrick led her through the opening, his mind briefly going to the glass of brandy he planned to offer her later when they returned to Bow Street.

The strong liquor would sooth her. In future, he’d make sure he kept a flask on him at all times, should this type of situation arise again.

No point in trying to convince her to stay behind. With her father’s support, she’d fight such a reasonable suggestion and win. In fact, Peter feared her progressiveness might one day make her compete for his job. Truth be told, he’d not put it past her.

A thought that evaporated as quickly as it had formed when he spotted the faint glow in the distance. The chamber located ahead of them should be completely dark if no one else was present.

He muttered a curse and slowed his pace, immediately regretting not being firmer with Miss Hastings. If they encountered trouble, he’d have to prioritize her safety over dealing with a possible villain.

“Looks like someone else is down here,” she whispered. “Sounds like it too.”

Her comment made him strain his ears until he was able to make out a series of murmurs. Not one person then but two, possibly more, would soon be revealed. Peter’s muscles tensed, his heart finding the cool rhythm that kept him focused and keenly aware of his surroundings.

Conscious of Miss Hastings’s fear yet determined to keep her out of danger, he stopped walking and pulled his hand from hers. “You need to get behind Lewis and Anderson.”

“But—”

“This is not up for debate.” He made sure his voice was as stern as possible then watched with a mixture of satisfaction and regret as she shrank back a little, almost as though he’d struck her.

No time to worry about that now. He couldn’t afford to apologize either, so he looked to Lewis.

“Give Miss Hastings your oil lamp so she can find her way back if need be.”

Lewis did as Peter requested and for once in her life the woman did not protest. Peter retrieved his pistol from his jacket pocket and offered the weapon to her next.

She stared at it for a second then raised her gaze to his. Despite the darkness, the glow from the oil lamp revealed the worry that framed her beautiful eyes. “What about you?”

“I’ve got a dagger and two capable Runners who have their own pistols. I’ll be fine.”

“No. I can’t let yo—”

“Stop. Arguing.” He thrust the pistol at her, pressing it into her free hand until she finally took the blasted thing. “You know how to use it?”

A quick succession of nods provided the answer. “My father taught me.”

“Of course he did.” Peter planned to have a very frank conversation with his superior later.

Allowing his daughter to help with investigations was one thing.

Supporting her wish to involve herself in all aspects was quite another.

Boundaries had to be set if she was to stop from heading straight into danger.

And they had to be provided by an authoritarian figure to whom she would actually listen.

Peter knew he wasn’t that person but he suspected her father was.

“Stay here,” he told her bluntly. “If you hear shots fired, you flee. Is that understood? You do not come to our rescue. You return upstairs and fetch help. The pistol should be used only as a last resort. Yes?”

“All right.”

Finally, a bit of common sense to appease him. All he could do now was pray she’d keep her word as he jerked his chin toward the end of the tunnel and told his Runners, “Let’s go.”

They recommenced their forward progress with careful footfalls. As they drew closer to the chamber, the murmurs grew louder, but remained too muffled for Peter to understand what was being said.

When they were but twenty paces away or less, he sent a glance over his shoulder.

The faint glow in the distance assured him Miss Hastings was keeping her word.

So far so good. He swung his lantern behind him to shield the light from view and to keep it from giving away his arrival to whoever was in the chamber.

Several more steps brought him ever closer, until he was finally able to catch a glimpse of the space beyond the tunnel and the people who stood there.