Page 18 of Lady Be Good

There was a small wedge of grass, barely a proper park, that sat diagonal from Everleigh’s, bounded off from the pavement by a black iron fence. The property had, for several decades, been the subject of an ongoing lawsuit, its rightful possession disputed by the owners of lots to left and right. At one time, in a spiteful gesture, one of these disputants had installed a bench on the grass, and a plaque inviting passersby to sit and dwell at leisure on the fruits of injustice.

It was from this bench that Lilah watched the carriages queue at the curb, disgorging well-heeled men and women in receipt of invitations to the auction of “A Collection of Russian Antiquities and Treasures, Including Rare Coins, Enamels, Prints, Metalwork, and Diverse Other Curiosities.”

She had not been invited. All of the Everleigh Girls had been given a holiday, much to their amazement. Vinnie and Maisy had asked Lilah to join them on a tour of the zoo, to be followed by a late luncheon at Mott’s, with champagne and oysters. By now, they were probably half-sozzled, and surrounded by gentlemen willing to fund their way to drunk.

A small part of her regretted having declined their company. She might be sitting with them now, laughing as she drowned her cares in wine.

But the laughter would have been false. And it would take more wine than the world possessed to douse these cares that churned through her as she watched the footmen—strangers, replacements for Everleigh’s ordinary staff—pull closed the heavy double doors after the last of the guests.

She could not imagine what Catherine had told her brother, to account for the upheaval in the usual routine. The presence of the czar’s man, perhaps, had persuaded him that extra measures of security were fitting. It was all speculation: she knew nothing. Catherine and Christian had come up with some plan together, for all she knew. She prayed the precautions would suffice, sealing the auction rooms into an impenetrable fortress that Bolkhov could not penetrate without being discovered. When the doors opened again in two hours, she would rise to her feet in relief, and walk away grateful.

And then, only then, would she allow herself to burn as she dwelled on this image of Catherine and Christian conferring, making plans to which she would never again be privy, speaking in the hushed, intimate tones of a man and his future wife.

A passerby tipped his hat, then looked startled. She realized she was scowling, her fingers shredding the stray leaf she’d plucked up from the bench. She glared at him, causing him to step a little more quickly down the pavement. It was not her job today to please gentlemen. She was on holiday.

All of London was on holiday, it seemed. The sun shone with great, balmy force on the families traipsing by, laden with baskets from market. Young ladies of that enviably middling rank—with enough coin to spare for shopping, but no great station that required a chaperone’s guard—strolled arm in arm. Their laughter sounded happy, and the sound drove her to her feet, restless and miserable.

From that vantage, she finally saw the smoke. It curled in a thin dark ribbon from the building that neighbored Everleigh’s.

The weather was too fine to build a fire. And she had never seen chimney smoke so concentrated and dark—not even on the coldest days of winter.

Her feet carried her across the road. Fear was usually a cold hand on her spine, nudging her away from danger. But now it prodded her forward. Friends did not abandon each other. She must find some way to help.

There was no hope achieving entry through the guards at the front. But there was a high window that looked out onto the back alley, to provide light to the receiving room. Six feet off the ground—but there was always a carriage block nearby. The window was kept locked, but what lock had ever kept her out?

The auction room was crushed. No chairs, no room for reckless elbows or a misplaced cough. Men jostled into the paintings hanging from the walls, calling out their bids with reckless abandon. As the price mounted, so did the clamor, though it was assuming a quarrelsome edge near the doorway, where a servant in livery was shouldering his way into the crowd.

Christian met him halfway, angling his head to allow for a private word.

“Smoke outside,” the man said into his ear. “Next building. No other sign of trouble.”

Catherine was suddenly at his elbow. “What is it?”

He took a deep breath. The air was clean. The view out the window showed blue sky. “Ashmore’s on it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Catherine pulled his elbow. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing yet.” Christian watched the window. The first drift of smoke now edged into view. Not so thick; a clogged flue might disgorge that dark cloud.

But whatever had started to burn suddenly found new impetus. A sizable cloud of smoke spread upward. And then—

An explosion rocked the room.

Screams. A sparkling shower of glass. The great window had shattered inward. Bidders shoved and pushed out of their seats, shedding shards. He pulled Catherine against the wall, turning his body to make a shield for hers as bidders shoved past. She fought his grip. “Let them pass!” he yelled into her ear. Shoulders and fists pummeled him as men scrambled for the exit.

She subsided, permitting him to twist and look toward the door. Men were trampling each other, stepping on their fellows to escape. Somebody wrestled the other door open—he glimpsed Ashmore’s face before the crush forced him out of view. The crowd, given new egress, began to thin.

Catherine ripped out of his grip, running to stand beneath the great drapes. Firelight washed over her pale hair, glittered over the shards littering the carpet. The neighboring building belched flames.

“God’s sake!” Peter Everleigh was yelling from his position at the rostrum. “Shut the curtains! Block it out!”

Embers were raining into the room, great burning chunks of paper carried over by the breeze. They floated through the shattered window, landing to smolder on the carpets.

One ember caught in Catherine’s skirts. Christian slapped it free. The blow broke her daze; she dropped the drapes and lifted her hem high, stamping on scattered embers. “Help me! Peter! Put it out!”

But her brother had ducked out of the room.

“Come!” Christian grabbed her arm. “You can’t stay here.”

“Not until I’ve put them out!”

Patches of the carpet were smoking. He ground one beneath his heel as she hurried from spot to spot, stamping out the others. But more were falling by the moment. These efforts were useless.

He seized her by the waist and bodily carried her into the hall. From below came great shouts and thumps, the crowd forcing its way out. “Listen!” he said, as she fought to free herself. “Do you hear the bells?”

She froze. “The Fire Brigade.”

“Yes. They’re coming. You can’t help now.” He dragged her into a quick walk down the corridor. Scattered along the floor were handkerchiefs, pens, small slips of paper, catalogs advertising the wares. Bolkhov must still be next door. That explosion had been dynamite, which required a man to light the fuse.

“They must save it,” she muttered. “I will not let it burn!”

“They will. Keep walking.”

“Let go.” She hauled her skirts well clear of her ankles. “The building is stone. We’ve sand and axes stationed on every floor. A direct connection to the main water line. Do your men know—”

“Yes,” he said. “They do. They have the plans.”

This answer seemed to satisfy her. They hurried in silence to the stairs. At the landing, he caught sight through the window of movement in the next building. He paused to count the floors. When he turned again toward Catherine, she was gone.

Lilah cursed. She was stuck halfway through the window, her torso resting atop a crate that stood against the wall. She had to pull herself up onto it. You can do this. The smell of smoke was growing stronger. You must. On a great groaning effort, she stretched out and caught the far edge of the crate. Yes. Slowly she dragged herself upward. Dratted bustle caught on the window frame, and then—

Free. She hoisted herself onto hands and knees, pausing to find her balance. The ground was eight feet below now.

The door flew open. Catherine dashed by, ash smeared across her cheek, her eyes wild. She went straight to the gate, fumbling a key into the padlock that held the bar shut.

“Catherine! Help me down!”

Catherine encompassed her predicament in one frantic glance over her shoulder. “It’s on fire,” she said. “The fire brigade is coming. I have to open the gate for them!” The padlock yielded. She threw down the keys, then put her shoulder beneath the bar, lifting it aside. As she pulled open the wide door, bright sunlight fell in squares across her, segmented by the iron grate that must be raised.

Catherine seized the bars, straining to lift them. The bells sounded very loud now. The brigade was turning into the lane, Lilah thought. “Let me help!”

With an enraged grunt, Catherine let go. “It’s too heavy.” She turned, sweeping a narrow glance across the room.

“That smaller crate.” Lilah pointed. “Shove it over.” She could make the leap in stages.

Catherine threw herself against it, moving it by inching degrees toward Lilah. “It—can’t—burn,” she panted.

“Stop there.” A foot away. She could make that jump. She gathered her skirts in great handfuls as she shifted onto her feet. “Stand back.” Deep breath. Go.

She landed heavily on the crate, splinters piercing her palms. Five feet to drop now.

“Hurry,” Catherine said.

Lilah lowered herself onto her belly and wriggled her legs clear of the crate. Then, on another breath, she dropped to the ground.

Catherine steadied her, then pulled her over to the grate. “Together,” she said, as Lilah took hold of a bar. “One, two—”

Three.

The grate scraped upward. A foot of clearance. Another foot. “Stop,” Catherine said, and got down on her hands and knees, wriggling her way out into the lane. Lilah clambered after her.

“You!” Catherine was running down the rutted lane toward a steam engine. Too late—the last of the battalion disappeared into the other building. “Wait! Come back!”

A man stepped out from behind the steam engine. Another battalion—Lilah could just make out the second vehicle. She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. “Oi! We need your help!”

He shoved his helmet back, then broke into a run toward them. Catherine’s steps slowed. “There’s fire,” she yelled. “Fire in the—”

He reached into his heavy jacket and pulled out a truncheon.

No. A pistol.

Catherine jumped backward—too late. He caught her around the throat, spinning her so the pistol pressed to her temple. “You,” he said to Lilah. “Come here. Or she dies.”

“Are you awake? Lilah!”

Catherine’s voice drew her out of darkness. She opened her eyes, disoriented. Her jaw throbbed. Dizzy. A single shaft of light spilled from a small window somewhere behind her. Wooden wall, five inches from her face. Bags to her right, mounded along the wall—hay, by the itch in her nose. Rough floorboards, splinters digging through her skirts.

She took a sharp breath, then nearly gagged at the stench. Wet animal.

“Please,” Catherine whispered. “Say something, if you’re awake.”

She couldn’t move. They were roped waist to waist, Catherine’s back pressed against hers. “I’m awake.”

“Oh, thank God!”

“Premature,” Lilah muttered. Premature to be feeling grateful. “Where are we?”

“Spitalfields, I think. I spotted the church as we passed.”

She’d seen more than Lilah had. Bolkhov had bound their wrists, then roped them to each other. Put them on the floor of some kind of vehicle, covered them with a blanket, and driven them . . . here. “What is this place?” The walls pressed so close. She didn’t like tight spaces, but at least there was light.

“I don’t know. A shed?”

“Right.” A shed might be anywhere. She wished she’d gotten a glimpse of their surroundings. But when the carriage had stopped, Bolkhov had come inside with a cloth reeking of some drug.

“I’m so . . . very glad you’re awake. You were . . . it’s been an hour at least.”

An hour? That couldn’t be right. Seemed like only moments had passed since Bolkhov had opened the door of the coach. Lilah had thrown herself at him, hoping to fall out of the vehicle. To spill into the road where some passerby might spot them.

But tied up with Catherine, she’d not managed to move fast enough. He’d grabbed her by the hair and smashed her face against the bench. And then . . .

A sweet sickly smell. Blankness.

An hour. The absence of it touched off a deep, primal fear. Death would be like that. Just . . . nothing.

Her shiver was contagious. She felt it pass into Catherine, at her back. They both were going to die here.

No. She yanked against the ropes, and Catherine squeaked in protest. “Sorry,” she muttered. “But we’ve got to get free. Have you got any give?”

“None. I—stop that!”

She scowled and ignored the order. “He’ll hurt us worse.”

Catherine’s head knocked into the crown of Lilah’s skull, making her wince. “I know, but . . .”

“Careful with your head.” She swallowed bile. “Please.” Her head seemed to be pounding worse and worse. “That drug,” she said. She felt strange. So woozy. Couldn’t just be the blow. “What was it?”

“Ether. Or chloroform? I don’t know. He didn’t use it on me. He . . .” Catherine cleared her throat. “He said he would keep me lively for the night ahead.”

How steadily she spoke that awful promise. Not a single note of fear. Lilah wouldn’t let herself be outclassed. “We won’t be here tonight.” One way or another. “Did he say where he was going?” It would be good to know how long they had till his return.

“To find Palmer.” She heard Catherine swallow. “Perhaps it would be best if he caught him. Three of us could overpower him. Maybe.”

“He won’t bring Christian back here.” She knew it in her bones. “He doesn’t mean to hurt him.” Not physically. Not until everyone else was dead.

She yanked against the bonds, ignoring Catherine’s hiss. This was no way to die. Bound like an animal, trapped like a rat . . .

The thought triggered a strange wave of déjà vu. Her chest tightened. It wasn’t dark. But the walls, pressing as close as a coffin . . . She’d been trapped like this before.

If only she’d managed to break out of the carriage! But without the use of her hands, there’d never been a hope—

Her hands. “Catherine.” She spoke with her heart in her throat. “Did he take my knife?”

A brief silence. Then: “You carry a knife?”

She grinned, to hell with how it hurt. “I’m not as much the lady as I look. Can you reach my pocket? See if you feel it?”

The ropes tightened. Burned, then began to cut. She gritted her teeth against the pain, understanding a little better why Catherine had objected.

“Yes! Oh God above, Lilah, I can feel it—”

“Can you reach it?”

“I . . .” Catherine twisted hard, and the rope tightened like a vise around Lilah’s ribs. Squeezed the breath from her. She fought the urge to protest—inhaling would only hamper Catherine’s reach.

“I have it.” Catherine spoke very flatly. “Stay still. I’m . . . pulling it . . .”

Sparks at her vision. She dared not breathe. The sparks turned red, then black. Great blots swarmed over her vision—

She dragged in a breath, and Catherine gasped. Tears came to Lilah’s eyes. She’d cost them their chance. “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s in my hand.” Catherine was breathless, too. “I can’t—can you take it? I can’t unsheathe it from this angle.”

Lilah sent up a silent prayer. How long had it been since she’d sat by this girl’s sickbed and despaired of God? She regretted it now; she willed him to forgive her as she stretched out her fingers, grasping blindly, flexing and twisting as Catherine grunted against the crush of the ropes—

“There.” She felt the engraved sheath. She knew this knife better than the back of her own hand. Better than her face in the mirror. “Don’t move. Hold steady.”

“Hurry,” Catherine said softly. “The ropes . . .”

“I know.” Her grip was sweaty. She pushed her thumb along the sheath. Come free. This knife was an old friend. Show some love. A gift from her father, the week before he’d died. You’re old enough now, he’d said. Respect this blade, and it will never do you wrong.

The sheath yielded. “All right,” she whispered. “All right. It’s unsheathed. But I can’t get a grip on the hilt. Can you . . . do you feel all right, trying to cut the rope?”

“No.” Now Catherine’s voice shook. “I’ll cut you.”

“Do it! Just—” She froze. “Do you hear that?”

Footsteps. A cheerful whistle, drawing nearer.

“It’s him,” Catherine said in a low voice of dread. “We’re done.”

“Do it,” Lilah gasped. “Catherine, cut the—”

The door shuddered. No time left. Bolkhov was opening the lock.

“Don’t let him see the knife,” she hissed. “And whatever you do—don’t drop it.”

The door swung open. It was barely a door—the height of a child. Bolkhov shoved himself through in slow increments, head then shoulders, wriggling. The sight was agonizing. Were Lilah on her feet—were her hands free—it would not have taken a knife to disable him. A solid kick to his head would have done it.

He clambered to his feet. He looked like somebody’s doting grandfather. Short and solid, a mane of white hair and a rosy, full face, dressed in pinstripes, with a gold watch chain snaking across his waistcoat. He ignored Lilah, pacing around her to speak to Catherine.

“Where is he?”

Heavy Russian accent. Lilah could feel Catherine shaking. The knife, Catherine. Don’t let go. “I don’t know.”

A thud. A sharp crack. Catherine cried out, toppling sideways. Lilah was dragged down with her, her shoulder striking the floor. The knife—Catherine had fumbled it. It was sliding away. Lilah scrabbled—

Her fingers closed on the blade. She choked on the stabbing pain, wrestling against instinct, fighting not to let go.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Catherine shrieked. “If he’s not at Everleigh’s—”

They had no time for this. She was going to drop the blade. “I know,” Lilah spat. “You bastard. I know where he is.”

Boots thudded into her line of vision. A hand hooked in her hair, ripping at her scalp as he hauled her back to a sitting position—and Catherine along with her. But she didn’t let go, damn him.

His dark eyes burned into hers, black and burning like coal. “Where?” he said.

“The House of Diamonds. Whitechapel.”

He grabbed her chin. Yanked it high as he looked into her face. “You are lying.”

“A stupid lie,” she managed, her voice strained by the awkward angle of her throat. Her hand would be mangled. Cut clean through. “If I was going to lie, I’d make it . . . a better one. He’s got a secret office. Second floor. That’s where he goes.”

He glared at her. “You are nothing,” he said. “Nobody. You might yet live. But not if you are lying. If you are lying, I will loop your entrails from the rooftops.”

“It’s the truth.” God help her, if her uncle was not there . . . He took note of every man who entered his gambling club, but if he did not understand what a visit from a strange Russian meant . . . “The House of Diamonds. But you’ll never get inside. He has guards.”

He sneered. “We will see.” He raised his hand. She had just enough time to brace herself before he struck her. Bright light. Pain. But the bastard didn’t topple her. She still had hold of the blade, a searing coal embedded in her palm, agony spearing into her bones.

He turned for the door. She spat blood in his direction as he wiggled out.

Catherine was breathing heavily. “Do you—”

“Hush,” she hissed. She was waiting—straining to listen—

There came the thunk of the padlock. “We’ve got about thirty minutes,” she said. If they were in Spitalfields, the House of Diamonds couldn’t be far. “I need you to hold still.”

“You still have the knife?” Catherine’s voice sounded very small.

“Yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating on the delicate maneuver of inching the blade through her fingers. Pinching it between her knuckles. Sliding it as far as it would go. Starting over again. Pain didn’t matter. Only the blade.

The hilt came into her palm. But dexterity was a distant dream at this awkward angle. And her blood made the grip so slippery. “I might cut you.”

“Do it,” Catherine said fiercely.

She groped for the space between their torsos, flicking out the blade once—twice—hit something solid, and heard Catherine’s sharp breath. “Sorry,” she whispered, and tried again. If not that angle, then this one. If not this one, then—

“Got it.” She could only make twitching motions. But it was enough. The scrape of steel against rope was the sweetest music she’d ever heard. But hard going. Her wrist cramped. Blood was slipping down her fingers, befouling her grip. But the rope was giving. She felt one thread yield, then another. Then—

The rope snapped. She turned on her knees, holding out the knife with her bound hands. Catherine’s face looked bad. Blood all over her mouth. This room wasn’t bigger than a wardrobe. Raw wood, the floor scattered with hay. “Cut me free.”

Catherine seized the knife and sawed at the ropes at Lilah’s wrist—laughing exultantly as they split and fell away.

Lilah returned the favor in three short, sharp slices. Then she turned immediately for the little door through which Bolkhov had crawled.

No hinges. Padlock on the outside. She threw herself against the door. Then kicked it, as she clutched her bleeding hand.

“Together,” said Catherine, hauling up her skirts. They slammed their feet in unison.

No luck.

“God above!” Catherine turned full circle. “There must be some way out of here! That window . . .”

Lilah sagged back against the wall. That window was too small. A dog wouldn’t squeeze out of it.

“It’s done then,” Catherine whispered. “We’re going to die here.”

You’d need men at your back, to go into that place. So Lilah had warned him of the Whitechapel tavern. Christian understood now what she’d meant. Someone had run to fetch O’Shea. As Christian waited, the tense silence took no language to translate. Each of these men around him, nursing their drinks and never removing their eyes from him, had the look of a brawler.

The door opened, O’Shea’s lanky form making a silhouette in the doorway. As he stepped inside, the dim light revealed his slow survey of the assembled gathering, then his smirk as he located Christian in the far corner.

“Slumming,” he said, in a clear, carrying voice, “has caught on like wildfire, I see.”

Never be too proud for friendship. Never turn up your nose. It was the hardest advice he’d ever taken. But Christian rose now, and bowed.

The audience wasn’t accustomed to such courtesies. They misinterpreted it. A dozen chairs shifted. Metal scraped. Someone stepped up behind him.

“Go easy there,” O’Shea said pleasantly. He walked to the bar, pausing to confer with the mute giant who’d patted Christian down to check for weaponry. The man had found none; Christian was no fool.

Slowly Christian turned toward the man behind him. I’d prefer a cutlass. A proper handle can be useful. But Lilah would have had difficulty lifting the cutlass this man held. Nor would she mistake it as a friendly gesture. “Step away,” he said softly.

A bruised, bulbous face. An ugly smile. Over Christian’s shoulder, the man must have seen some signal, for he eased off, retaking his seat.

O’Shea came strolling over, a foaming pint in his hand. Very casual, all good humor. Each of his idle footsteps on the sloping floor struck like flint against Christian’s banked rage. “Fine day to pay a call,” O’Shea said. “Come to beg my help?”

He took a hard breath. “Yes.”

Surprise briefly showed on the man’s face. Then he turned to the room at large. “Oh ho!” He extended his arms, turning right and left as though to gather his audience’s attention closer. “Did you catch that, boys? The grand Viscount Palmer wishes a spot of assistance!”

The snickers sounded forced. Uneasy. Even in this part of town, even with O’Shea’s protection assured them, these men understood the danger in threatening a peer of the realm.

Let him grandstand. Let him do whatever he liked. Pride, principle did not factor. “Lily said you had three leads. Was she right?”

“Ah, well.” O’Shea fell into a seat, rocking it back onto its hind legs. “I thought I’d made myself clear. My time isn’t for—”

“He may have Lily.”

The chair landed with a thump. “What?”

Suddenly Christian was looking at a different man. No humor now. Only cold, hard focus. “She was outside the auction rooms earlier. Now Catherine Everleigh is missing. And there’s no sign of Lily, either.”

“Goddamned—” O’Shea rose. “A fine job you’ve done! Let him sweep them right from under you!”

“All in Bethnal Green, the three leads. That’s what she said. Which quadrant?”

O’Shea hissed and wheeled away. “Fetch the boys,” he said to the brute at the bar. “Full arms.” Then he cast a sharp look over the room at large. “No harm to this one. He’ll see his sorry hide out.” He started for the door.

Jesus. Christian caught his breath. “You know where he is?”

O’Shea’s lip curled as he turned back. “It’s nowhere in Bethnal Green. Slink on home, Palmer, and let the real men—”

Time elapsed. A flipbook, pages skipped. Somehow he had O’Shea pinned against the table. A knife at his jugular. The goon at the door had not thought to check the folds of his neckcloth. Goons did not wear them.

Cold steel pressed into his own nape. Whoever was holding it barely registered. “We have no time for quarreling. Do you agree?”

O’Shea studied his face. Then gave a grim smile. “Aye. That I do.”

Christian lifted away the blade. O’Shea’s pale eyes flicked beyond him. “Step off, lad.”

The steel retreated. O’Shea sprang to his feet. Caught up with Christian halfway to the door.

“Your Russian just dropped by my club. I sent him scurrying away.” O’Shea shouldered open the door, then hooked two fingers into his mouth to sound a piercing whistle that carried down the street, turning heads. “That’ll bring us mounts.”

“No need. Twenty men wait on the high street. Already saddled.”

“Reinforcements?” O’Shea tsked. “A disappointment. Next time you visit, be sure to come alone.”

“Where is his base?”

“Spitalfields. Mind you, I’d no cause to care before. Hadn’t given me any trouble. Paid his rent on time, too.” As they walked, O’Shea was feeling down his jacket, opening and closing hidden pockets to catalog the weapons he carried, some of which Christian only recognized from foreign armies: throwing stars. A small stiletto. A garrote, Christ God.

“But he’s crossed a line, now,” O’Shea said coolly. He glanced over his shoulder, nodding in acknowledgment to the handful of men who joined their number, keeping pace a length behind.

“Your men are not to interfere,” Christian said.

“Oh, I—” O’Shea paused as they turned the corner and the high road came into view. He whistled again, this time in undisguised admiration of the phalanx of men waiting, saddled and ready, their weapons openly displayed. An astonished goggle of pedestrians had retreated to the other side of the road to gawk. “Aye,” he said slowly. “Won’t interfere unless it’s called for. No use wasting my own.”

Christian lifted his hand, extending two fingers.

A brief conference. Ashmore gestured. Two riders broke from the pack, galloping up and dismounting to hand over the reins.

O’Shea put one foot in the stirrup, then paused. “I’ll be interfering, though. Nobody messes with mine.”

“Mine.” The word ripped from Christian. “Do you understand? Yours no longer.”

O’Shea lifted a black brow. “Remains to be seen. But I like the show of spirit.”

That the ass could joke, even in this moment, enraged him. “Where do we go?” he bit out.

O’Shea settled into the saddle. “No name to the street.” He nudged his horse out onto the road. “Follow close now.”

Lilah had savaged her palm. Could barely bend her fingers. Probably wouldn’t have healed properly. She’d have lived out her life with only five working fingers. Throwing hand, ruined. Oh well.

A ripping sound. Catherine had torn off a piece of her petticoats. “Let me bandage it.”

Lilah held out her palm. Catherine bound it and tied a knot too tight for comfort. But comfort didn’t matter much now, did it?

Catherine joined her in leaning against the wall, her mournful gaze fixed on the window. She looked slack faced, like Bolkhov had smacked the spirit out of her. Her cheek was purpling.

There was still a faint hope, though. “The House of Diamonds belongs to my uncle,” Lilah said. “Maybe he’ll be there. If Bolkhov draws his attention, Nick might follow him back.”

“Do you think?” Catherine turned, her eyes huge in her bloodied face.

“It’s possible.”

Not convincing. Catherine’s glance strayed toward the window again. At length, she said, “Do you suppose Everleigh’s burned?”

Wasn’t that just like her, to be worrying about the auction house when the prospect of her own death might have afforded sufficient concern.

But Lilah liked her for it. That stubborn focus—it wasn’t ladylike. She and Catherine had more in common than she’d once imagined. “Didn’t burn,” she said as a kindness. What did she know? “The fire brigade was there. Everleigh’s will be fine.”

“Of course.” Catherine frowned. Then she turned and kicked again at the door. “This place! What is it? That window. This strange door. What stupid architecture!”

Strange feeling, to smile in the midst of this disaster. “Even now, you’re finding flaws.”

Catherine blinked, then offered a faltering smile. “Architecture is an art, you know.”

“Architecture implies a plan,” Lilah said. “Buildings in these parts just get slapped up.” But they always did serve a purpose.

A prickling feeling touched her. She frowned around the little shed. Focused on the bags mounded along the far wall. “Hay.” She’d seen bags like that a thousand times, hauled home on the back of a costermonger’s donkey.

Catherine snorted. “For what? A pig? This awful reek—”

“A goat.” She looked up at the small window. Nothing to see but a brick wall bound by crumbling mortar. This structure had been shoved straight up against the tenement building.

“It’s a backhouse,” she realized. Had to be. That reek of goat—“Kept a donkey here.” Donkeys got lonely without company. Goats were the usual choice.

“A donkey couldn’t fit through that door,” said Catherine.

She was right. Maybe a goat could wiggle through it. But not a donkey. Which meant . . .

Lilah slammed her palms against the wall. Slowly walked the perimeter, feeling for cracks. “A horse walk.”

“What?”

“A tunnel from the tenement, to bring in the donkey.” Common in crowded slums. No spare space aboveground. She swept her hands wide. “Look for a door, Catherine.” But she saw none. “There has to be a passage for the donkey. It couldn’t . . .”

“The hay,” they said in unison, and sprang forward to haul the bags away from the wall.

There it was. A door. An unlocked door! Catherine hauled it open on a happy cry.

The passage was a maw of darkness. Cold breathed out. A musty sigh of death. No donkey had been down that tunnel in ages. It was narrow as a coffin. And Catherine was stepping into it. “Come on,” she said.

Oh, God.

“What is it?” Catherine turned back, scowling. “Are you mad? What are you waiting for?”

“I can’t.” She heard her own words, registered their absurdity. But this understanding felt very distant. Her limbs locked tight. Move, she told them. But her brain had broken from her body.

“What do you mean?” Catherine caught her good hand and pulled. “Lilah, he’s coming back!”

Of course. She would go. She took a step—and the cold flowed over her, and the door swung shut.

Blackness.

Her breath fluttered like a panicked creature in her throat. Impossible to catch. She had to walk. It was this tunnel, or death.

But death lay ahead as well. Better to die in light than in darkness. She’d already escaped death once in a place like this. She wouldn’t be so lucky again. “I can’t.”

“Lilah. You must.”

A searing pain—Catherine had grabbed her bad hand, and was squeezing.

With a guttural moan, she ripped free. The tunnel closed around her, tighter and tighter.

A fist dug into her back. Catherine shoved her forward. “Walk. Now!”

The walls scraped Lilah’s shoulders. She choked on a sob.

The fist dug harder into her spine. “Keep going,” Catherine muttered.

Blind. “I can’t . . . see.”

“You don’t need to see. I can see. Just go.”

She took another halting step, then reached back, fumbling, and found Catherine’s wrist. Warm and alive.

Catherine’s hand slipped into hers. “I’m here.” Firm grip. Strong, for a lady. “We’re getting out. We’re saved. Just walk.”

If they died down here, nobody would find them for weeks. Her knees quaked like aspic, each step shakier. She couldn’t breathe.

“Where will we go?” Catherine’s calm sounded impossible. Eerie. So normal, her voice. “Once we’re out, we’ll have to hide.”

“Yes.” Her lips felt numb. The air was poison. So cold and still. A tomb.

“Everleigh’s isn’t safe. And we don’t know where Palmer is. Do you know a safe place?”

She had to try twice to find her voice. “I do.”

“Is it nearby?”

Very near. The warm glow of the lamps, the smell of fried oysters. Every last patron loyal to Nick, and willing to fight—for Nick’s niece, yes, they would. They had watched her grow up. They would defend Lily Monroe. “The safest place in the world,” she whispered.

“Then keep walking,” Catherine said. “Let’s get there.”

Ashmore came strolling down the street, his steps unhurried. He tipped his hat to Christian as he passed.

That was the signal. Christian took a long breath, his eyes fixed on the turn in the road. They had cleared the street. O’Shea had that kind of power here. Curtains drawn across all the windows. No onlookers. Inside, Bolkhov’s flat stood empty, no sign of the women. They had to take him alive, get the truth out of him. No one shoots. No one. He prayed that Ashmore’s men had heeded him, and kept their fingers off their triggers.

Beside him, O’Shea tensed. “Here he comes.”

A white-haired devil in pinstripes came strolling around the corner. Hands in pockets, scowling slightly, as though cataloging the items he’d forgotten to buy at market.

The sight of Bolkhov passed through Christian like a shock. Disorienting. Electric. Four years since he’d seen Bolkhov in the flesh, but it might have been a minute. At last, this rabid dog was going to be put down. Pray God it was not too late—

He closed his mind to that avenue. To every extraneous detail save Bolkhov, who marched up the steps to the tenement across the road, then pulled a key from his pocket to unlock the front door, calm as a banker returning home from the city.

“Now,” Christian said.

O’Shea split off, swinging wide across the street. The plan was to flank Bolkhov on either side of the stair. But Bolkhov had fumbled his key ring, dropped it on the ground. His curse as he retrieved it came dimly through the roar in Christian’s ears. Later, perhaps, he would wonder at this bizarre moment—the pedestrian nature of a madman’s struggle to fit a key into a lock.

But it offered a distraction he’d not anticipated. On instinct, he abandoned the plan.

Five bounding steps. Time slowed; gravity released him. He was flying. Bolkhov was turning, but Christian descended faster. Bolkhov’s throat, so ordinary. So easy to catch in a chokehold. So easy to crush.

“Not yet!” That was Ashmore. He approached, gun drawn. Bolkhov gave a full-bodied jerk, the overture to struggle—then abruptly fell still. Other men now emerged from concealment, brandishing weapons.

“Where are they?” Christian spat.

Bolkhov’s laugh sounded rusty. “A surprise from you, at last.”

Christian tightened his grip, and had the satisfaction of hearing the bastard wheeze. “I will choke you to death right here.” Yes. “Or you can answer.”

Men carefully stepped past Christian. “Search again, flat by flat,” Ashmore told them.

“Wait!” O’Shea had stepped aside to speak with someone—a man leaning out of a nearby window. “We’ll try this,” he said as he bounded onto the stairs. “Seems the Russian’s been messing about in the backhouse.”

Bolkhov stiffened. That was all the confirmation Christian required. “Take him,” he growled at Ashmore, and shoved the Russian into the barrel of Ashmore’s revolver before following O’Shea inside.

No words passed between them as they strode down the hallway. O’Shea led him through a doorway into a lightless passage, cold and moist. Damp earth sank beneath their boots.

Some silent prayer was making itself known. Let there be light for her. She did not like the dark. Let there be light ahead.

A sliver of illumination. A cracked door. O’Shea shoved it open.

The backroom stank of wet hide and rotted hay. Empty. God damn it, where was she?

Shreds of rope lay scattered across the floor. Christian stooped. Piece of woven hemp, frayed and split. He felt numb. This could not be. He would not bury her.

“Christ,” O’Shea whispered. He lifted a hand away from the floor. His fingertips were red with blood.

The blood seemed to expand in a violent wave, hazing over Christian’s vision. When a sound came from behind, he wheeled.

“Easy,” said Ashmore. He was prodding Bolkhov at gunpoint into the tight quarters.

“Stand aside.” He could see only Bolkhov now. Hear only the roar. He would make Bolkhov weep before he died.

Ashmore kicked shut the door and shoved Bolkhov into the middle of the room. The Russian turned full circle, his black gaze moving from gun to gun.

“Your last chance.” These words came from him. Distant, echoing, as though in a dream. “Where are the women?”

A curious smile hooked up the corner of Bolkhov’s mouth. “Gone. Very clever. Too bad for you.”

Christian cocked his pistol. Bolkhov lifted his chin. He had a chipped tooth, bared now in a maniacal smile.

Someone was speaking. “This rope was sawed,” O’Shea was saying. “Palmer. Lily carries a knife. You follow?”

Bolkhov’s smile widened. “I cut out that one’s entrails,” he said. “Then I chewed on her bones.”

“Bloody lunatic,” O’Shea muttered. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to look—”

“Hold.” Christian spoke softly. He was nothing now but murder, a moment away from blood. “This won’t take a moment.”

“There’s no call for this.” Ashmore edged into his vision. “Kit, listen to me. I’ll see he rots in the darkest pit this kingdom has to offer.”

Bolkhov chuckled. “He is a killer. Like me. He knows the way.”

“You don’t know what it does to a man,” Ashmore said, very low. “To kill in cold blood.”

Cold blood? He was burning up. He would take Bolkhov with him. That grin would incinerate. But first, Bolkhov would confess what he had done to Geoff, and to Lily.

Lily.

She carries a knife.

The red haze thinned. Fine details returned to him: dust floating in the light. The wrinkled sag of Bolkhov’s eyelids. The looseness beneath his chin. Even madmen aged.

He’d envisioned this moment for so long. An obsession and a mantra: the words he would speak before he killed this man. The curse he would leave ringing in Bolkhov’s ears before he dispatched him to hell. The fear he would put in the bastard’s face, the agony of oncoming death—

But Bolkhov was still grinning. And it signified nothing. Whether he feared, whether he repented, did not matter. Only one thing mattered.

Wordless, Christian pulled the trigger.

If the gunshot made a noise, he did not hear it. He heard nothing, but saw each detail: the blood blossoming between Bolkhov’s eyes. The gory spatter raining against the wall. The sudden slackness in Bolkhov’s face. He fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the floor.

Christian turned away. O’Shea was waiting. “Let’s find her,” Christian said.