A brief flash lit the alley, followed by the bark of a pistol. Powder scented the air. There was a groan, and then the sound of a body tumbling to the ground.

Leo lowered his pistol.

“Is he dead?” asked Anne.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

A brief pause, then: “I don’t, either.”

Leo tucked his gun back into his coat. He threaded his fingers with Anne’s. Together, they ran off into the night.


Dawn lightened the sky to the color of ash. Leo watched the coming of day from a wing-backed chair in his study. He still wore his clothing from the night before, though there were tears at the shoulders and elbows. A gentleman’s finery was not cut for brawling. But despite the plush carpets at his feet or the morocco-bound books lining the shelves of his study, he was not and never would be a gentleman.

He was glad.

Curled into a ball in the other wing-backed chair, with a blanket tucked around her, dozed Anne. She had not changed out of her gown, either. In the half-light of morning, her face was pale, and her lashes formed dark fringes against her cheeks. At her feet tipped a half-empty glass of brandy, the same he had pressed on her as soon as they had returned home last night.

The flames in the fireplace burned bright and hot, casting warmth. Though she had fought bravely, she shivered the whole way back to Bloomsbury. Yet she refused to go to bed. So he tried to make her as comfortable as possible here, in the study, which meant a strong fire and brandy. He had moved her chair close to the fireplace so she might warm quickly. At least her shivering had stopped.

Leo studied the raw patches on his knuckles. His hand ached a little. He welcomed the ache, for it meant that he had done exactly what he needed to in order to secure Anne’s safety. He had not fought like a gentleman. He’d broken men’s faces and splattered their blood upon the ground. He had shot someone. Perhaps killed him. And left the scene without a blemish of concern on his heart. Not the actions of a man of genteel birth.

He did not care. All that mattered was that Anne was safe.

Leo pushed up from his chair. He stoked the fire, then strode to the window. He braced his hands on the inside casing and stared out at the approach of morning. There had been a time when he knew this hour of the day because it meant he was just coming home from his night’s revels. It had left him enough time to bolt down some coffee before heading back out again to the Exchange. Little reason to keep him home, for his house in Bloomsbury was costly but empty.

Never did he think he would be awake at this hour because he had battled through a riot.

He glanced over his shoulder. Anne still slept. Fitfully, but deep enough.

With no eyes on him, Leo at last gave in. His head hung down between his outstretched arms, and a shudder passed through him.

God. God. He had come so bloody close to losing her.

His mind reared back from the possibility. Thinking it felt like a cold knife cutting him into large, bleeding pieces.

And with Whit out there, somewhere, last night’s dangers were but a foretaste of possible disaster. He might have even been in the mob, waiting for his moment to strike, to steal her away.

Leo swung away from the window, lest he smash his fist through the glass.

A soft tap sounded on the door. Leo strode over and opened it, careful to keep his steps quiet.

The head footman, Munslow, stood in the hallway, and Leo moved out to meet him. “Brought a morning paper, as you asked, sir.”

Leo took the newspaper and scanned the front page. Wet ink smeared on his fingers, but he could still read it. Most shocking Violence and Disorder at Drury-Lane Theatre transpired yesterday evening, the Cause of which is yet Undetermined. Three Deaths are reported with greater numbers of Injury, including a Sergeant of His Majesty’s 15thRegiment of Light Dragoons. It is noted by the Author of this article that lately such grievous Events are occurring with greater and greater Frequency in this noble City ...

Reading on, Leo found an extensive list of localized disorders, from fights all around town to an increase in arson, theft, and even murder.

“What do you know of this?” He held the paper in front of Munslow, who peered at the type.

“Can’t say if that’s all true, sir.” The footman scratched beneath his wig. “But it has been rough out there. On his half-day, Davy Jenks, who waits for the gent across the street, he got beat by a gang with truncheons. And the fire brigade were summoned only two nights ago when someone tried to burn down Mrs. Lee’s pie shop on Smithy Street. Lately, seems like all of London’s become Bedlam. Don’t need to pay to see lunatics—not when everyone’s mad.”

Leo frowned. “I haven’t heard any of this.”

The footman offered a half smile. “Well, sir, seeing as how you been busy with the missus, it might’ve missed your attention.”

Leo thrust the newspaper back into Munslow’s hands. “Bring coffee. And something to eat for when Mrs. Bailey wakes.”

The footman bowed and hurried off. Quietly, Leo went back into the study, picking over what Munslow had said. The footman had no cause to lie. And Leo remembered how, not very long ago, he’d been caught in a melee on his way to the Exchange. He had been wrapped too deeply in his own concerns to notice, but thinking on it now, images flickered through his mind. Of thrown fists and broken windows and weeping women and slack-faced men, spread all throughout the city like rot. London’s going mad.

Why now? What was the cause? It was never a peaceful place, but something was stirring up poison.

Across his back, his flesh grew heated. Unease tightened his belly.

Despite the heat on his back, the room itself felt chilled. And no wonder. The fire had gone out. It had been blazing not a few minutes prior. Now it was cold, its embers faintly smoking.

He crossed and pulled the tinderbox down from the mantel. Using a flint, he lit some tinder, and so brought the fire back to life again. He crouched, watching the flames for a moment, their shift and dance.

Turning his head, he saw Anne gazing at him. They stared at each other, mute.

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell her everything: the gift he had received from the Devil, the true threat that Whit represented. No more secrets between them. Only the truth of themselves.

Yet even if she did believe him, he could not predict what her response might be. Disgust, horror. Terror. All possibilities ended with her fleeing. None with her cleaving to him, swearing eternal devotion.

She must never know. Her innocence had to be preserved.

He stroked his hand down the side of her face. She leaned into his touch, but her gaze stayed fixed on his.

“That trick you showed me last night,” she said. “With the man’s finger—breaking it so he would let me go. I want you to show me more.”

He knew dozens, if not hundreds, of ways to hurt a man. Part of his less-than-genteel education. Ladies did not know how to jam their thumbs into a man’s throat or ram an elbow in a man’s groin. He did not care if Anne was a lady. Keeping her safe—that was all that mattered.

“We’ll start later today,” he said. “After you get some rest.”

She clasped his wrist. “Show me now.”

Before he could speak, another tap sounded on the door. It must be the breakfast he’d sent for. He straightened up from his crouch. “Enter.”

Munslow opened the door, but he did not have a tray with him. “Beg pardon, sir. Lord Wansford is come calling.”

“My father?” Anne glanced at the clock on the mantel, which showed the hour to be barely past seven. “He is never up this early.”

“I would’ve told him you weren’t taking callers, sir, but he seemed insistent, and you and the missus are awake.”

Leo frowned. Of all the times to deal with his father-in-law, the morning after escaping a deadly rampage ranked at the bottom of a very long list. Still, if he was here this early, it must be important.

“Give Mrs. Bailey a moment to retire, and then show him in.”

Anne rose. “I want to stay.”

“Show him in now. And bring that coffee.”

The footman bowed. “Yes, sir.”

When they were alone, Anne looked at her reflection in the pier glass over the mantel. During the night, the pins had escaped her hair, and now it spilled over her shoulders and down her back in tangled caramel waves. She briefly fussed with her hair, but the struggle did not last long. “I look like I was in a riot.”

He came to stand behind her and gathered up the mass of her hair so he might press a kiss to the back of her neck. “You were. And you look beautiful.”

“Like a ruffian.”

They stared at each other in the glass, their mirror selves. His own hair was undone from its queue, stubble roughened his cheeks, his clothes were torn, and his hands curved over her shoulders showed red, raw knuckles.

“A well-suited couple,” he said, and as he’d hoped, she smiled.

The footman’s reflection appeared in the mirror. “Lord Wansford.”

A moment later, the baron stepped into the study. He visibly started when he saw not only Leo, but Anne, both of them looking ragged.

“Good God,” Wansford exclaimed. “Were you accosted by bandits?”

“There was a riot at Drury Lane last night.” Leo did not bother bowing. “It’s in the papers.”

“We do not receive the newspaper,” murmured Anne.

“He doesn’t get the paper,” Leo said. “We do.” He drew a breath. “Tell me your business, Wansford. It’s late, or early, and my wife and I are tired.”

The baron tugged on his threadbare waistcoat, pulling it across the expanse of his belly. From his pocket, he pulled a coin. “I came to bring you this.”

Leo stared at the penny for a moment. His mind was both acutely sharp and also misty, but he recalled his purpose. From the corner of his eye, he saw Anne frown. She clearly did not expect Leo’s coin-collecting “pastime” to extend to her own family.

He was too weary and tense to provide an explanation. Instead, he strode across the study and plucked the coin from his father-in-law’s hand.

A falling sensation as the vision pulled him in. It was dark, and oppressively close. On every side was solid rock. Veins of glinting ore threaded through the rock, and by the light of flickering lanterns he recognized the ore: iron. A mining tunnel. Grimy-faced men wielded picks, the sound a relentless chip-chip-chip as they hacked the ore from its prison. No sense of day or night in the tunnel, or any time at all passing, for there was always iron, and more iron to be pried free from the earth.

Someone shouted as a tremor passed through the thick stone walls. The tremor grew. It turned into a hard buckling, rock sifting down in larger and larger chunks. Men yelled, shoving each other in their haste to flee. But most could not escape. The walls collapsed. The ability to breathe vanished. The lanterns went out, and everything became darkness and sound and choking airlessness and the grind of rock upon the fragile bodies of men.

“Leo?”

A touch upon his arm, and he snapped back into the room. No crushing rock. No darkness and the screams of those trapped. Only his study in Bloomsbury, with its paneled walls and indifferent furniture.

Anne gazed up at him with concern, her hand upon his forearm. Her father also stared at him, anxious.

Leo dragged air into his lungs and pushed back the suffocating remnants of the vision. It lingered, though, in black tendrils wrapped through his mind and body.

He offered a smile to Anne. “Only tired.”

“You have your coin,” said Wansford, “for whatever reason. Now will you invest in that iron mine on my behalf?”

Leo opened his mouth to tell the baron that he would not sink money into a venture that would suffer a catastrophic collapse. “The weather continues to be damp,” he said instead.

Wansford gave him a puzzled frown. “Usually it is, this time of year. But what of the mine?”

Again, Leo tried to speak, to warn the baron against the mining venture. “Will you stay for breakfast?”

“I’ve taken mine already.” Wansford scowled. “See here, Bailey, you must say at once whether you will serve as my intermediary. You agreed to it already, and I shall look unkindly on it should you renege now.”

“Perhaps we ought to get some rest,” suggested Anne, “and we can resume this conversation at another time.”