“Actually,” Nicky said, “I plan to attend as well.”
I addressed him sharply. “How?”
“I’m the same height as Fairleigh. Near enough in build. With the invitation, no one will question my presence.”
“You’ll need a costume,” I said. “And a mask.”
“I have both at my quarters.” He checked the time. “We have two hours. I’ll go home, change, and proceed to the meeting place on my own. It will draw less attention that way.”
I studied him for a long moment, weighing the risk. This was not something Nicky had planned for. He would have to reach his rooms, improvise a disguise, and be at Vauxhall in less than two hours—or his scheme would unravel before it properly began. The timing would be tight. But it could be done.
“Go,” I said.
Nicky did not wait for more.
Once he had gone, the room settled into an uneasy stillness. Finch’s associates spoke in low voices, but the scrape of chairs and the clink of tankards sounded louder than they ought.
I ordered a cold supper to be sent in—bread, cheese, and meat enough to sustain us. There was no sense in taking to the river too early. The night air would be colder there, the damp more penetrating, and waiting aboard a barge would serve only to sap strength and patience alike.
Rosalynd remained beside me, her cape drawn close, her expression composed. Outwardly, at least. I knew her too well to mistake that calm for ease.
Time moved in measured increments. A glance at the clock. A few murmured instructions to Finch and his associates. Another glance, another adjustment. If Nicky met with delay—if traffic slowed him, if his preparations took longer than expected—there would be little we could do but proceed without him and trust to luck.
By a quarter past nine, I judged we could wait no longer. Whether Nicky had succeeded or not, the Floralia barges would soon be gathering at the stairs. I gave the word to make ready. We would leave the warmth of The Black Horse behind and take our chances on the river.
After that, events would no longer wait upon us.
We left the public house in small groups to draw less attention. The barge lay within walking distance, and Finch and his men knew the precise point where it would be. Just as arranged, it rested in shadow—low, dark, and unremarkable. By the time Rosalynd and I arrived, the others were already there.
All that remained was to cast off.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
The Point of No Return
Once the barge pushed away from the bank, the sounds of the city fell back, replaced by the steady lap of water against the hull and the low creak of timber under strain. The Thames at night was a darker thing altogether—wide, cold, and indifferent. A faint mist clung to the surface, curling around us as though the river meant to keep its secrets close.
The chill settled into me almost at once. I had dressed for deception, not comfort, and the damp crept through wool and silk alike. I tried to master it, to still the shiver before it could betray me.
Steele noticed anyway.
He drew me closer without a word, one arm firm around my shoulders, his coat folded around me as though I were something he meant to shield rather than restrain. The warmth of him was immediate and steady, a quiet reassurance against the cold. I leaned into him without thinking, fitting myself against his chest as naturally as if I had always belonged there.
We did not speak. There was no need. The moment asked for nothing more than this—shared warmth, shared silence, the comfort of another’s presence when the world ahead promised none. His breath moved slowly, evenly, a counterpoint to the restless motion of the river beneath us. I felt the strength of him in the simple fact of his stillness; in the way he held me as though he could keep the night at bay by sheer will.
For a few precious minutes, I allowed myself to forget what waited ahead.
The lights appeared first—lanterns bobbing low along the water, their reflections fractured by the slow current. Then the shapes of the barges emerged from the dark, unmistakable even at a distance. There were two of them, just as I’d hoped.
Our barge slowed, easing toward the shadows downstream. We would go no farther together.
Steele’s arm tightened around me, just once, before he drew back. “Are you sure, Rosalynd?” he asked quietly. “It is not too late to turn back.”
I looked at him then, really looked at him, and felt the weight of everything that had led us here settle into place.
“It was too late the moment I saw that young woman at the mortuary,” I said. “The die is cast, Steele.”
