The kitchen was chaos—pots rattling, knives clattering against boards, servants darting back and forth with trays of food and wine. The air was thick with grease, spice, and sweat. No one noticed us at first. They were too busy feeding the revelry.
Then a young footman turned.
His eyes widened. His mouth opened.
Finch was on him in an instant, one hand clamped firmly over his mouth, the other driving him back against the wall.
“Quiet,” Finch said softly. “Unless you wish your next breath to be your last.”
The man nodded frantically, terror loosening his knees.
Before the rest of the kitchen staff could react, Finch’s associates surged in, weapons drawn but held low, unmistakable.
I stepped forward. “No one screams. No one leaves. Do you understand?”
Seemingly, they did as they froze where they stood.
I turned back to the footman. “Young ladies are being kept in this house against their will. Are they on the second floor?” We had to be absolutely sure. If we chose wrongly, it would be a fatal mistake.
“I wouldn’t know, Sir,” he whispered, once Finch eased his grip.
If we were to get any answers, I needed another approach. “Is there a guard at one of the doors?”
This time, he nodded. “Yes, Sir. On the second floor, just as you said.”
“Which stairs will draw the least notice?”
“The back ones.”
I turned back to the kitchen staff. “You will remain here. If you do exactly as you are told, no one will be harmed. Do you understand?”
Most nodded at once. One man—a cook, by the look of him—cleared his throat.
“That won’t do, my lord,” he said quietly. “They’ll be expecting food and drink. If it stops, they’ll come looking. Your men can take our places. There are jackets on the hooks there.” He pointed to a spot on the wall where spare livery hung.
I turned to the men behind me and selected the two least likely to draw notice among a room full of drunk revelers. “You two. Jackets. Keep the food and drink moving. If the music falters or the service stops, we lose our advantage.”
They shrugged into the jackets, smoothing them into place with ease.
“What about us?” The reporter from thePall Mall Gazetteasked.
I gestured toward the livery jackets. “Put those on as well, grab trays of food and drink, and follow the other men.”
“Right-O,” the one from theIllustrated London Newssaid. They moved in tandem toward the livery.
“You two,” I said, pointing to the other Finch associates. “Stay here. No one leaves this room.”
They moved into position without hesitation.
I turned back to the footman. “Where are the back stairs?”
“This way.” He led us to a narrow doorway.
“Return to the kitchen,” I ordered. “And stay there.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, voice thick.
“Who owns this house?” I asked. “Who’s in charge?”
