A blur of silver, the thump of bodies colliding. When the brawl was over, both challengers lay gurgling upon the dirt. Even in the dimness, the boy could see the dark pool spreading beneath them. Breathing heavily, the bearded man rose to his feet. The other criminals cheered as he spat on the ground, the blade dripping in his hand.
The boy froze as another night took hold of him. As another knife flashed in his memory, a terrifying and beautiful arc in the darkness. The master falling, gushing from the chest. And all he'd felt was relief. Relief and trembling hope as he'd begged Nicholas Morgan, the boy holding the knife that had freed them both,Don't leave me here. I'm scared. Take me with you, Morgan, please.
"This'll hurt, lad."
The voice jerked the boy back. Past and present melded into one as he stared up at the predator who'd cornered him. The bearded man, not the treacherous Nicholas Morgan who'd knocked him senseless and left him to burn alongside the master's corpse. 'Twas Morgan's crimes that had landed him in this hell—everything was Morgan's fault. Anger rushed through the boy, a current so powerful that it walled off fear. As the knife drew near, he made a silent vow.
I will survive. One day, I'll be strong. Then I'll make them all pay.
The blade flashed. A cry sounded in his ears, and the inescapable darkness swallowed him whole.
1
It beganas a day like any other for Miss Priscilla Farnham. Faced with the scintillating choice between marmalade or strawberry jam for her toast, she stared out the window of her cozy breakfast parlor and wished for something—anything—to happen.
—fromThe Perils of Priscilla, an abandoned manuscript by P. R. Fines
Even sensible young ladies had cause to question their judgment on occasion. As she could not claim prudence as a personal virtue, Miss Persephone Rose Fines perhaps experienced bouts of uncertainty more than most—and the present moment proved a case in point. She approached the squalid tenement with wary steps. Through the gauzy veil tied to her bonnet (at least she'd taken the precaution of disguising herself), she assessed the pair of men loitering near the doorway. Her nape prickled as they barricaded her way to the stairwell.
"Lost, dove?" One of the ruffians leered at her. "Be glad to lend a hand."
"I've got more than a hand for ye," the other brute said. He made an indecent motion with his hips, causing his comrade to snicker. "One taste o' Spitalfields sport an' it'll spoil ye for the rest."
Though her pulse thudded, Percy drew her shoulders back.Don't be a faint-hearted ninny. Think of Paul—of everything at stake. Prove yourself worthy of being a Fines.
Summoning up her courage, she said in brisk tones. "Step aside, if you please. I am expected upstairs, and if I don't arrive on time, my brother shall come looking for me." She paused before adding, "My verylargebrother who happens to be an excellent shot."
The louts grumbled, exchanging glances. Apparently she'd read them correctly as mongrels with bark but no bite, for they shuffled aside and let her pass. Relief filled her as she ascended the rickety stairway, the steps creaking beneath her kid boots as they had the first time her father had brought her and her brother here all those years ago.
Do not be afraid, children, Papa had said.You must see with open eyes where your own father came from. This is the world I escaped through sweat and perseverance; now you understand why I want better for both of you.
Sorrow darted like quicksilver through her heart. Four years had passed since her Papa's death, and she still missed him so. As she passed the floors of cramped quarters and wailing babes, she could hear his voice in her head:If we Fineses were to have a fancy family motto, it'd be this: we never give up, and we always stick together.Mama would have a fit of hysterics if she knew of Percy's current mission, but surely Papa would approve.
At the top floor, Percy followed her memory to the door at the end of the corridor. She blew out a breath and knocked on the peeling wood. When no reply emerged, she turned the knob; hinges squealed as the door swung open.
"Hello?" she called out in a hushed voice. "Paul, are you there? 'Tis me, Percy."
She entered the dingy room, biting her lip at the squalor. 'Twas a far cry from her family's well-appointed townhouse in Bloomsbury. Windowless and dark, this place reeked of old grease and fresh spirits. The furnishings consisted of a scarred table and a pair of chairs. A straw pallet lay in the far corner. She went over and, crouching, brushed her fingers over the wool greatcoat that looked to serve as a makeshift blanket.
Heat burned behind her eyes. Last year, her brother had suffered a disappointment in love when the lady he fancied had married another. Though Paul had forbidden any further talk of the matter, hiding his pain behind a debonair façade, she knew the loss of Rosalind Drummond had cut him deeply. His behavior had become more and more reckless, with the gaming and drinking and Lord knew what else (actually, she could hazard a good guess at his other activities—her brother was a rake, after all). Everyone in the family had been worried about him, but no one had guessed the extent of his profligacy.
Steps sounded behind her. She spun around to face the figure emerging through the doorway. With a shock, she saw the masculine face, familiar yet utterly changed. Bloating had distorted her brother's handsome features. His golden locks lay matted upon his pale forehead, and scruffy bristle covered his jaw. His shirt collar hung open with no cravat in sight.
For an instant, bleary eyes, blue as hers, widened. Then her brother took measured steps to the table and deposited the bottle he held in his hands.
Gin, she saw with a stab of worry.
His gaze fell short of meeting hers. "I see you remembered the place. I wasn't sure you would."
"The note you sent wasn't all that helpful," she said around the lump in her throat. "But I guessed straightaway that you had come here."
"I had to keep things cryptic. In the event that my message fell into the wrong hands." He sighed, looking at her now. "As you'll recall, I also instructed you not to find me."
Her chest tightened, but she replied in a light voice, "You blasted sapskull, when have I ever obeyed your instructions?" Unable to hold back any longer, she ran toward him and threw her arms around his neck. Her voice muffled against his shirt, she said, "What on earth has happened? Tell me everything, Paul."
He hesitated before his arms circled her in a brief but fierce hug. Then he set her aside and said in his usual mocking tone, "I'm afraid 'tis a dreary parable, sis. And, predictably, I'm the moral of the tale."
* * *
