“My dear Neville, I fear your terrible wartime experiences have confused your wits.” Slate Eyes closed his hand around Greeley’s arm with surprising force. “Come now, sit down and calm yourself.”
The unexpected move threw Greeley off balance. A shove forced him to fall back into his chair. He looked up—the slate eyes were now a reptilian black—and realized that he had made a terrible mistake.
Steel flashed, but he was an instant too late in seeing the deadly strike coming.
The knife cut through wool and linen, angling upward to slice between two ribs and lodge its point deep in Greeley’s heart.
A whoosh of breath, a spurt of blood . . .
And then a sepulchral silence.
“A pity you made me do that. But I couldn’t risk having you repeat what you just said to anyone else.” After calmly cleaning his blade, Slate Eyes picked up the manuscript and tucked it inside his coat.
Two quick breaths blew out the candle flame as well as his own lantern. Slate Eyes watched the plumes of smoke curl upward, ghostly pale against the ancient oak ceiling, before turning and slipping away into the darkness.
CHAPTER 1
Arumbled roar shattered the night, as if the deepest pit of Hell was tearing free from the underworld. Flames shot up, red-gold against the black velvet sky, and in the next instant a section of the building’s roof collapsed in a cacophony of splintering wood and brick. A joist snapped, throwing up a shower of sparks that shimmered with a terrifying beauty as they floated back to earth.
So delicate.And so deadly . . .
Charlotte, Countess of Wrexford—though hardly a soul on earth would recognize her dressed as she was in rags rather than fancy silks—winced as a bank of windows exploded in a blinding flash of light. The blast forced her back into the shadows of an alleyway bordering Cockpit Yard, a cluster of brick buildings just south of the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury.
Shouts collided with screams as the onlookers shied away from the conflagration. A wagon filled with sloshing buckets rumbled past her, its wheels bouncing over the cobblestones. Slipping and sliding over the smoking debris, the band of men pulling at the ropes managed another few steps and stopped to heave a wave of water over the flames before retreating for another load.
Gasping for air, Charlotte swiped a hand over her face, adding another layer of gritty soot to her brow. She had received word just an hour ago about the fire and had immediately resolved to see it for herself after changing into her second—or was it third?—skin.Raggle-taggle urchin . . . high-and-mighty countess . . . London’s most popular satirical artist....
She turned her gaze from the shadows, forcing herself to focus on her reason for being here. Working under thenom de plumeA. J. Quill, she kept the public informed of the current scandals, politics, and serious social issues of the day with her colorful satirical drawings.
Fires ravaged through London every day. But this was no ordinary one. The burning building housed the laboratory of—
A flicker of movement caught Charlotte’s eye. A group of men with wet rags wrapped around the lower part of their faces was fast approaching the flames. Awhooshof smoke suddenly knocked the hat off one of the leaders, revealing a flash of guinea-gold hair.
Her breath caught for an instant in her throat.
Ye gods—why is Kit here?
Christopher Sheffield had been her husband’s closest friend since their days at Oxford, and Charlotte had formed an equally strong bond with him over the course of a half dozen dangerous investigations.
A friendship forged by fire, thought Charlotte with a wry smile.
Sheffield suddenly looked her way. He hesitated for just a heartbeat as she moved in the shadows. Smoke hazed the air, but he had seen her enough times dressed as a ragged urchin to recognize her silhouette. A subtle gesture—a tiny flick of his hand—acknowledged her presence, and then he kept moving. Glass crunched underfoot as the men rushed for the far end of the building, which had not yet burst into flames, and hurriedly kicked their way through the side door.
Hell’s teeth—are there poor souls trapped inside?
Fear rose in her throat as she watched them disappear into the black maw. Charlotte spun around and darted out of her refuge, intent on edging around to where Sheffield and his companions had disappeared. The thunder of snapping timbers and crashing walls was growing louder—the very air crackled with warning.
Damnation, Kit—it’s too dangerous to be caught within such a raging inferno.
The smoke thickened, slowing her steps. She paused to pick out a path through the swirling embers and started forward—
Only to be stopped short by the clatter of iron-shod hooves on stone and the screech of another water wagon skidding around the corner of the street.
Drawing a steadying breath, Charlotte retreated and chose a more roundabout route that skirted the worst of the falling debris and frantic flailings to douse the flames. In the past she might have ignored the blatant danger, but her recent marriage had brought not only profound joy but a heightened awareness of her responsibilities to her loved ones. Not that she would ever give up her passions—
She ducked low and took cover in the opening of an alleyway as a jumble of crisscrossing lantern beams swept over the yard.
“Oiy! Oiy! Move off, ye little gutter rats,” bellowed a group of night watchmen, trying to make themselves heard above all the noise and confusion. Waving their truncheons, they began to herd back the street urchins who had crowded the cobbled carriageway to gawk at the fire.
