Chapter 1
If there was one thing Finch More couldn't abide it was
being wrong and having to admit as much.
She was wrong.
She should not have returned to Whitechapel alone, and on
foot, and when it was growing dark, and colder.
She should not have placed herself in the way of being
frightened out of her wits by her own imagination--which
could be overactive. Why, a moment ago she'd even mistaken
a slight sound for someone speaking her name.
"Finch."
There it was again. She looked in every direction. The
streets were all but empty and the few muffler-swathed
people still abroad walked with the certainty of folk who
knew where they were going, and were in a hurry to get
there. Not one of them spared her as much as a glance.
"Silly female," she said aloud, and glared at a grinning
boy with a big, sticky bun in one hand, who poked out his
crumb-covered tongue as he passed. What did she care if a
mannerless boy thought she was light-brained for talking to
herself?
"They puts people the likes of you in asylums, they does,"
the boy said. He held the bun in his teeth, crossed his
eyes, and rushed away with his arms flailing.
Why did Latimer insist upon keeping the business down here
in Whitechapel where all manner of sordid events
occurred? "Cheap," she said, and glanced furtively behind
her to make sure the boy was well enough away not to hear.
Latimer watched every penny and insisted she do likewise.
That was why she'd decided to walk rather than get a cab
after she'd made the delivery of a small package. She
should have continued home as Latimer had expected, but he
was likely to stay at the warehouse all night, very
possibly without eating, if she left him alone there.
"Fi-inch."
A great bound of her heart made her feel quite odd. There,
she thought, that was her name. Very softly spoken, to be
sure, but definitely her name. Someone she couldn't see
said, no, sang her name in a foolish manner to try to make
her afraid. The back of her neck prickled.
Who? She didn't know anyone in London apart from the rest
of the people who lived at Number 7. And the people Latimer
did business with. Hardly likely candidates for playing
tricks on her in the street.
Very soon she would be there, at the warehouse, and safe.
Not that she wasn't safe now. After all, what could happen
to her with buildings on either side of the street and
people . . . There had been people only a moment ago and
there would more at any second. She pulled the looped
ribbons of her reticule into the crook of an elbow. Only a
country girl, a girl from a Cornish village or some such
backward place, would start dreaming voices just because
she was in London.
"Fi-inch."
She whirled about. This time it had sounded closer.
A hand, clamped over her mouth, caught her next breath in
her throat. Her bonnet tipped forward and she couldn't see
past the brim. She choked, and kicked at whoever stood
behind her, but her slippered heels undoubtedly fared worse
than what felt like a pair of solid boots.
The bonnet slipped sideways until it hung beneath her chin.
"This won't take no great time, miss," a voice said against
her ear. Seams on his heavy glove bit into her
face. "Better to keep your feet for walking, if you
please." With that she was bundled through a gap in a high
wooden fence and into a yard between two buildings. A
squalid yard strewn with rubbish from what she could make
out. And the buildings were of blackened brick with no
windows, and had roofs that blurred into a darkening sky
where smoke scarred a faint purple haze.
Why would anyone bother to murder her? That's what he would
do, wasn't it? This man was going to kill her.
Finch tried to scream.
"'Ere, 'ere," her captor said, and shook her. "You'd do
well enough to 'eed my warnings and do what I tell you."
She had no opportunity to do otherwise before a shape
materialized from the shadowed wall to her right, a tall
figure with head bowed. His billowing cloak and top hat
cast a fuzzy silhouette behind him.
Like a great bat.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Finch struggled, kicked and
squirmed, and bit hard at the gloved hand over her mouth. A
muffled curse was her only reward. For the rest, she was
lifted from the ground and flung down.
Flung down, but caught by the cloaked creature the moment
before she would have hit muddy ground. When she raised her
face toward him, he spun her around, relieving her of her
reticule as he did so, and finished what the other had
started by depositing her in a heap on the ground.
"Remain as you are if you please, and you will be
unharmed," she was told in a voice so low of tone it echoed
from its owner's depths. The man did not sound English, did
he?
A shower of objects hit her back and she cried out.
"Silence."
Shaking, placing her hands over her mouth, Finch did her
best to do as she was told. She would die here in this
filthy, smelly place with smoke burning her eyes and
stinging her nose. Die in the chill of a young winter's
night.
"Remember my words, Miss Finch More," said the voice from
the earth. "The time is coming soon. The old tiger will
give way to the new. Then the young Tiger will eat its
predecessor. So it reads. Each of us has a purpose whether
it be great or small. Your small purpose will be served and
you will no longer be required--but you might be overlooked
if you cause no irritation."
The speaker fell silent but his speech echoed on. A
meaningless dissertation. Part of their evil design to
terrify their victims into complete submission.
Finch bowed even lower. What made them think she could do
anything but be submissive?
Another hard article, and another, then several more
bounced from her shoulders and neck to land among the
stones and debris.
These creatures were tossing down the contents of her
reticule. She opened her mouth to say she had nothing of
value, but thought better of the notion. They would
discover what a poor prize they had chosen soon enough and
then there would be no need to wait longer to dispose of
her.
"Keep your eyes closed, Miss Finch More. And you will put
your hands on your ears. There will be loud noise. Like the
roar of the tiger. It will be easier if you do not see or
hear." She didn't know which of the men spoke, but she
quickly clapped her hands over her ears. Her eyes were
already tightly shut.
A loud noise? An explosion, perhaps? A pistol shot?
Finch moaned, and curled into as small a ball as she could
make of herself.
Poor Latimer. He was so absent-minded about anything but
his treasures from the Indies and China--and the pieces
he'd recently obtained from Egypt. What would he do without
her? How would he remember to eat, or put on a neckcloth,
or make sure the accounts for the business were kept in
order, to say nothing of paying the rent to Lady Hester
Bingham?
Latimer would never go to Papa for help because their
father had disinherited his son when Latimer insisted on
studying antiquities rather than going into Papa's
business.
Poor Papa. He was a hard man but not without feelings and
he did love her. Finch just knew Papa loved her, and
Latimer, of course. And since Papa was a widower of many
years he didn't have a wife to turn to in times of grief.
Finch's mind spun and spun--and spun. Everyone she loved
would be distraught at her death. When her pale, lifeless
body . . .
She held her breath and parted her hands from her ears a
scant distance.
Not a sound.
No one spoke harshly to her, or tried to stop her from
moving.
She opened her eyes, and when she could see a little made
out a shiny coin nearby. When she dared to raise her head a
fraction she saw several more coins, and the silver cross
that had been her mother's and which Finch always kept with
her. Also there were a number of large buttons she'd bought
for her collection--and the Hydrobia ulvae she'd been
fortunate to find for her shell collection.
Finch sniffed. Tears spattered the backs of her hands.
Crying, for goodness sake.
She knelt more upright and checked around. Her attackers
had definitely left.
They had left.
She was still alive.
They had not shot her.
"Of course I'm crying. I am not made of stone. I almost di--
di--died here." She wiped her face with the back of a
sleeve and kept on sobbing. Such a terrible shock was bound
to make a woman cry and shake and feel unwell.
"I have been too strong for too long," she said into her
sleeve. It was true. Always the strong one. Always the one
to deal with the more unpleasant aspects of trying to make
a life with only her own small allowance, Latimer's meager
inheritance from their mother (portioned out in minuscule
amounts) and what little profit could be squeezed from the
fledgling business.
Still weeping, she clumsily retrieved her spilled
treasures. Why hadn't those beasts taken her money? Little
enough, it was true--just the coins she carried for
emergencies--but thieves weren't supposed to leave money
behind.
Her hands hurt, and her knees, and her face, and other
parts of her.
Oh how horrified Latimer would be when he saw her, and how
angry that she had returned to him rather than go home.
When she stood up every bit of her ached. Now she must
collect herself as best she could and try to ensure Latimer
had no idea of exactly what had occurred. She must devise a
suitable story. True, she abhorred lies but on this
occasion she would invent a small untruth for the purpose
of saving her dear brother's temper.
A large untruth.
She did what she could to pin up escaped locks of hair, and
replaced her bonnet. Fortunately her pelisse and gown were
of sensible brown chintz. The darkness made it impossible
to see well, but she thought mud might be scarcely
noticeable.
At last she could do nothing more to improve her appearance
and she set off to go the short distance left to the
warehouse. The building was in a mean alley and flanked by
two similar hulks at present unoccupied. On the opposite
side of the alley hovels slunk together in a dismal line.
Those who lived there were seldom seen.
The night was all but black now. A sullen moon barely
bothered to stroke the edges of a single cloud break.
Finch's soft half-boots scuffed the cobbles. Cold struck
through the thin leather to her feet.
She reached the door where a small (Latimer called
it "discreet") sign announced, More & More, Importers, in
white letters on a piece of polished wood.
Pushing her way inside the echoing cavern, Finch finally
decided what she would tell Latimer and felt hugely
relieved.
"Latimer," she called, hurrying between crates containing
items Latimer had obtained from abroad. The space reeked of
dust and mildew. "Latimer, it's Finch." A light shone
through the open door to the large office they called their
showroom. In truth they could only show certain items in
the office. Anything too big, or too heavy, required that a
customer make the best of a viewing it in the warehouse
itself, not an ideal arrangement but the best that could be
offered at present.
"My what a day," Finch said, affecting a cheerfully
exasperated tone. She walked quickly into the office.
With his back to her, Latimer bent over an open crate.
Lord Kilrood faced her from behind the desk.
Drat, Finch thought and felt her false cheer sink beneath
gloom. Of all the rotten luck. How could she have the
misfortune to find him here tonight of all nights?
A number of weeks earlier they had met Lord Kilrood through
Hunter Lloyd, the nephew of Lady Hester Bingham who owned 7
Mayfair square. Kilrood had started doing some business
with them. He seemed a decent enough sort, despite the
superior manner one could expect from someone of his
station, but he had an uncanny way of staring at her as if
he found her a puzzle. Or perhaps she shocked him . . .
Perhaps he could not believe that in his privileged life
where he could surround himself with nothing but pretty
women, he occasionally found himself in the company of a
plain one.
She bobbed an abbreviated curtsey, not that it was worth
the effort since he showed no sign of noticing.
He really stared.
Finch attempted to stare back but he had the kind of
disquietingly brilliant blue eyes that didn't blink. In
fact they didn't even flicker. His eyelashes were very
black and cast a shadow in that blue stare.
How rude. He should have been taught from childhood that
open curiosity was incredibly rude.
She cleared her throat and made a great deal of cinching
the ribbons on her reticule. When she glanced downward she
noted with disgust that there were jagged rips in her
skirt. And mud did show when it began to dry--even on brown
chintz.
"Latimer--"
He interrupted her, "A moment, Finch. I'm looking for
something."
Just as well. She prayed her hastily fabricated tale would
be convincing.
Lord Kilrood came from behind the desk. He lowered his head
slightly and peered at her more closely.
Finch nodded politely--although restraint cost her
considerably--and she even smiled a little. But then she
felt what she had felt on more than one occasion when in
the company of this imposing man: wobbly inside.
Oh fie, of all the treacherous tricks of silly female
vulnerability to the male. The man appealed--well, he
caused some strangely exciting sensations and she actually
felt drawn to him. It was as if she wished, no, she did
wish she were other than plain. And she did wish that he
might look at her as a man interested in a woman--as a
woman--looked at that woman.
This was most muddling. After all, she was nine and twenty
and had known love once. These feelings had not been
associated with that pure and tragically lost love, not at
all. Naturally there could be no question of loving a
stranger anyway, but tonight's events, the manner in which
she felt bemused in his company, suggested that her
reaction to Lord Kilrood was motivated by something quite
other than a pure spirit. Why it felt . . . carnal?
"Are you all right, Miss More?"
"Don't mind Finnie, your lordship," Latimer said from the
depths of his crate, "you know how quiet she is. She has
lived a very simple life in the country and is unaccustomed
to making polite conversation."
Sometimes Latimer could be intensely irritating.
Lord Kilrood paid no attention to Latimer's comment. He did
come a little closer to Finch.
She felt warm, which was ridiculous since she was obviously
cold. Oh, her fearful experiences this night had been too
much. They had made her--she hoped temporarily--feeble
minded.
"Miss More," he said, very quietly. "What has happened to
you?"
Finch looked to Latimer's back and was grateful to see that
he hadn't heard. She placed a finger on her lips and shook
her head.
Lord Kilrood narrowed his eyes.
The wobbly sensation returned. He was a well made man. A
very well made man. Taller than she had thought she cared
for because she didn't like feeling overpowered by
another's size, but she felt differently about this man's
person. He was tall, and broad of shoulder, and he had a
solid presence that suggested his fine figure would be just
as fine without his well cut clothes.
A wild heat overtook Finch, and she couldn't stop her mouth
from falling open. What had come over her? She closed her
eyes tightly, then opened them again. Had she hit her head
when that creature threw her down? She didn't remember
doing so, but then, perhaps she wouldn't if it were bad
enough.
Amnesia.
A change of personality.
Without clothes? Of all the terrible, absolutely
unsuitable, completely unforgivable thoughts.
"You should sit down," he said, blessedly keeping his voice
low. "You do not look well."
She looked awful. Greville had liked the way she looked,
God rest his soul, but that was because of their long
familiarity. Everyone else said she was a fright.
"Miss More?"
Finch shook her head again, more violently this time. Lord
Kilrood had a pleasing face. His cheekbones were high, his
mouth . . . he had a most pleasing mouth. A finely cut
face, that's how she would describe it. Finely cut but very
much the face of a strong man. A strong, handsome man.
Pleasing was a pathetic word that did little to convey a
person's true feelings if those feelings were about
something she thought marvelous.
He had a slow manner of speech, slow and considered, with
the faintest hint of that most intriguing scottish accent.
There was a touch of red in his dark hair.
"Miss More," he said, sounding less concerned than
determined this time, "I insist that you take a seat. You
are not yourself."
Latimer stood up and turned around.
Finch braced herself. She must not cause him more worry.
Providing for their livelihood was already enough strain on
him. "Latimer, I don't want you to worry about me."
"Hm?" His thick, brown hair fell over his brow. He was
examining a white figurine of a naked woman.
She would not allow him to blame himself for the outcome of
her own careless actions. "I had a little accident. Nothing
serious."
At that Latimer looked up sharply. "Did it break?"
"Break?"
"That perfect Grecian amulet. Not particularly old, but
without a flaw. Did you break it, Finnie?"
"Er, no." She felt foolish. "I delivered it safely. Then I
decided to come back here after all."
"Good, good," he said, smiling at her. "I say, Finnie, that
dress is getting a bit tatty, isn't it? Even for you? Never
mind. You wouldn't be good old Finnie if you gave a fig for
such things. See if you can make some tea for his lordship,
would you?"