She dashed around a corner into a narrow lane, familiar edifices rising around her. She threw open the door that led into the empty space between buildings and leapt over the threshold, not stopping until she’d reached the other side of the big pile of debris in the middle. James came on in after her. But the lads poured out of the corners, street toughs and Bertie’s old mates, ready to pound the mark so Bertie could get away.

James went down. He drew a knife as he fell, and Bertie cried a warning.

Sinclair came charging through the door, halting when he saw the fight in progress. He watched for a few heartbeats then made his way around the fracas toward Bertie, his anger palpable.

And then everything stopped. The youths, one by one, looked up and peeled away from James and started off, out the door or climbing over the broken walls, disappearing into the gloom. The afternoon was just light enough for Bertie to see James come to his feet, his long knife glinting in his hand.

Through the door behind Bertie came four men—Frank Devlin and three of his regular henchmen. Devlin was middle-aged, but he’d kept his youthful slimness. He wasn’t very tall, but he had a granite-hard face that made men half again his size back down in a trice. It was the eyes, Bertie thought. Light blue, cold, and mean, and holding no compassion whatsoever.

Bertie had only about two seconds to wonder whether it was sheer coincidence that brought Devlin here at this moment, before James said, “I thank you, sirs. I want both of them.”

“Damn it to hell,” Sinclair said. He grabbed Bertie’s hand.

Bertie gave him a brief nod. Only one thing to do. “Run!” she shouted.

Sinclair didn’t argue. They set off for the door through which they’d entered, Bertie praying Devlin hadn’t set other villains to waylay them on this side.

James hurtled himself into Sinclair as they went by. The knife flashed, and Sinclair stumbled.

“No!” Bertie swung around, ready with a kick at James, but Sinclair shoved her onward.

“Don’t stop,” Sinclair said fiercely. “Run!”

Bertie latched her hand around Sinclair’s, and they sprinted along together. She couldn’t tell whether the knife had only torn his coat or had gone all the way in. She only knew that lingering to let Devlin and his henchmen grab them while they checked was a bad idea.

Bertie knew the streets, but so did Devlin. Then again, Devlin hadn’t kept himself fit these past few weeks by running after Andrew. Sinclair, the former soldier, twisted through the streets with Bertie, moving rapidly but silently.

Bertie knew where they had to go. Around to the lanes near the river, down to the secret, narrow passages. Bertie slid through the tiny lane that led to her hideaway, Sinclair stifling grunts as he followed her around the jutting corners. Sinclair ducked his head this time as they went under the lintel of the door Bertie opened. “Seventeen steps,” she reminded him in a whisper.

They were down inside her hidey-hole, the door closed and bolted against the outside world. Bertie groped for matches, finding them right where she’d left them. She lit the lamps and turned back to Sinclair.

She found that he’d staggered to the makeshift sofa and collapsed on it, his hand to his abdomen. Bertie, mouth dry in fear, pulled off her hat and knelt beside him.

“Let me see.”

“Not a big wound,” Sinclair said, voice tight.

“Don’t matter. A thin knife can kill a man. Let me see.”

Sinclair opened his coat, moved aside his frock coat, then opened his waistcoat and inched up his bloodstained shirt and undershirt. A slice of tight brown skin came into view, and with it a raw, red wound, a hole about a half-inch across.

“Nasty.” Bertie grabbed Sinclair’s handkerchief from his pocket, folded it, and pressed it to the wound. “Stilettos can go deep, and they’re jagged.”

“So I feel.”

Bertie bit her lip. Knife wounds could be shallow and heal quickly, or they could be deep enough to puncture something vital. Or they could fester. It happened so swiftly, the sickening, and then the man or woman was no more.

“You need a doctor,” Bertie said. “And bed.”

Sinclair shifted, bringing out another sound of pain. “Two things lacking in this backstreet basement.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” Bertie rocked a little in worry, still pressing hard on his wound. “Devlin’s got men everywhere.” She blinked back tears.

“Bertie, it’s all right.” Sinclair’s voice went gentle. He put a steadying hand on hers. “We’ll be all right. Richards is looking for us, and Hart’s footman too. The coppers walking these streets will notice armed men hunting for us.”

“Many of the coppers around here are Devlin’s men,” Bertie said darkly. “In his pay. They’ll likely help him find us.”

“Then we’ll have to rely on Fellows.”

“Who’s in Scotland,” Bertie pointed out.

“But his sergeant isn’t. I asked Fellows to telegraph Sergeant Pierce to tell him about our return to London and your summons by your father. I wasn’t happy with it.”

Bertie tried to feel relief, but it wouldn’t come. “For once, my dad’s heart was in the right place, warning me. He hates Devlin with a passion—Dad’s scared of him, and he says Devlin ruins our trade, which is true. Since Devlin’s hand in glove with the bobbies, they’re happy to arrest the likes of my dad, but they’ll leave Devlin and his thugs alone.”