As more people arrived, anticipation mounted. Though voices were kept low, Juliette picked up on the discontented tones of the men who milled about. A few women, Juliette was relieved to see, also stood waiting. They whispered together, but none raised her voice. Finally, from somewhere near the back, movement started—people making way for a group of men coming through.

At last the crowd parted, and she saw four men. Three were strangers, but one she recognized.

Jasper Finch. His eyes were intense, fervent, as if he was on the cusp of something of great moment. People patted him on the shoulder as he came by, reaching to clasp his hand, murmuring. As he passed, she turned away and allowed her bonnet to block her profile, praying that Uncle Bertie’s efforts with the face paints would fool the man. He had been a guest in her parents’ home, after all.

He neared the front of the cavernous room, and someone dragged a wooden crate forward, the scraping noise grating on her ears. Finch leapt atop the crate and faced the gathering. More torches were lit, bringing a fanatical flickering to his face.

Though the vast warehouse had grown quiet, he held up his hands as if to quell cheers.

“My friends.” His voice was pitched low, and yet it carried to every corner. “It is a travesty that we must meet in secret. That we are not free to exchange ideas or to bring our so-called betters to account for their treatment of us. They may try to muzzle us, but we will not be silenced for long. We will prevail. We will force change. We will be heard.”

She could not look away. Though she had been given a peek at his passionate personality at the Venetian breakfast, that Jasper Finch seemed a pale imitation compared to the activist who stood before her.

“We must rally. We must act as one. We must be willing to risk everything to be our own men. Our children starve, our wives go hungry, our jobs are stolen from us, and all the while the rich get richer.” His voice rose with each sentence.

You’re supposed to be watching the crowd. Juliette forced herself to turn slightly, observing. She tried not to move so boldly that anyone would notice or comment upon her behavior, but she had to stop looking at Mr. Finch in order to break the hold his ardent words engendered. All around her, faces, ghostly in the torchlight, gazed up at him as if he were John Wesley at a revival meeting. They must feel the pull too.