She cast a look of cold panic at the moonlit gardens below. Her stomach plummeted. For a moment, it was as if she’d already fallen, down, down, down, to the paving stones. It was that real. That visceral. The terrace floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. She squeezed her eyes shut as a wave of dizziness assailed her. It was coupled with the same wash of clammy perspiration she’d felt that day so long ago when she’d been trapped on the tower roof of the Academy. Then, Nell had climbed up to save her. But Nell wasn’t coming this time.

No one was coming.

• • •

Gabriel strolled down the secluded tree-lined path that ran along the edge of the Comptons’ expansive gardens. The tip of his half-finished cigarette glowed in the darkness. Along with the moon and a blanket of shimmering stars, it was the only light to guide his way. No lanterns or torches had been set out for the evening. Lady Compton had doubtless anticipated her guests remaining inside.

Inside was the last place Gabriel wanted to be.

He’d just been discussing the rot and disease of the Rookery. To go from that to the cloying luxury of the drawing room, with its passel of rich young ladies singing in Italian, was too bitter a contrast. In his present frame of mind, Gabriel knew it would only fire his temper.

Instead, on leaving the library after his talk with Haverford, Gabriel had withdrawn to the gardens for a smoke. With luck, a cigarette and some fresh air would restore his equanimity.

Music drifted over him as he walked—the faint sounds of the piano and violin accompanied by a feeble contralto. The musicale was still in full swing. There was no hope of avoiding the whole of it. He would have to return eventually, if for no other reason than to show himself amenable to society’s rules.

And to see Euphemia again.

It was a damnable urge. An unwelcome attraction all mixed up with his growing feeling of frustration and disillusionment. He had no place in this world. Her world. And it wasn’t some mistaken sense of inferiority that compelled him to acknowledge it. It was the grim understanding that these people—these illustrious lords and ladies of London—would never change.

They existed in a sphere too far above the struggles of the common man and woman to ever comprehend them. For them, charity was entertainment. Compassion a performance. To gain their fickle attention, humble working people had to debase themselves, exposing their misery and abdicating their pride for the merest chance at a few scraps from the rich man’s table.