The streetlamps dotting the area couldn’t hold at bay all the shadows. Glancing around, she saw a couple of people walking in the distance, becoming smaller as they moved away from her, but he wouldn’t have come from that direction anyway. Perhaps he was only running late.

Please, dear Lord, don’t let anything have happened to him. While he was skilled at shooting at targets, had mastered fencing, and engaged in boxing for sport, she wasn’t entirely convinced all of that translated well to dealing with the villainous scoundrels who made Whitechapel their home. He was no more accustomed to wandering these dangerous streets than she was.

Drawing her ermine-lined cloak more tightly around her, she began walking, hoping to meet up with him shortly and to be that much closer to their residence when she did. After ten hours at her labors, her feet, lower back, and shoulders ached. She wanted to be home. Even as she had the thought, she acknowledged they’d never go home again. It had been taken from them, and what they had now could barely be described as a residence.

Unexpectedly, the fine hairs on the back of her neck quivered as though someone had placed a warm hand against her nape. She swung around.

The people she’d seen earlier were farther away, weren’t coming for her. While she didn’t feel in danger, she couldn’t shake off the sensation that she wasn’t alone, that someone was near enough to hear her harsh breathing, that she was being watched.

But she saw only the shadows, heard only the occasional skitter of rats.

Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out the small dagger her older brother had given her and taught her how to wield, before he’d taken his leave to go God knew where. She doubted the four-inch blade would kill anyone, but it might at least give a miscreant pause, hold him at bay.

Besides, it could just be her imagination playing tricks on her. Until three months ago, she’d never gone anywhere alone. Her lady’s maid, footmen, her mother, a friend—someone always accompanied her. She’d never had to be aware of her surroundings, never had to worry about being accosted. But now she’d become extremely vigilant and wary. She hated all the worry, the uncertainty, and tried not to recall all the years of security she’d taken for granted, assuming she would always be spoiled, well tended, without care. When every day had been filled with fun, laughter, and good cheer.

Turning back around, she came up short at the sight of Griffith a few steps away and very nearly screamed at his sudden appearance. Doing so would have angered her more. “Where the devil have you been?”

He ducked his blond head. “Apologies. I got caught up in something and lost track of the hour.”

“In what, precisely?”