The stranger stopped about fifty feet away, hands thrust in the pockets of his greatcoat, watching us. No pretense of going about his own business. His stare, above the folds of his muffler, was flat and cold, and his slouching posture did not appear to be one of hunched self-doubt but rather of insolent confidence.

Samuel had finally seen him too. “Is that man following us, my lady?” he asked under his breath.

“Perhaps.”

Samuel squared up, his fair skin flushed with battle.

“No. Do not acknowledge him,” I added quickly. “We will continue.”

I started walking again. Samuel, in the periphery of my vision, clutched the umbrella like a weapon. We reached the crooked corner. I read the street signs: to our right, Pilgrim Street; to the left, Little Bridge. Both with a curve that obscured their end. Where now?

“He is still behind us, my lady,” Samuel reported.

Either way was a blind choice. Pilgrim Street, then, but only because the Bunyan book was one of Julia’s favorites. I quickened my pace, Samuel adjusting his own to stay a step behind. We continued past a furrier—the window full of pelts in shades of brown—and a wine merchant, arriving at some speed at the curve in the road.

Ah, ahead was Ludgate Hill. I looked over my shoulder. The man was less than thirty feet behind us now. Enough was enough: I would not be cowed by this ruffian. Besides, Weatherly would have either taken the coach past the cart by now or continued on foot.

I stopped and turned to face our shadow. Samuel took up a position at my side, glaring at the man.

“Are you following me?” I demanded.

The man stared belligerently at me.

The answer came from behind us. “I am, indeed, Lady Augusta.”

I swung around to face another man. Where had he come from?

I took in sandy hair, red whiskers, and no slouch in sight, but rather the bearing of a man who knew his own power. If his comrade was a middleweight, then this man was a heavyweight with the imposing height to match. It seemed Mulholland had finally made his appearance.

The street behind him was empty of pedestrians, but up ahead another man blocked the way of a lady and gentleman attempting to enter the street from Ludgate Hill. Indistinguishable words were exchanged and the couple scurried away, alarm in every line of their bodies. Dear God, the man was stopping anyone from entering.

We were trapped.

The realization made me step back.

“I do not believe we are acquainted. Who are you?” I demanded. At least my voice did not quaver.

The man inclined his head, an ironic gesture of courtesy. “I am James Mulholland, but I think you know that.”

“What do you want?”