He stalked around the room, pinching his nose when he spotted my sick, then came back to stand in front of me. "He tells me you have not yet answered any of his questions."

I went to stand, but he poked his walking stick into my shoulder. "Stay."

"I am not a dog," I spat.

His top lip curled up. "No. A dog would do as his master bid and be thankful for what he's been given. People like you are fit only for picking up the shit of dogs."

Charming fellow, although hearing "shit" said in his toff accent was quite amusing. Stringer and the others would laugh if I mimicked this conversation for them.

"Where is the girl?" he asked.

"I already told Mr. Fitzroy, I don't know no girls, I ain't got no relatives, and I don't know what happened in no prison cell. My answers ain't changed."

"Not yet."

"Huh?"

His top lip curled again and he circled me slowly. He didn't lean on his stick, and I wondered why he carried it. It was part of his nobleman's image, I supposed, like the accent and sneer. "Fitzroy is too lenient this time," he said quietly, as if speaking to himself. "I do not pretend to understand why, when a good beating ought to produce answers. He rarely shows mercy, so why start now?"

I gulped. "Where is Mr. Fitzroy?"

"I will ask the questions. Where are you from? Who are your parents?"

I swiveled to keep him in my sights.

His face turned pink then a mottled red, and his lips quivered. "Answer me!"

I clenched my jaw and held the man's gaze with my own. I would not let him intimidate me. He might be a lord, but he wasn't my master. "Buckingham Palace, and her majesty the queen. I call her Mum."

The walking stick smacked across my back. I arched forward and gasped as hot pain bloomed. I gathered my nerves and steadied my breathing to control the agony. If I let it rule me, I would give in, and I didn't want to give in to this man. I went to stand, but he shoved me so hard with his boot that I fell onto my side. I scrambled away, but he followed me, stick raised. Glacial eyes pinned me to the carpet as thoroughly as his boot did.

"I'll ask again," he snarled. "Where are you from and who are your parents?"

I hesitated, trying to think of the ramifications if I told him the truth about my Tufnell Park home and Father. But I couldn't think. The fierce pumping of blood through my veins and the knot of anxiety in my stomach were playing havoc with my mind.

He raised the stick again and I braced myself. It cracked across my shoulder with bruising force. He raised it again and I scampered further, only to hit the wall. Gillingham stalked toward me like a hunter tracking his prey. With a gleam in his eye, he brought the cane down on me again. And again. And again.