Louis does not question the unlikely location but taps his cane on the glass in front of us and instructs the driver as I have asked. We swerve violently to make a sharp left turn, and I notice a motor cab behind us doing the same thing. I watch for a moment and am certain it is following us.

Three men, my lady.

My Cavaliers have seen it, too.

Who are they?

We cannot say. But they are dangerous men. And they are armed, mistress.

Stricklend has sent them, I am certain of it. He means us to lead him to Freddie.

I lean forward and call to the driver. “Please, you must go faster. Turn here, yes, this little street. It will lead us where we want to go.” From the corner of my eye I notice Louis regarding me with astonishment, no doubt puzzled by my acquaintance with the route to such a place. The car turns again, just as quickly, throwing me against Louis. He steadies me, but does not use the moment, as he surely would have only yesterday, to hold me close or kiss my hand. Through the rear window I see we still have not rid ourselves of our unwanted escort. I am anxious that we do not play into the Sentinels’ hands, but we have no choice. We must find Freddie.

I continue to give directions as we leave the district of Westminster and travel east through Holborn and toward the docklands. Passing the Fenwick clock tower I notice it is nearly one o’clock. An hour after I should have met Bram at St. Pancras station. How long did he wait for me? What must he think of me now? After all the tumultuous events of the night, it is the thought of how badly I have treated Bram that brings unwelcome tears to my eyes. Will he forgive me? Could I ever make him understand? I cannot see how.

We leave the more prosperous areas, and soon Louis’s fine automobile stands out as something ostentatiously expensive against the drab backdrop of the grimy terraces and warehouses. The sun shines here just as brightly as it does in Fitzrovia and Bloomsbury, but that light is sucked into the dullness of the dark brick and stone of these mean, dirty streets. The colors are dulled with grit and poverty. The clothes people wear seem a uniform of drudgery and utility, save for the occasional scarlet ribbon or gaudy petticoat on show from women of a certain type still plying their trade on street corners.

“Are you sure your brother would come here?”

I nod sadly. “It is the only place he could come. Tell the driver to stop. We shouldn’t take your motorcar farther, and anyway, the lanes will soon be too narrow and rough for it.”