A bark then a howl pierce the air, made more ominous by distant clanks of a can. My heeled shoes, given the wet, uneven pavement—and yes, caution over being foolish—restrain me from a sprint. He could simply be hurrying due to the weather and addressing someone I failed to see. Or maybe he’s a drunkard speaking with nobody in particular.

The latter brings minimal comfort.

On both sides of the street, blackout shades and drapes obscure views from apartments. If I were to scream, would anyone rush to help?

Three long blocks remain until my boardinghouse. No other soul in view. Save for the man who just rounded the corner. Once more in my wake. Closing the distance.

Chapter 5

“Miss, wait,” the man calls from behind. Then more insistent: “Miss Vos!”

I startle at my name before relief seeps in, slowing my steps. He knows me.

But then I recall my name printed on posters at the theater, making it less likely that he’s an acquaintance than a zealous fan. Flattering, if he wasn’t following me home—and home, thank goodness, is quite nearly where I am.

“Please, I mean you no harm!” His breathless voice holds urgent sincerity. Moreover, it’s softened by a British accent that, warranted or not, lowers my perception of danger. Enough anyhow to draw me to a stop, though with caution.

“My apologies if I caused you a fright.” He allows a buffer of space and raises a gloved hand. “A moment, if you will…” Mildly panting, he blows out a breath. His spectacles, perched on a sturdy nose and flecked with rain, obscure his eyes. “Sadly, I am no longer the spry lad I once was.”

Indeed, he looks to be in his fifties, with a tweed suit and checkered bow tie peeking from his overcoat. At this proximity, his face is familiar but unplaceable.

As his breathing settles, I press, “Sir, have we met before?”

“We have not, I regret to say.” He extends a hand. “Christopher Clayton Hutton.”

I retract out of instinct, which he appears to understand. “How may I help you?”

“My hope,” he says, “is that we might help each other. First, may I ask, is there somewhere dry you would prefer to speak?”

Raindrops slide down my legs, rousing goose bumps. But it’s after nine, thus any cafés within a block are closed for the night. And my boardinghouse is decidedly not an option.

I fold my arms snug to my chest. “Right here will do just fine, thank you.”

He gives a nod. “Quite.”

Then he removes his glasses, revealing steeply arched brows, and glances swiftly about before continuing. His affirmation of our privacy only adds to my discomfort.

“Miss Vos, I have a prospect that I believe will pique your interest. It’s of my firm opinion, you see, that your unique and innovative skills should be utilized for a grander purpose than amusement on a stage.”