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By Root 721 0

and writing reports in order to lobby for change; he had not expected her to spend time with the Bedlamites, or to be so openly affectionate with them. As Pyke had watched Emily perch on the edge of an elderly woman’s bed and stroke her bony visage, he had thought about her deceased mother and how much, if anything, Emily knew about her fall from sanity and Edmonton’s role in orchestrating her removal to an asylum. Even from a distance, her warmth of character was impossible not to notice, but her good intentions carried a hidden cost. In an alley next to the asylum, she had produced a small flask from under her shawl and, unseen by everyone, except for Pyke, pressed it to her lips and drunk. Startled by the sudden arrival of her carriage, Emily had discarded the flask in a nearby bush. Later, Pyke retrieved it and discovered its content to be gin: something that surprised and pleased him. She was as flawed and vulnerable as everyone else.

Pyke surveyed the charities that were to benefit from the event and the list of people who would be attending the function on their behalf in the performance notes. Emily Blackwood was described as Lord Edmonton’s daughter, reminding him of Emily’s association with the aristocrat. He wondered how much she knew.

Ten minutes after the performance had started, Pyke vacated his seat in the stalls and ascended the theatre’s main staircase from the lobby to the circle. He found a bored attendant and instructed him to deliver an urgent note to a lady seated in one of the boxes. He described Emily and handed him the note, together with a guinea coin.

He felt out of place in such a setting, as though it was as clear to everyone else as it was to him that he did not belong there. He had been more comfortable firing blunderbuss ball shot into a crowded tavern surrounded by some of the city’s most violent criminals than he did in such esteemed surroundings.

It was fifteen minutes before he heard footsteps glide across the carpet over the muffled sounds of soprano and tenor voices reverberating throughout the theatre. As Emily walked towards him, her hips moved gracefully under her dress. When he stepped out of the shadows and approached her, she jumped slightly, as though she had not actually expected it to be him, and it took her a few moments to recover her composure. Pyke took her hand and led her to the female cloakroom.

Alone, in the dimness of the room, they contemplated each other without speaking. He felt his jaw tighten as he took in the whiteness of her neck, her sculpted cheekbones, her gloved hands and smoky eyes. Pyke was about to say something when she reached out and pressed her index finger lightly against his lips. He felt his throat tighten in anticipation but it was she, rather than he, who stepped forward into the space between them and raised her neck to meet his stare, their lips practically touching.

‘All of your lovely hair . . .’ She brushed her fingertips across his freshly shaven head.

Pyke shrugged. He had cut it with a razor even before he had left for Ireland. ‘I had to see you.’

‘We cannot talk here,’ she whispered, her eyes never once leaving his.

‘If not here, then where?’ He did not want her to visit him in a place as sordid as the Old Cock tavern.

Her eyes filled. ‘I thought you might be dead.’

Gently, he took her hand. She made no effort to resist his overture. ‘I wondered if I would see you again.’

‘Where are you staying?’ Her fingers coiled around his thumb.

Pyke opened his palm and allowed her to trace a line down it with her little finger. He told her about his garret.

‘My father owns a town house in Islington. On rare occasions, he permits me to use it, if I have to attend social occasions late in the evening.’ She gave him the address. ‘Will you meet me there after ten? There’s a gate at the side. Come around to the back door and knock twice.’

The desire to kiss her was now so intense that Pyke could barely restrain himself, but Emily acted before he had the opportunity and withdrew; nor would her stare meet his. Later, as he thought about what