Chapter 2 - The Midnight Escape
The sound of iron carriage rims grinding against wet cobblestones outside left no room for vanity.
My father’s voice echoed across the years: The truth always has enemies, and the enemies always have carriages. I didn't reach for Julian Thorne's hand. Instead, I dropped the composing stick, dropped to my knees beside the base of the press, and pulled up the loose stone. Beneath lay my father’s original leather notebook, along with my own thick, ink-stained ledger containing six years of verified transactions, witnesses, and names.
I thrust the ledger into the hidden inner pocket of my woolen cloak.
""Sensible girl,"" Julian remarked, his voice steady even as the heavy wood of my front door upstairs shuddered beneath the first dull thud of an iron boot.
""I am not your girl,"" I whispered, rising quickly. ""The cellar has no rear exit. The only grate leads out to the pavement directly in front of the house.""
""A common misconception among tenants,"" Julian said smoothly. He walked past my printing table, completely disregarding my glare, and pushed aside a rickety stack of dry paper crates against the far northern wall. Behind them sat an ancient coal chute, rusted at the hinges and caked in decades of black dust.
Julian pulled a small iron crowbar from beneath his greatcoat, jammed it into the padlocked seam, and wrenched downward with a single, violent burst of leverage. The old lock sheared off with a sharp crack.
Upstairs, the front door gave way. Heavy glass shattered in the parlor. Footsteps slammed into the hallway above our heads, followed by the pungent, chemical stench of cheap turpentine pouring across the pine floorboards.
""Ladies first,"" Julian said, offering a mocking bow. ""Unless you have sentimental attachments to your parlor furniture.""
""My father built that press,"" I choked out, looking back at the dark, gleaming iron machine that had anchored my entire existence since childhood. It felt like tearing away an arm.
Julian’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second, his aristocratic arrogance yielding to a surprising, grounded gravity. ""You are the press, Miss March. The iron is merely metal. Now climb.""
I shoved my skirts between my knees, caught the edges of the narrow chute, and pulled myself upward into the dark. The brick shaft was steep and scraped my elbows, smelling of soot and cold damp, but I clawed forward until my fingers found the iron street-level trapdoor. I shoved it upward into the icy night air and tumbled out into the narrow, filthy alley behind the square.
A heartbeat later, Julian vaulted out of the chute with effortless athletic grace, shutting the iron flap quietly behind him.
Less than ten seconds later, an orange flash erupted through the lower windows of my house. Smoke began curling out into the midnight sky, black and thick, carrying the sickening smell of burning ink and paper. My throat tightened until I couldn't breathe. Everything I owned, every spare sheet of paper, every piece of lead type my father had polished by hand, was turning to ash.
""Keep moving,"" Julian commanded, his hand clamping around my elbow with unyielding firmness. ""Grief later. Distance now.""
He guided me down the shadowy labyrinth of the alleyway. At the corner of the cross street sat a sleek, unmarked black carriage, devoid of crests or heraldry, drawn by two magnificent jet-black geldings. A driver dressed in nondescript dark wool leaned down, whip already in hand.
Julian opened the carriage door, tossed me inside onto the deep velvet upholstery, and swung himself up into the seat across from me.
""Kensington,"" Julian barked through the front hatch.
The carriage lurched forward with neck-snapping speed, the horses breaking into a hard, furious gallop. I pressed my face against the small, curtained window, watching the distant orange glow of my home fade into the London fog. Tears pricked my eyes, hot and furious, but I refused to let a single one spill onto my cheeks in front of this arrogant man.
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Across the carriage, Julian Thorne leaned back into the shadows, removing his leather gloves finger by finger. The faint interior lantern revealed the razor-sharp contours of his cheekbones and the calculating intensity behind his slate-gray eyes.
""Now then,"" Julian said, his voice as casually composed as if we were taking afternoon tea in Mayfair. ""Now that we have successfully avoided incineration, let us discuss how you are going to help me destroy the rest of the British aristocracy.""
