WE STOPPED A mile outside Temple Brook and stepped upon the moonlit road leading to Rutledge’s country estate. The rushing breath of the ocean lapping onto jagged stones greeted us as we removed lanterns and other provisions from our carriage’s boot. An icy wind kicked up as Shen dug into his flush pockets and paid our driver a handsome sum to wait here for us until morning. I turned to Adelaide and made one final appeal.
“Miss Owen—Adelaide—this is far too dangerous,” I told her. “Even young Dodger saw the sense in staying behind. Take the carriages and go, I beg you.”
“And Ebenezer Scrooge is not one to beg,” she said distantly, her gaze fixing on a reddish glow in the distance and the sounds of revelry accompanying them. “Not even if the hounds of hell were scratching at his door. Why
