Chapter Eighteen
Perry sat at his window as night fell. The setting sun painted the haze of coal smoke above London an intense, burning orange that faded slowly into gray and then black. He lit a candle, opened the book he was reading—a gothic novel from the circulating library—and waited for Lady Violet to appear.
If his scalp gave him warning, he didn’t notice it. He was deep in a scene involving a dungeon and a sinister monk when something loomed at his window. He almost fell off his chair. He did drop the book.
“I beg your pardon,” Lady Violet said, while he fumbled on the floor for the novel. She perched on the windowsill and removed her mask. “What happened? What did Lord Abbishaw say?”
“He didn’t believe me.” Perry assured himself that none of the pages were torn and put the boo
