“I’d need to know the weight and type of explosive.” Ian still rocked but it slowed. “From the smell, dynamite, a few sticks. The package he had was small.”

“We need to go back and get the bastard,” Hart said. “In case he has another stick.”

“He died,” Ian said. “He did not walk away from the bomb. He lit it and stayed with it.”

“Dear God, save us from madmen.” Hart scrambled to his hands and knees again and tried to get to his feet, swallowing a curse when his head cracked on a low, stone ceiling. He fell, his head spinning. It wouldn’t stop spinning.

Ian pushed Hart back down. “Five feet of clearance until we reach the storm platform.”

“How the devil do you know that?” Hart asked.

“I learned the schematics of the tunnels under London. Water pipes, storm drains, rivers, gas lines, the London Metropolitan…”

“Yes, yes, of course you did. The question is why.”

There was more silence as Ian considered. “To pass the time.”

He meant the time before he’d met Beth, when Ian’s life had been tedious.

“I’ll put myself into your hands, Ian. Where is this storm platform?”

Ian took Hart’s hand and pulled it in front of him to indicate direction. “That way.”

Hart rubbed his head where he’d smashed it against bricks. He still couldn’t make this dark world stop spinning. “All right. Lead me.”

They had to crawl. As soon as Hart began to move, bile rose in his throat, and dizziness threatened to cripple him.

Thankfully, after about ten yards or so, the tunnel rose a bit, and they could stand. Hart and Ian still had to bend their backs, the round ceiling low above them, but no more going on hands and knees.

Ian led Hart onward, Hart hanging on to the back of Ian’s coat as they splashed through icy water. Hart’s hands were cut and bleeding, and his head pounded like fury.

The only thing that kept Hart going was the image of Eleanor disappearing behind a cloud of rubble and dust. He had to find her, to make sure she was all right. That burning need propelled him onward.

Ian straightened to his full height in front of Hart, and a step later, Hart could too.

The echoes broadened, meaning that the ceiling had vaulted upward, and the air smelled almost fresh. A light, so faint as to be barely a light, came from Hart’s right. After the complete darkness of the tunnel, it seemed bright.

“Storm drain,” Ian said, gesturing to the light. “This one empties into the Fleet.”

The Fleet River had been covered, partly or completely, for centuries. It was mostly a sewer now, pouring into the Thames after heavy rains via drains like this one.

“How do we get out?” Hart asked. “The hell I’m going to float myself down the filthy Fleet and get stuck halfway in a storm grating.”

“Shafts go up to the streets,” Ian said. “But not here.”

Of course not. “Where, then?”

“Through the tunnels,” Ian said. “A mile, maybe more.”

Hart swallowed on dryness. Ian’s face was a pale smudge in the darkness, but Hart could see little beyond that. “Give me the flask again.”

Wordlessly Ian put the flask of whiskey into Hart’s hand, and Hart upended more single malt into his mouth. It was ambrosia, though he’d love a clear glass of water.

Hart gave the flask back to Ian, and Ian pocketed it without drinking. “This way,” he said.

Hart took two steps to follow him, then his legs buckled. He found himself on bare floor, retching again. His head was spinning like a gyroscope.

Ian was next to him. “In the explosion, something hit you in the head,” Ian said.

Hart gasped for breath. “Very perceptive of you, Ian.”

Ian went quiet, but Hart knew him well enough to know that thoughts were moving through Ian’s head at lightning speed while he tried to decide what to do.

“If we go slowly, I can make it,” Hart said.

“If we are too slow, we can’t outrun the water. Or the gasses.”

“I don’t see that we have a bloody choice.” Hart hung on to Ian as his younger brother leveraged Hart to his feet. The dizziness made everything go black for a moment. “Wait.”

Hart felt his feet leave the ground as Ian hoisted Hart onto his back. Without a word, they started moving, slowly, Hart hanging on as Ian carried him out.

He knew he’d never convince Ian to leave him behind and go for help. When Ian fixed on a course, all the reasoning in the world couldn’t move him. Just as well. Hart did not want to be down here alone, in any case.

The sudden echoing roar was their only warning. Rains north of the city had raised the level of the water, and now it poured into the round pipes, rising over the weirs, to flow through the storm drains and down into the rivers.

Ian yelled, his words incoherent, as he lifted Hart up and shoved him onto a tall slab of stone next to the weir. The rocks were slippery, and Hart scrambled to hold on and stay awake at the same time.

Water poured into the tunnel. In the faint light, soon obliterated by water, Hart saw his brother be swept from his feet and carried at breakneck speed away from him.

“Ian!” Hart screamed. “Ian!”

His words were lost in the water. For an age it pulsed through swirling waters in the darkness. Ian had been swept the other way, caught in a surge that went back into the round tunnels. But the tunnels were full to the top.

“Ian!” Hart shouted.

After a long, heartbreakingly long time, the waters receded. When it had reduced to a foot flowing on the floor below him, Hart slid down from his perch. His head pounded, and he fell, landing in the freezing cold water.

He would die in here. Ian could already be dead.

The light vanished. Hart had no way of knowing if debris in the water had blocked the drain or whether the sun was going down outside. Or maybe it was his eyes closing.

The next thing Hart knew, someone kicked him.

“This ’ere’s my patch,” a man said. “What you doing on it?”

Hart peeled open his eyes. A lantern swung in front of his face, blinding him, and the pounding in his head soared to sickening levels.

“You know the way out?” Hart asked. His voice came out a croak, barely audible.

“Lost, are ye? That’s what ye get for being on my patch. What did ye take?”

“Show me the way out. I’ll pay you.”

The man thrust his hand inside Hart’s coat and came out again, empty. “Seems like you don’t have nothing.”

Between the blast, the fall, the desperate crawling, and the flood, Hart was surprised his clothes hadn’t shredded. His money pouch must have fallen out somewhere along the way.

“When you get me out, I’ll pay.”

“Right,” the man said.

Hart saw his boot draw back, tried to grab it as it came down, but his dizziness made him clumsy. The boot struck Hart’s face, and then everything went dark again.


Eleanor was back at the Grosvenor Square house with the rest of the family by the time darkness fell. Mr. Fellows and all the police in London had searched, but they’d found no sign of either Hart or Ian.

Cameron was there, summoned from Berkshire by telegram, and Daniel telegraphed to say he was on his way. Mac and Cameron were about to tear the city apart. Eleanor paced the front rooms, unable to sit down. Beth perched on the edge of a chair, just as jumpy as Eleanor.

“We have to do something,” Beth was saying.

Eleanor couldn’t answer. She wanted to rush through the streets, turning over every stone until she found Hart. Inspector Fellows and his men had explored the service tunnels under Euston station, but had found nothing. Fellows was here now, in the dining room with Cam and Mac.

Eleanor glanced out the window, but not much could be seen in the heavy fog, barely penetrated by the gaslights on the square. She felt numb, sickeningly so. This can’t be real. He’ll come striding home, deriding us all for worrying.

Beth joined her at the window, her arm around Eleanor’s waist. Two women, watching and waiting for their beloved men who might never come home again.

Beth stiffened suddenly, a small gasp emitting from her mouth. She was staring straight into the fog, intense and alert. Eleanor tried to see what she did, but the fog remained dense.

“What is it?”

Beth didn’t answer. She broke away from Eleanor and rushed out of the room and down the stairs.

Beth flung open the front door and ran straight into the night, Eleanor after her, Ainsley and Isabella and the men following to see what was the matter. With a cry of joy, Beth launched herself at the giant of a man who materialized out of the fog and opened his arms to sweep her into them.

“Ian!” Eleanor shouted. “It’s Ian!” she called back to the others.

Ian looked terrible. He was covered from head to foot in mud and slime, his face coated with it, but his eyes shone like golden fire. Beth held on to him, tears streaming down her face.

Eleanor reached them. “Dear heavens, Ian,” she asked breathlessly. “What happened to you? Where is Hart?”

Ian kept his arms around Beth, but he looked at Eleanor. “Come with me,” he said. “Come with me.”

He started off, Beth at his side. Eleanor did not bother to ask questions. She hurried after him, calling for the others to come.

Fellows and Mac caught up to them as they reached Grosvenor Street. “Ian, what are you doing?” Mac demanded.

“He’s taking us to Hart,” Eleanor said. Ian hadn’t said so, but she knew. “Where, Ian?”

Ian pointed, vaguely north and east.

“At least wait for a coach,” Mac said. “Cameron’s bringing it.”