No, he wouldn’t, even though Jack could hug her for it. This was his fault, as well. If he hadn’t threatened Blackhurst over Mila, the bastard might have forgotten about her, or at least lost interest eventually, but now that he knew she was important to Jack, she was that much more attractive to the lech. He’d be that much meaner to Mila knowing that Jack cared about her.

The thought of that man touching her... He ground his teeth as he strode stiffly to the cabinet where he kept his Aether pistols. “Stay here.” Gone was all pretense of cockney. He yanked the door to the cabinet open and removed both pistols, checking to make sure both were fully charged. “If I’m not back in an hour call the authorities.”

“The authorities?” Obviously that distressed her more than the sight of the weapons. “Jack, what do you mean to do?”

“I’m going to make certain Blackhurst doesn’t hurt another woman ever again.” He fastened the holsters for the pistols around his hips and cinched the belt snugly. “You’ll be safe here.”

“Jack, I got something from his safe you need to see.”

He grabbed his coat. “Later.”

“No, Jack.” Gone was that waifish tone, replaced by one of sheer determination. “You need to see this now.”

Jack stopped at the door, and turned his head toward her. Bruised and disheveled, she faced him with a grim countenance as she held out a folded piece of yellowed paper. He snatched it from her fingers and opened it. His gaze skimmed over words that his brain struggled to make sense of, even though he was fully capable of comprehending them.

Blood drained from his face and dropped to his feet. For a moment he thought he might do something embarrassingly foolish like pass out. “Where did you get this?” His voice was a hoarse rasp.

Gracie’s eyes were full of sympathy, perhaps even pity. “Blackhurst’s safe. That is your mother’s name on the paper, isn’t it?”

Jack nodded, his fingers holding the page so tight they crumpled the edges. “You don’t tell anyone about this, Gracie. Do you understand? No one can ever know.”

She frowned, clearly not understanding at all. “But, Jack—”

“No one. Ever. Give me your word.” He pushed a little persuasion behind the words, let his will shine in his eyes. In a second, Gracie took on that slightly dazed look of someone open to whatever suggestion he had to make.

“I swear to tell no one. On my honor.”

Jack didn’t like using his abilities on people he liked, and using them on Gracie after all she’d been through seemed a tad callous, but it was necessary. “That’s a good girl. Now, go on upstairs and run yourself a bath. Use my tub. What are you going to do if I’m not back in an hour?”

She was still a little dazed. “Send for the authorities.”

He kissed her forehead. “Off with you now.” He only spared a moment to make certain she was off to do as he instructed before yanking open the door and stepping out into the dwindling night. Blood pumped wildly through his veins as he fought to control his emotions. He couldn’t lose himself. He had to remain focused and calm, but damn his eyes if it wasn’t almost impossible at that moment.

Behind his house was a somewhat run-down-looking shed. In actuality it was a rather sturdy structure that concealed an even larger one where he kept his vehicles. Everyone in Whitechapel knew that stealing from him would be a mistake they’d only make once, but Jack didn’t see the point in flaunting how well his business paid, nor was he an enthusiastic tempter of fate.

He chose his glinting black-and-brass velocycle—a sleek two-wheeled machine that could easily maneuver through traffic and navigate narrow alleyways and tight spaces. It was going to be necessary for him to do just that. He swung a leg over the seat and started the machine’s engine—it came to life with a powerful roar. Gripping the steering bars, Jack took his feet off the ground and leaped forward.

The velocycle hugged the cobblestones as it sped through the streets of Whitechapel. Jack wove in and out of traffic—and pedestrians. He narrowly avoided an old drunk who shouted obscenities at him as he whipped past. People screamed and jumped out of his way as he steered the machine down the steep steps of the Aldgate East underground entrance. He sped down the platform, rose up on the footrests, out of the seat and pulled the steering bars up. The velocycle leaped from the platform onto the dark track, its headlamp illuminating the long stretch ahead. Rats scattered as the wheels spun up debris as they grasped for purchase.

Jack knew every inch of London. He’d made it his business to know the city like the back of his own hand. He drove west to Moorgate, then swerved to the left toward the Bank stop. From there he continued west, rushing headlong into another long tunnel—an almost straight line to Oxford Circus. He pushed the velocycle as fast it could go. The goggles he wore prevented his eyes from watering as he bent low over the bars, but the wind tore at his hair and tried to tear his coat right off.

A lucky bit of debris—some old crates tossed over the side of the track—at his desired station formed a makeshift ramp that made it easier to jump the machine up onto the platform at Oxford Circus. People shouted when he emerged from the station—driving straight up the stairs as if he were escaping from hell with the devil hot on his heels. He swerved to miss a carriage and almost toppled over, his leg scraped the street before he managed to get upright once more.

From there it was a short drive into Mayfair to where Blackhurst lived—not far from King House. He drove over the mechanism to open the gate and sped straight up the drive to the front steps. He steadied the velocycle, disengaged the engine and jumped off. He ran up the steps and tried to open the door. Locked. Jack stepped back and threw himself at the heavy oak, but he bounced off it like a child’s ball.

He swore—profusely.

“Move.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder at the familiar voice. It was Sam Morgan—and the rest of the Duke of Greythorne’s little family, minus the duke, of course. Even Finley was in attendance. “What are you lot doing here?”

“Same as you,” Finley answered. “We heard a friend might be in trouble. Your trying to break down an earl’s door proves it. Step aside, Jack. Sam’s been dying to break something.”

The big lad grinned, and Jack immediately stepped out of his way. “Be quick about it.”

Morgan walked up the steps, lifted one foot and kicked. The door flew into the house, through the foyer, across the front hall and partway up the stairs. A footman yelped in surprise.

“Nice,” Jack praised, stepping in front of the young man to cross the threshold. He pushed the footman aside when he tried to engage them. Finley or Morgan punched the man in his already-bruised face and knocked him out. Jack didn’t feel the least bit sorry for the fellow, as he was obviously one of the ones who had tangled with Mila.

“Where is she?” Jack asked, going still. It was a big house. He turned to Wildcat, who was already sniffing the air.

“Upstairs,” the girl said, and took the lead. It was little disconcerting to see her drop to all fours and bound up the staircase like a human-cat creature. Jack ran after her, the rest giving chase. At the top of the stairs she’d barely paused to sniff again before leaping to the left. She stopped at a door almost at the end, poised in a crouch, her mouth slightly open as though tasting the air. Her fangs gleamed.

“In there,” she murmured, pointing. “But it smells like trouble.”

There was an odd mechanical lock on the door—the kind that required a punch card and a numerical code. If the wrong sequence was entered, or if someone tried to break the lock, it was rigged to spray acid outward in a wide arc. There were nozzles along the top of the door, as well, so that the spray was guaranteed to strike its target.

“Get back,” Morgan instructed. “I’ll heal.”

The tiny little Irish girl stepped up. “Or, you could let me do it.”

Immediately the tall fellow moved back, but he didn’t stray far from her. Jack knew if something went wrong, Morgan would throw himself on her to prevent her from getting sprayed. That was loyalty. That was love.

Kind of like risking hanging for murder to save a girl. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about. “Just open the bloody door.”

The fact that no one had opened it—or that no staff had come to see what was going on was unsettling enough, but then his father was the sort of master whose wrath was to be avoided. He needed to find Mila and get her out of there. Now.

The redhead placed her palms against the wide metal plating of the lock and closed her eyes. Within seconds Jack heard clicks and groans as the mechanism inside did as she bid. He arched a brow. She was a handy little girl to have around. There was one final click and she dropped her hands. “Go ahead.”

Jack turned the knob and pushed. The door swung open and he ran inside. He skidded to an immediate halt. The room was obviously a bedroom, but it had a small fighting ring in one corner. In that ring were Blackhurst and Mila. His father wore only his trousers and Mila was in her corset and shift. They were sparring, and there was no doubt that Mila held back because Blackhurst was still standing. Not far from the ring a footman stood with his arm around the neck of the woman from the boardinghouse, a pistol to her head.

“What the tarnation...?” Jasper Renn asked.

Jack reached for one of his own pistols, but the footman jerked the woman toward them. “Don’t.”

The sparring stopped. Mila looked at Jack as though she couldn’t believe it was him. When she tried to leave the ring Blackhurst stopped her.