Countess Alina Bronskaya downed a glass of champagne and scanned the crowded ballroom. The chandelier lights were blinding but failed to erase the images of blood that still flickered in her mind like pictures in a horror book.
Blood.
A limp body on the ground.
And him—the dark shadow looming over her.
"Are you all right?"
Alina inhaled deeply, trying to calm the tremors in her body.
Adorned in gold and white and decorated with an extraordinary amount of fresh flowers, the ballroom was one of London's finest. Simmering in sparkling splendor and late August warmth, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the crowded terrace, illuminated brightly by dozens of lanterns.
It was much too late, and the ball was already in full swing.
Alina hadn't had time to properly prepare for the party. No bath. No creams. Barely any makeup. Her hair had smelled of chloride and burnt coal when she'd gotten home, and she had to brush the so-hated pomade into it.
"The dress! Quick!" she had hurried her maid, Martha, who scrambled with laces and jewelry.
Alina had doused herself with perfume to disguise the traces of medication stench and rushed out of the house.
Her heart still raced at the memories, but champagne helped as she scanned the crowded room. So did the loud music, drowning the sound of the shadow's low voice in her head.
"Are you able to walk?"
Ladies and lords, stuffed into silks and feathers and excessive jewelry, were quite tipsy. Orchestra music laced with laughter and loud chatter vibrated through the ballroom crowded with powdered faces.
Lady Amstel's balls were jolly affairs even after the Season. But the wealthy could smell "poor." And Alina's work was cheap indeed—in St Rose's hospital on the edge of St. Giles, the invisible line that separated the very poor and the more fortunate.
Her mother, Anna Yakovlevna Kameneva, floated toward her with a well-practiced smile that hid disdain, her cold eyes sweeping up and down Alina's dress.
"You look like a merchant's daughter," her mother murmured with a thick Russian accent, the giant ruby necklace adorning her neck hissing with its devilish sparkle. "Could you not think of anything better to wear?"
She squinted in reproach at her daughter's modest topaz choker and shifted to stand next to her, facing the crowded room. Her lavish burgundy dress was like a bouquet of flowers compared to Alina's simple light-green evening gown, worn twice in a row in the last month. Anna Yakovlevna was the best example of true Russian nobility with its flair for chic and overbearing displays of wealth, be it jewelry or furs or golden goblets at their house parties.
"The Duke of Ravenaugh and Viscount of Leigh are here," she said in a low voice as she scanned the room.
Old news.
Alina rolled her eyes but made an effort to straighten her shoulders. "They only come to bask in the glory of everyone's admiration," she said indifferently.
She glanced at her arms to make sure there were no traces of blood. She couldn't quite remember the precise sequence of events back at St Rose's. Only the attack and then the dark shadow looming over her and offering his hand.
Shaking off the memories that had set her heart pounding again, she returned her gaze to the pompous crowd.
A gathering of vices and titles. Including her.
She despised how everyone bowed to the titles. How unwed women nervously clutched their fans and adjusted too-willing expressions as they put themselves out on display for potential suitors. How the wealthiest boomed with laughter and blinked slowly, not hiding their contempt, and the less powerful trembled in trepidation at their every word.
"They are something to aspire to," interjected Anna Yakovlevna.
"Pride and gluttony, perhaps," murmured Alina and snatched another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. The pleasant fizzy liquid made its way down her throat, soothing her nerves, and she opened her fan, trying to cool her burning face.
Her mother flicked her fan angrily and hissed, "If only you were interested in suitors more than homeless invalids."
"Mamá…" Alina waved her away in annoyance, having heard those words too many times.
"Quarreling again?" a soft voice came from behind them, making Alina turn to see her father.
Thank the Lord.
Nikolai Sergeevich Kamenev walked up to them. His lips were hidden by his thick mustache and beard, but his kind eyes smiled at his daughter. Her mother was a ferocious talker. Her father was a humble listener. It was a match made in heaven.
"Mamá is scolding me again. Papá, please, tell her."
"Oh, the advocate!" said Anna Yakovlevna with sarcasm, then added in Russian, "Ostanetsia v devkah—budesh na starosti let plakat', chto net potomkov."
As usual, she grumbled at him for standing up for his daughter, who wouldn't give them heirs, he smiled kindly, met Alina's apologetic gaze, and winked at her. He was a shield between Alina and her mother, taking all the blows.
The exhausting notes of a waltz drifted across the room. Alina swept a glance at the self-important faces, gowns and suits, skirts and frocks. Alcohol slowly dissolved the noble manners. Lady Boarberry had gathered a number of men around her, cackling too loudly at the jokes as her young unwed daughter sweated away on the dance floor with the dozenth potential suitor. The ballroom was stuffy. The fans flicked with the speed of snakes' tongues.
The image of blood flickered in Alina's mind again. She closed her eyes just for a moment and shook her head, trying to shake it away.
"Sir John!" Anna Yakovlevna exclaimed, elbowing Alina in her ribs.
A short plump man with a red face and sweaty bald head approached, his sly smile aimed at Alina. His nostrils expanded, as if sniffing the air.
Could he smell blood?
Oh, God.
Suddenly, Alina was too aware of herself again. The images of the night street and the dead body flashed in her mind. Panic rose in her like a tide.
She glanced down at her gloved hands, checking them for the dozenth time, though she'd changed the gloves for the ball. And as Sir John took her hand in his paw for a prolonged kiss, she had an urge to pull him away by his bushy sideburns.
A commotion at the door made the boisterous crowd turn their heads.
Samuel Cassell, the Duke of Ravenaugh, and Theo Van Buren, the Viscount of Leigh, entered the room. The two always seemed to show up together. One was sulky and indifferent as if there was no life inside his tall, impressive form. The other one was too talkative and deliberately attentive.
They could pass for brothers. Both wore their dark hair shoulder-length, slicked back and gathered by a tie, against the fashion. Both clean-shaven. Both tall, strong, and dressed impeccably. But while the duke's features were heavy but somewhat duller, the viscount's were sharp and cat-like, his eyes almost always squinting with a playful sparkle.
Alina had been introduced to them before but never gave them a second thought. One was a bore, the other a rake.
She exhaled in relief—at least someone would not pay attention to her.
Sir John Boldon stepped away, his eyes thinning on the two lords. The rest of the crowd whispered too enthusiastically, and a few débutantes straightened their shoulders. Fans in gloved hands started flicking more intensely across the room.
Alina studied her champagne glass with a tiny smirk.
The two titled bachelors in their thirties were the most anticipated catch, though no one had caught them yet. Van Buren, as per rumors, had caught plenty of fish in his net—catch and release. Cassell was a single heir, no family, no interests, wealthy enough to buy half of London but a quiet, boring man who definitely didn't interest Alina.
She wiggled her shoulders, the fabric sticking to her sweaty skin, and took another gulp of champagne that slowly eased her nervousness.
Suddenly, her mother's sharp elbow dug into her side again.
"Oh, my lord," Anna Yakovlevna whispered, lifting her chin and putting on a polite smile. Even her ruby necklace seemed to shine brighter at the sight of the two lords, who were making their way toward them.
Alina cursed in her mind and adjusted her posture, clutching her champagne flute with both hands.
Out of all nights, every man was suddenly paying attention to her while all she wanted was to disappear. Not once after their first introduction had the duke or his friend condescended to talk to her. They seemed like the rest of the ton—careful around the immigrés who'd appeared in London two years ago, giving plenty of reasons for gossiping. Fashion changed faster than the never-ending conversation about the Russian countess who had gotten rid of her husband and fled the country with her family.
Alina had heard all of it before.
"Married at twenty. A widow at twenty-two. She must have poisoned him!" sneered the women who loathed their husbands.
"A Russian spy, perhaps?" said those who dabbled in politics.
"Such beauty often hides folly and bad taste," said those who scrutinized her dresses and jewelry and furs at every party, only to show up at the next one donning the same.
"A black girl at her service. Savages, what else?" said those who passed the laws to suppress the rights of the poor.
"They brought an army of Russian servants with them. They must have been on the run."
Oh, how right was the latter! It was the flight in the middle of the night, with the officers' guns pointing at them—a long journey from the suddenly hostile motherland to a land that looked at them with the suspicion and curiosity of zoo visitors.
And there was Van Buren, making his way through the crowd toward her, his too-intense gaze cutting her confidence down. Cassell followed him, gracefully nodding around and forcing himself to smile.
"Countess!" The viscount smiled, approaching and taking her hand in his.
"My lord." Alina curtseyed. "Your Grace." She attempted a smile at the duke, who kissed her hand without much enthusiasm, while her mother had enough for both of them.
The smell of cologne, polished leather, and cigars enveloped her.
The two men seemed larger than life. Their tall broad figures were like those of Spartans. They might be shallow men, but it was impossible to keep one's eyes off them.
Very few lords possessed true masculine beauty and strength, noble only in their titles. The wealthiest man in London looked like a baked potato with sideburns and a mustache so big and unkept they could hide a village. The famous Duke of Trent, who only months ago had married the prettiest girl, the daughter of an earl, no less, had a belly that could accommodate a brewery, bad breath, and an awful temper, which his new wife could not conceal with all the powder over her bruises.
But these two…
Alina took a deep breath and kept a smile on her face as the gentlemen exchanged pleasantries and well-practiced smiles with her parents.
They emanated power. This close it was intimidating.
The two lords were an example of well-bred nobility and truly aristocratic appearance. Their presence filled the room. No wonder they weren't interested in matrimony. Vanity was the sweetest drug. While mothers threw their daughters at the lords' feet at every function, these two only needed another fix. And the next one.
With exaggerated cheerfulness, Anna Yakovlevna poured compliments over His Grace and his friend. The viscount chuckled with well-disguised condescension while the duke stood like a statue, his hands clasped behind his back as if he didn't care to be here.
Neither did Alina. She wanted the men to leave them alone as the entire room pretended to carry on with their drinks and silly chatter though the women's occasional glances in her direction were as sharp as wasp stingers.
Van Buren's prowling eyes were on Alina again.
"Lady Bronskaya, you look stunning."
Stunning?
Had she misheard, or the lord had just given her a compliment? Was he flirting?
She managed another cold smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Your eyes," Van Buren purred, gazing at her too intensely. "As if you ruined a man."
Her smile froze, and her heart lunged in her chest.
The two men nodded politely, but as they retreated, Van Buren's gaze stayed a little too long on Alina, his eyes glistening intensely.
Tonight had been the first time she hadn't brought Dr. Grevatt, Yegór, or Rumi with her to St Rose's. And then that atrocious thing had happened.
The images flickered in Alina's mind with new force.
The assault by the filthy man on the dark street by the hospital only hours ago.
An angry growl as his hand gripped Alina's arm, pulling her toward him.
The nasty words, "If ye' have no money, ye wou' haf' t'pay in some other way."
His vile face and malicious chuckle, wafting at her with the strongest stench of liquor and something rotting.
His one hand groped her despite her pleas and shouts. His other hand covered her mouth. She summoned all her strength and twisted out of his arms, shoving him away.
Then darkness…
Lost time…
She came back to her senses, realizing she sat on the ground against the fence. Looking around, she saw the attacker's motionless body, his head rimmed in blood, more blood soaking his chest.
No-no-no-no-no…
How?
Dark, almost black in the dark of night, the blood suddenly flickered bright red in the lamp of the passing carriage. Why his chest?
No-no-no.
And then the low voice came from the darkness.
"Are you all right?"
A shadow, like the devil himself, bent over her, stretching its hand.
A long black leather coat. A top hat with that signature red tassel that everyone in the poorest parts of London knew. Black hair down to his shoulders. The round tinted spectacles flickering like vicious glares.
"Can you stand up?" the soft deep voice asked, the black gloved hand still outstretched toward her.
Her stomach turned icy-cold. Her heart thudded so loudly that it seemed to rip through her chest. She gaped at him, trying in vain to discern his features in the dark.
He looked just like they described him in the stories whispered for years, hailing the hero of the poor, and in the headlines of the Gazette that detailed the gruesome crimes committed in the name of justice.
Alina swallowed hard and by reflex put her hand into his. He effortlessly pulled her up to her feet.
A head taller than her, he seemed like a giant. She forgot to breathe and forgot about the man on the ground, instead staring up at the darkness clad in black.
A killer.
A villain.
A legend.
"I am afraid I had to take care of your little problem," said the voice, deep but soothing.
The air seemed to still around them.
Take care?
Her heart thudded violently, making her knees weak.
No, she wasn't dreaming. This was the man who took care of the streets of the East End.
She stood, transfixed on the darkness and the tiny flickers of reflection in his tinted spectacles. She must have swayed, dizzy and confused, for he took her gently by her shoulders.
"Are you able to walk?"
She forgot to answer, staring into the face of darkness.
The West End knew him as the most elusive villain. The East End hailed him the hero of the poor.
The city called him the gentleman-devil.
He was the man Alina would get to know as Harlan Krow.