A glint of disappointment flickered in Florence's eyes. She had always known, in some buried corner of her heart, how her mother truly regarded her—yet knowing did not dull the wound. The truth still cut, raw and merciless. Without another word, Florence turned and fled the room, while Elizabeth offered nothing more than a scoff, as though her daughter's pain were little more than an inconvenience.
Outside, the streets lay swallowed by darkness. Rain descended in a slow, unrelenting drizzle, soaking Florence's hair and dress until the chill clung to her skin. She was damp, miserable, and painfully aware of her own foolishness; leaving without shelter was reckless. Yet remaining behind, pretending the night had not torn something irreparable from her, would have been far worse.
The wind rose sharply, sending discarded newspapers skittering from windows and doorsteps, their sodden pages slapping against the cobblestones like restless ghosts. Florence did not know whether a storm was truly gathering overhead or whether the city itself merely mirrored her turmoil. All she could do was hope desperately that London might shelter her, if only for this one night.
It was 1888 in the West End. Had she known what prowled the streets in those hours, her heart might have failed her entirely. The rain-soaked newspapers told their own grim tale as they lay plastered to the stones. Lightning split the sky, thunder answering in cruel harmony, and for a fleeting instant the jagged light illuminated a headline, bold and merciless against the dark.
A BODY FALLS TO LONDON'S SHADOWED KILLER!
Florence pressed on through the rain, still clad in her thin morning dress, her boots sending trembling ripples through the puddles that glazed the cobblestones. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, teeth chattering as she whispered fragile reassurances into the night.
I will be safe.
From somewhere not far off came bursts of laughter and music, voices spilling from a grand residence alive with revelry. She had wandered into Mayfair, the West End of London, where light spilled generously from tall windows and wealth paraded itself without shame. Even so, dread slithered down her spine, uninvited and cold, not born of the weather.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps.
Measured at first. Distant. Following.
Florence quickened her pace, willing herself not to run, forcing her stride to look purposeful rather than panicked. Yet the sound behind her answered every stepm growing heavier, quicker, splashing through rainwater with unmistakable intent. Her breath grew shallow.
This cannot be, she thought wildly. Not here. Not in Mayfair.
She moved faster, eyes fixed on the warm glow of a nearby house, hope flickering with every step toward it. But the distance between her and the pursuer closed mercilessly. A hand seized her shoulders.
Florence cried out, recoiling as she shielded her head.
"Please, what do you want? I have no money. I am not wealthy—"
Silence fell, followed by laughter.
Not cruel, not sharp; but startled, almost amused.
She dared to look up.
The man before her was young, rain-darkened hair of a light brown shade slicked against his brow. He wore a dinner jacket ill-suited to the downpour, his features soft rather than imposing neither strikingly handsome nor particularly tall, yet oddly disarming.
When his laughter subsided, he pushed his hair back and smiled.
"Good heavens," he said lightly. "You are rather entertaining, miss."
He extended a hand. "Finley. Finley Prescott."
Florence stared, confused, then realized too late the gesture was meant for a handshake. Flushing, she wiped her damp hands on her skirts and accepted it hesitantly. "I...apologies. I thought I was being followed."
"And your name?" he asked, unbothered.
"Florence… Loxley."
The name tasted uncertain on her tongue. Finley blinked, intrigued. "The Loxleys? I wasn't aware they had a daughter."
"I—" Her words faltered.
He tilted his head, studying her with unnerving ease. "Illegitimate, then. Born quietly, acknowledged by none. You're here for something concerning your father, I presume."
Florence stiffened. "How could you possibly know that?"
"Mayfair thrives on secrets," he replied pleasantly. "You don't look like you belong to the working class. Southwark?"
"Manchester."
"Ah. Industry breeds refinement in strange ways." His gaze flicked to her hands. "Delicate fingers. Why are you wandering the streets soaked to the bone?"
"I seem… lost," she said, the lie fragile.
"And the rain merely found you," he concluded, smiling as though humoring a child. "Come. I was on my way to Lady Thorne's gathering. She's recently returned from Paris and insists on mangling the English language in celebration."
He removed his tailcoat and draped it gently over her shoulders. "It is unwise for a lady to roam the night in such a state."
Florence hesitated, heart hammering. Kindness was as frightening as threat. Yet her body followed him, instinct overpowering caution.
They soon entered a vast residence, its ceilings crowned with chandeliers, gold and warmth flooding every corner. Finley summoned a servant, issuing instructions with sudden gravity.
"See that she is cared for. A dry gown, something warm to eat. Stay with her."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, settling onto a settee. "You are safe here. This is Lord Eulothorne's territory."
Florence froze. "Eulothorne?"
Finley laughed softly. "He does seem fond of you. Few are permitted such familiarity without honorifics."
Her head bowed, guilt stirring uneasily.
"But didn't he tell you?" Finley continued, eyes glinting. "He was watching. I only approached because he insisted."
Her blood chilled.
"Lord Eulothorne adores you, Miss Loxley."
Florence stood speechless, unable to tell whether the words were truth or another cruelty disguised as charm.
A trace of amusement lingered on Florence's face, though irritation still bled through it like an old stain. The mere thought of Eulothorne sent a dull ache blooming behind her eyes, heavy with anger she could neither quiet nor forgive. What he and his family had done to her in her former life clung to her memory like a curse she was doomed to carry.
"I must admit," Finley said lightly, reclining against the settee, one leg crossed over the other, his arms draped with careless ease along the backrest. "After the rumors of you fleeing the marriage, I am surprised to see you still are getting wed."
A faint, knowing smile curved his lips. "It seems he is capable of affection, though only for a chosen few. No matter how much I tried, I was never granted even a fragment of his warmth. And we were raised together, mind you. Childhood companions."
Florence listened in silence. Her expression remained composed, yet beneath it her chest ached with a slow, grinding mixture of grief and fury. She could not tell whether Finley's hospitality was kindness born of goodwill, or merely another extension of Eulothorne'sanother invisible tether ensuring she never strayed beyond his sight.
In time, a servant appeared and guided her through hushed corridors into a guest chamber. At its heart stood a grand canopy bed, its drapes heavy and pale like a shroud of silk. A chandelier glowed overhead, scattering light across polished floors and gilded walls, every detail whispering excess and power.
The servant offered her a set of nightwear, soft and pristine. For a fleeting moment, Florence felt as though she were nobility herself, wrapped in a luxury she had never known. Yet the illusion soured quickly. Beneath the finery, something gnawed at her bones—an unshakable certainty that this, too, was part of Eulothorne's design.
Florence's thoughts scattered into a fevered arrangement of doubts and dreads. She could not discern what Eulothorne intended, nor had she herself devised any clear plan since her rebirth. She chastised herself for speaking of resolve she had never fully forged, for clinging to promises she lacked the strength to fulfill. Against the breadth of Eulothorne's influence, she felt painfully small—utterly unprepared.
She clenched her jaw, worrying her thumb between her teeth in restless impatience. Had she been brought here only to be claimed, dragged once more into a marriage she had tried to escape? Had he altered their terms again, without warning or mercy? The uncertainty gnawed at her mind, sending panic coiling through her veins. What if she awoke to find him already waiting upon her wedding bed? He had done so before in her past life, though he had never touched her then, merely stood like a silent warden. Yet Florence's thoughts always fled toward the worst of possibilities, and fear whispered that this time, restraint might not follow.
A sudden, gentle knock fractured her spiraling thoughts. Florence stiffened. Moving on silent feet, she approached the door but did not open it, instead pressing her ear against the wood, straining for any sound beyond her own breath. Then came a voice; low, familiar, and deeply detested.
"You are foolish to wander the streets alone."
Her teeth ground together. "Had I fallen into your snare again?"
A soft chuckle followed, dark and restrained. "I have no intention of making further changes."
She could not catch the rest of his words; the sound of retreating steps suggested he had moved away from the door. But then his voice returned, gentler, almost unbearably so; its warmth striking her senseless.
"Good night, Loxley."
The echo of his footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving Florence alone in the heavy silence, her heart beating like a trapped thing against her ribs.