adventurer, his skin a different color than her own—he spoke to her and of her work without judgment, as though they truly were equals.
Suddenly, Catullus pulled back, glowering. Gemma thought that his forbidding expression was for her, until she saw his gaze fixed behind her. She turned slightly in her seat to see what angered and alarmed him.
Two men were coming into the dining car. Gemma quickly assessed them. One was of average height, a bit stout, with a neatly trimmed moustache. The other was taller, dark haired. Both had the pale skin of the upper ranks, with the snooty demeanor to prove it. Even on the steamship, none of the other passengers belonged to this class. This was her first time ever seeing the British gentry. They moved into the dining car as if it, and everything they saw, were their possessions.
Gemma, democratic, disliked them on sight.
An attendant approached them, gesturing toward an empty table. They began to pepper the man with questions, which the attendant stammered to answer.
She turned back to Catullus, and now he looked downright dangerous. He tore his gaze from the men and forced himself to look out the window, as if the view fascinated him. “Get up slowly,” he said between gritted teeth. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Make for the other exit and head straight to our compartment.”
Gemma’s heart kicked. “It’s them, isn’t it? The Heirs.”
“Yes, now go. While the attendant has their attention. And don’t look at them.”
She rose up from her seat as casually as she could, all the while aware of the men behind her. Catullus followed suit, and set a handful of coins on the table. Gemma almost smiled. They were trying to evade the deadly Heirs of Albion, and he was still leaving tips. A true gentleman.
She and Catullus had just reached the door at the other end of the car when a man’s voice hissed loudly, “It’s Graves and that woman!”
Neither Gemma nor Catullus wasted any time. He threw open the door, pulled her through to the next car, then slammed the door. Through the glass, she saw the men running toward them.
“Blast,” Catullus growled. “Can’t lock the door. Run.”
Gemma went as fast as she could, plunging down the aisle of the second-class car as confused passengers watched from their seats. She heard Catullus close at her heels.
Through another carriage, and another. At her back came the sounds of the adjoining doors opening and slamming shut, men’s footsteps hurrying toward her and Catullus. She glanced quickly at some of the passengers watching the spectacle. Couldn’t someone help?
She reached another door. Two cars down was their compartment. Once they reached it, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but reach it they must. At the least, Astrid and Lesperance could lend a hand. Four against two offered better odds.
Gemma pulled open another door and started up the aisle, but turned when she did not hear Catullus behind her. He stood on an empty seat beside the door, bending to keep from knocking against the luggage rack overhead. She saw at once what he meant to do. His position kept him hidden from the advancing Heirs.
The men entered the carriage, and Catullus leapt. He slammed a fist into the jaw of the stout man, who stumbled back and into the path of his companion. The two Heirs tangled for a moment, lurching.
“What the devil?” cried a middle-aged passenger, observing. “No brawling on the train!”
“My apologies,” Catullus said, sprinting toward Gemma. He took her hand, and they both ran together.
Within a moment, they arrived at their private compartment. Astrid and Lesperance, huddled close, hands interlaced and speaking in low, intimate tones, broke apart at the entrance of Gemma and Catullus.
Lesperance looked at both their faces and rose to standing. “Heirs,” he said immediately.
Astrid swore, also seeing the truth. She too leapt to her feet.
“Must’ve gotten on the train at Shrewsbury.” Catullus grabbed his baggage as well as Gemma’s battered little carpetbag. “Have to get off now.”
No one argued. With movements so swift as to be almost instantaneous, all the bags were collected and the compartment vacated.
“That way.” Catullus indicated they move toward the front of the train.
As everyone hurried away, Gemma dared to venture, “The train’s moving, you know.”
“Counting on it.” Catullus kept throwing glances over his shoulder, to see if they were being followed. And, damn it, they were. The Heirs had recovered their footing, though one of them already sported a swelling jaw, and cut through the narrow, rocking passages of the first-class compartments.
Gemma didn’t know how long English trains were, and was afraid to find out. Once she and the Blades reached the engine, she had no idea what they planned on doing. Maybe throw the Heirs into the furnace?
She collided with Lesperance’s solid back as he stopped short. Gemma braced her hands against him to right herself.
“Accident,” she muttered when Astrid glared at her.
“What’s the matter, Astrid?” Catullus asked behind Gemma. “Why’d you stop?”
Astrid rattled the solid door in front of her. It didn’t even have a window. “Locked.”
They all glanced back to reverse their course, but just then the Heirs appeared at the other end of the carriage. No way back, couldn’t go forward. Trapped.
“Get to the side,” Catullus growled. “I’ll kick it open.”
But Gemma’s restraining hand held him back. “Not necessary.” She quickly edged forward until she stood in front of the locked door.
And opened it.
Both Catullus and Lesperance chuckled in appreciation, and then they all hastily entered the carriage ahead. Catullus slammed the door shut behind them right before the Heirs caught up.
The two Heirs pounded on the locked door, shouting threats so crude, even Gemma blanched. And then one of the Heirs began to throw himself against the door. It rattled hard, threatening to open.
Gemma looked around. She and the Blades were in what appeared to be a mail coach, with heavy canvas bags filled with letters lined up on the floor and on racks. No windows, no external doors. Two hinged hatches were set into the ceiling, allowing thin slivers of sunlight to filter into the tightly crammed coach.
“And now?” she asked Catullus.
“Now,” he answered, looking up, “we make our departure.”
“Sod this,” snarled Draycott. He drew his pistol and shot the lock off the door.
“Careful!” Forton threw up his arms to shield himself from flying wood and metal.
But Draycott didn’t spare Forton a glance as he threw open the door. He stepped into the coach with his pistol ready.
He
