That left only the back entrance, the one Tredlow used to receive his stock of artifacts and antiquities. She whirled around, candle held on high, and searched the shadows. Through the forest of looming bronze and stone figures and the canyons of crates and boxes stacked to the ceiling, she caught glimpses of the back wall.

She went along a narrow alley formed by several impressive gravestones. Halfway to her objective, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw the glow of candlelight dancing on the ceiling near the staircase. Despair tore through her. The intruder was already in this room. If she could see his candle flame, he could almost certainly detect hers.

She would never be able to make it to the back entrance in time.

Her only hope was the strong room. If she could get inside and bolt the heavy door behind her, she would be safe.

She rushed toward the small chamber, not bothering to mask the sound of her movements. She halted on the threshold of the stone room, her courage nearly failing her when she realized just how small the space was.

She did not like close, confined places. In point of fact, she hated them.

The sound of booted footsteps coming relentlessly toward her was incentive enough to stiffen her resolve. She glanced back one last time. The figure of her pursuer was concealed by the stacks of statues and crates, but the glow of his candle was all too visible. It bounced and flared off the faces of monsters and gods as he came nearer.

She took a deep breath, stepped inside the cramped strong room, grasped the iron handle of the door, and pulled with all her strength.

It seemed to take forever for the heavy wooden panel to close. For a dreadful moment she thought that it must be stuck and that all was lost.

Then, with a ghostly whine, the door slammed closed. The candle flame jerked wildly one last time, glinting briefly on rows of ancient metal and glass objects, and then winked out of existence.

She was instantly plunged into a darkness as thick and heavy as that of a tomb. With trembling hands she managed to fumble the ancient iron bolt home by sense of touch. It seated itself with an ominous clang.

She shut her eyes and pressed her ear to the thick wooden door panel, straining to listen. The best she could hope for was that the intruder would soon realize that he could not get at her and would elect to leave the premises as quickly as possible. Then she could let herself out of this dreadful little chamber.

She heard the muffled scrape of iron on iron.

It took her a few seconds to understand the full horror of what had just occurred. With a terrible sinking sensation, she comprehended that the intruder had just turned Tredlow’s key in the lock.

He was not even going to try to wrest her from her hiding place, she thought. Instead, he had effectively sealed her into this small, dark space that was not much larger than an ancient Roman sarcophagus.

The two men came toward him out of the fog, long black greatcoats unfastened so that the folds of the heavy garments swept the tops of their gleaming boots. Their faces were obscured by the brims of their hats and the rapidly deepening shadows.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Fitch,” the older one said softly. He moved with a slight catch to his stride, but for some reason the evidence of past injury only made him appear all the more menacing.

The other man did not speak. He stayed a few steps back and to the side, watching events unfold, waiting for instructions. Fitch was reminded of a young leopard taking lessons from a more experienced hunter.

The older man was the one to fear.

The valet was stricken with a wave of deep dread. He stopped suddenly and glanced wildly around, seeking an escape route. None presented itself. The lights of the coffeehouse he had left a few minutes ago were at the end of the lane, too far away to afford any refuge. There were naught but empty, darkened doorways lining both sides of the pavement.

“What d’ya want with me?” He tried to sound firm and forceful. He’d had some experience in that line, he reminded himself. A good valet was expected to develop an air of grave authority.

Mayhap grave was not quite the appropriate word here.

“We wish to speak with you,” the more dangerous man said.

Fitch swallowed. They were too well dressed to be footpads, he told himself. But somehow that deduction did nothing to reassure him. The expression in the older man’s eyes made him want to take to his heels. But he knew that he would not get far. Even if he managed to outrun this hunter, he would never escape the young leopard-in-training.

“Who are you?” he asked. He heard the anxious-ness in his own voice and cringed.

“My name is March. That is all you need to know. As I said, my companion and I wish to ask you a few questions.”

“What sort of questions?” Fitch whispered.

“You were employed as valet to Lord Banks until quite recently. According to our information, you were turned off with no notice.”

Real fear struck him then. They knew what he had done. The Creature had discovered the theft and sent these two after him.

Fitch’s mouth went dry. He had been so certain that no one would ever miss the damned thing, but he had been found out. Visions of calamity sent shudder after shudder through him. He could be transported or even sent to the gallows for this.

“We would like to know if you helped yourself to a certain valuable on your way out the door,” March said.

He was lost, Fitch thought. There was no hope for him. No point trying to deny his guilt. March was the sort who would hound a man to the ends of the earth. The promise was there in the bastard’s eyes.

His only hope was to throw himself on the leopard’s mercy and hope that he might be able to buy his way out of the disaster.

“She let me go without even paying me my quarterly wages. And she gave me no references.” Fitch slumped against an iron railing. “After all my hard work. I did my best, I tell you, but it wasn’t easy servicing the Creature.”

“You refer to Mrs. Rushton?” March asked.

“Indeed. Twice a week it was, sometimes more often if she happened to be feeling particularly spirited. For nearly three long months.” Fitch straightened a little at the memory of his heroic efforts. “The Creature was the most demanding employer I’ve ever had. And then she turns me off with no notice, no references, and no bloody pension. Where’s the justice in that, I ask you?”

The younger man spoke for the first time. “Why did Mrs. Rushton let you go?”

“She started taking regular therapeutic treatments with a bloody mesmerist.” Fitch grimaced. “Claimed he did more for her nerves than I did. She came back from an appointment one day and casually announced that she wouldn’t be requiring my services anymore.”

“So she let you go and you decided you were owed a little something by way of compensation, is that it?” March asked.

Fitch opened one hand, palm up, silently beseeching the hunter’s understanding. “It wasn’t fair, I tell you. That’s why I took the damned snuffbox. Never thought it would be missed, to tell you the truth. Banks hasn’t taken snuff for nearly a year and not bloody likely to ever use the stuff again.”

March’s eyes narrowed. “You took a snuffbox?”

“The thing had been sitting there at the back of a drawer in his lordship’s dressing room for longer than anyone can remember. Who’d have thought she’d even know about it, let alone care if it went missing?”

March closed the distance between them. “You took a snuffbox}”

“Thought everyone in the household had forgotten about it long ago.” Fitch gazed dolefully down at the pavement, wondering at the unkindness of fate. “Can’t see how the Creature ever came to discover that it was gone.”