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swear it.”
    He looked down and met her indignant eyes. She might be exhausted and malnourished, but she was prepared to protect her family with her life. In that way he saw a little bit of Emily in her. “Does she know you’re starvin’ yourself to keep her fed?”
    Color blossomed in her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Shall we? I have an hour, and I don’t believe you wish to waste it.”
    She marched down the steps, shivering with the cold. Blade sauntered after her. He’d had vague plans of parading her through the gin shops just to show the world and “Miss Independent” who her master was. Instead he shrugged out of his leather coat and slipped it over her shoulders.
    Honoria started, blinking up at him.
    “I don’t feel it,” he said with a shrug. “And your shiverin’s gettin’ on me nerves.”
    Her fingers clutched at the edges of the coat. Blade thought for a moment that she would reject it. But then she drew it closer. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    Honoria gave him an odd look. “Where do you wish to go?”
    “This way.” He gestured with his head.
    “The docks?”
    “I’ve a mind to share a pint.”
    Her head swiveled toward him.
    “Of ale,” he clarified dryly. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strode forward into the fog. If he lingered, he just might be tempted to take her up on what she’d thought he referred to.
    Honoria scurried after him. Blade listened for a moment, slowing his stride to match hers. She was puffing as she caught up, her cheeks rosy with exertion. He eyed her darkly. How she managed to walk to work each day was beyond him. The bloody woman was on the verge of collapse.
    He paused at the intersection of Old Castle Street and Wentworth but then changed his mind. “This way.”
    “But the docks are that way,” she protested.
    He ducked through an alley leading out of the rookeries. An odd odor caught his nose and he stiffened. Honoria bumped into him.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Catchin’ me breath,” he muttered, looking around. It must have been his imagination. There was more than enough moldy food scraps and offal dumped in the gutters to account for the rancid, rotting smell that had wafted past. “Come on.”
    They came to the end of the alley, passing through the tiny improvised gate of Hoargate and coming out at Petticoat Lane. Some of the late-night vendors of the market were still hawking their wares. A couple of whores eyed him. One smoothed her skirts, then caught a glimpse of Honoria. The woman deflated and started looking around for another mark.
    “You,” he said, pointing at a vendor. “’Ow much for that pie?”
    The man paled, then stammered, “For you? Ah, why, nothin’ at all, sir.”
    Blade flipped him a coin anyway. The man snatched it out of the air, then hastened to wrap up one of his cold pork pies. Blade offered it to Honoria.
    She stared at the package. “I couldn’t. Thank you for the offer, but—”
    He glared at her. “Just take the damn thing and eat it. This is the rookery, luv. Ain’t no rules ’bout what you can and can’t accept from a man. Your stomach rumblin’s fit to drive a man barmy.”
    “I can’t pay you back. I have to pay the doctor—”
    “This one’s free.”
    He gave her his back and started walking. Behind him the sound of waxed paper rippled, and then came the swish of her skirts as she followed. Gravy and pig fat flavored the air. His lips curved in a smile.
    He knew better than to turn around and watch her eating. Instead he led her across the street to a pneumatic rickshaw. The young Han Chinese boy nodded to him, then hopped up onto the cycle seat. “Where to?”
    “The White Hart,” Blade said, offering Honoria a hand. “Aldgate.”
    Honoria dashed pastry from her lips, then eyed his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she slid her warm fingers over his. Her eyes widened and he knew she felt how cold his skin was. Taking her by the waist, he