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stairs with my book.
    Gus and I followed the woman into a small room off the entrance hall. I tried not to gawp at the pale blue and gold wallpaper, thick rug, and spindly-legged furniture that didn't look sturdy enough to hold a man the size of Gus. It was fortunate that he remained near the door.
    The woman sat on the sofa and indicated I should sit on one of the cream wingback chairs. I hesitated then sprawled like I imagined a boy would. I'd never had the opportunity to sit on such a luxurious piece of furniture while pretending to be a boy, so I hoped I did it right. Usually sitting took place on floors or low walls, not chairs.
    The room was lovely with so many elegant things on the mantel, the walls, and on top of and inside the glass cabinet, but my attention was fully captured by the woman. She perched gracefully on the edge of the sofa, giving her prominent bustle space behind her. Her midnight black hair was arranged in an elaborate style at the back of her head, unhindered by the little hat perched on top. I couldn't determine her age. There was no gray in her hair, no lines marring her smooth, pale skin, and yet her bearing was that of a middle-aged woman, sure of her appeal and without the arrogance of a pretty, pampered girl.
    She oozed authority, from the tips of her manicured fingernails to her tilted chin. Coupled with the striking aristocratic bones of her face, her confident air would have intimidated most men; yet her appearance was softened by full lips that curved into a warm smile as she regarded me.
    "Do you know who I am?"
    "Fat Gut called you 'my lady,'" I said.
    "Oi," Gus growled from the doorway. "I ain't fat." He sucked in his stomach and puffed out his chest.
    "So I'm guessing you're Lady Harcourt," I finished. I almost added "Fitzroy's lover" just to see what her reaction would be, but held back. I didn't want to be beaten up by yet another member of the aristocracy.
    "I am," she said in a lilting voice that held none of the harsh command of earlier. "Your name is Charlie, is it not?"
    "T'is, my lady."
    "Have they been treating you well?" she asked.
    "I'm being held against my will. As if that ain't bad enough, a mad toff beat me black and blue yesterday."
    The hint of a smile vanished altogether and she folded her gloved hands one over the other on her lap. "I heard that Lord Gillingham was too heavy handed. It is regrettable."
    I snorted. "I'll say it is."
    "Have your wounds been tended to?"
    "Yes."
    "Has Lincoln—Mr. Fitzroy—harmed you in any way?"
    "He almost killed me when he kidnapped me." At her surprised look, I added, "I stopped breathing."
    Her slender eyebrows lowered. "I dare say he knew what he was doing. He's not in the habit of hurting children, and I'm sure whatever methods he employed were necessary."
    She said it as if it were perfectly normal for a man to kidnap a child and render him unconscious in the process. I was beginning to think I'd stepped into another world where such behavior was acceptable. Perhaps it was in the upper classes. Or perhaps Lady Harcourt was as mad and dangerous as Fitzroy and Lord Gillingham. I wasn't yet sure what to make of her.
    "Do you have comforts in your room?" she asked.
    I shrugged one shoulder.
    "Ask Lincoln for whatever you desire and he'll do his best to give it to you." Lincoln, not Mr. Fitzroy. Interesting. She blinked wide brown eyes at me. "Tell me about yourself, Charlie."
    She was a better interrogator than Fitzroy, I'd give her that. She'd tried to disarm me by asking after my comfort, and offering friendly smiles, then asked an innocuously broad question about myself, rather than one specific to the necromancy incident.
    A naive child would have fallen under her spell, but I was no longer naive or a child. "I'm thirteen. I live in Clerkenwell, with Stringer and his gang. I steal to eat and keep warm in winter. I'm good at thieving, that's why they call me Fleet-foot Charlie. I've been told I'm too skinny, but seems to me