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Vanessa bit back a sharp cry of astonishment and slapped a hand to her breast at the woman’s sudden appearance. Beneath her palm, her heart raced at three times its normal rate. Twice in the last few minutes, she’d been given such a start that she was at risk of apoplexy.

She should’ve known she’d become lost, even with a diagram to help her. Fortuna serving girl had conveniently forgotten several doors, stairs, and corridors. Perhaps the maid wasn’t so disloyal, after all.

After sneaking from the ladies' observation gallery and making several wrong turns, Vanessa had become hopelessly discombobulated. Thank goodness, Fortuna contained a significant number of nooks and alcoves. Quite convenient for avoiding detection.

A sense of direction had never been her strong suit. Just when she’d finally found what she hoped was the corridor to the main gambling area—where that rotter Owen did indeed lounge, her brooch proudly displayed upon the table—she’d come upon Kingston and the large, daunting man now impaling her with an impatient glare.

Only she hadn’t known he was Kingston.

Not at first, in any event.

She had recognized him as the man who’d walked away from Fortuna earlier, and unreasonable disappointment had whirled through her that he’d returned.

And now, here he stood.

Kingston Barclay, Gabriel’s dearest friend in the world, held her hand.

Across the corridor, what must be, given her black attire and air of authority, The Wicked Widow of Whitechapel stared at them. A filmy black veil shrouded her face, but Vanessa hadn’t a doubt she saw everything.

Mrs. Dorrian-Lane moved her head as if glancing about and flicked an elegant hand. “Back to your entertainment. There’s nothing for you here.”

It was only at that moment that Vanessa finally realized they’d drawn a small, enrapt audience, and unease whispered up her spine. Despite not having seen Kingston in many years, she took an involuntary step toward him.

His warmth and clean, manly scent beckoned her. He smelled of soap and shaving lather and a hint of spirits. Nonetheless, he made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t felt in a very long while.

Head angled, Mrs. Dorrian-Lane put a finger to her chin and studied Vanessa for a lengthy, disconcerting moment. At least Vanessa presumed that was what the daunting woman was about. It was hard to tell exactly what went on beyond the veil.

Why did she wear it anyway?

Because she was scarred?

Pockmarked?

Or simply to create an air of mystery and intrigue?

Vanessa would be bound it was the latter.

“Who are you?” she asked Vanessa without preamble.

“Vanessa Becket.” Vanessa’s response was just as succinct.

“The heiress?” Interest inflected Mrs. Dorrian-Lane’s tone. “Well, well. This is wholly unexpected. Unexpected, indeed,” she murmured, conjecture and calculation coloring the last two words.

Unease poked Vanessa again.

How, in heaven’s name, did The Wicked Widow of Whitechapel know Vanessa was an heiress? It wasn’t a secret, but as she’d never met the woman before, her knowledge of Vanessa’s finances unnerved her.

What she wouldn't give to see the woman’s face, her expressions.

One could learn a lot about a person from their expression. Perhaps that was why Mrs. Jessie Dorrian-Lane concealed her face.

“Very intriguing.” Mrs. Dorrian-Lane turned toward Egeus and another equally gargantuan servant hovering nearby. “I’ll show Mr. Barclay and Miss Becket to my private salon, Theseus. You discover how she managed to sneak this far from the ladies’ compartments without being caught and ensure it never happens again.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dorrian-Lane,” the giant named Theseus responded before slipping away to do as bid.

“Because the minx is clever as hell,” Kingston murmured.

Something burgeoned behind Vanessa’s breastbone.