The street was rather empty tonight, but that was to be expected — it was very late after all. Dinner at the Stapletons had been as monotonous as usual and, had she not urged her aunt and uncle to bid their adieus, she suspected they would all, like as not, still be sitting in the Stapletons' drawing room sipping aged port and listening to her uncle reminiscing fondly about his glory days in the British Artillery.

But for now, all focus had been on Napoleon's exile to Elba, and where the Peninsular War was concerned, Emma was doubtless the most well informed twenty-six year old in all of Derbyshire. Blast Millicent for begging off tonight! The little hoyden had quickly contrived an ague to suite the purpose of her not attending tonight's dinner.

Emma stifled a yawn, she could not wait to get out of her bonnet and stays and, directly thereafter, climb into bed. Would that she too had had the foresight to decline this evening's invitation somehow.

Tonight she had matched her bonnet with the dark green of her fur-lined pelisse and worn her prettiest, gown, a creamy, silk dress with little blue flower trim along the hem, sleeves and across the bodice.

Her two guardians were walking tirelessly ahead of her as she followed close behind them, their heels, and her uncle's cane, rending the quiet with each tread across the cobblestone road. When they passed a little milliner's shop, Emma peered into the window and admired the arrangement of headdresses by way of the gas-lit street lamp that cast its orange glow.

"A moment, uncle," she murmured distractedly, spotting a particularly pretty hat that she thought she might like to try on tomorrow. Meanwhile, two carriages passed by at a leisurely pace the while she stood longingly at the window.

The bonnet she now admired was wide brimmed, decorated with green feathers — her favorite color — and looped with pretty bows of emerald ribbons. Yes, it shall do me nicely, she thought as she leaned in a little closer. There was also rather a lovely, blue turban beside the one she coveted and she imagined it would suit Millicent beautifully. Her sister loved to trim hats and if she decided she would rather do away with the artificial, crepe flowers that adorned the piece, she might actually improve on it. Her sister possessed a very steady hand and was very skilled with a needle.

"What do you think, aunt Sophie? Shall we return here on the morrow?"

But there came no answer. With a frown, she looked toward where they had been only moments ago. There was no one there now. Nothing stirred in the darkened street except for a large tabby that streaked past her and into the alley up ahead, almost as though something had startled it from the gloom of the park adjacent the street just behind her.

Emma narrowed her gaze, the better to focus her stare, and studied the area with growing unease. There seemed to be a large shadow looming just beyond the broad bole of an oak tree.

There cannot be anyone there. I am merely tired and conjuring fairies from nothing! she reasoned. Why would anybody be out in the park at this time of the night? That was certainly an excellent question. But then why are you roaming about at this hour? she suddenly asked herself. And where is my aunt and uncle, come to that?! She tried to ignore her quietude in favor of the vexation she felt for her guardians. Her aunt should at least of heard her; but then that lady had likely allowed her senses to wander again.

However, they had doubtless already noticed her delay and even if that were not the case, they would not have wandered far — were perchance already waiting for her to catch up. She hastened into the direction they had been walking. Their townhouse was not far from here and if she hurried, she would be home within a few moments. That was why they had not called a hack in the first place, for their house was not two miles from the Stapletons and it was a warm evening besides.

Though her feet slapped briskly at the cobbled road, echoing loudly as she shot nervous glances behind her, she still could not see the silhouettes of her guardians in the gas lights pouring their dull light into the mist gathering atop the road. It was all becoming too gothic, as of a penny novel romance, and far too sinister for her taste — the eerie silence, the horripilation at her nape and arms, and the awful certainty that she was being watched.

How long had she stayed at the window? What great distance had she allowed between her chaperones? This was madness, notwithstanding the scandalous nature of her predicament: to be stranded in a lonely street without supervision was simply outrageous. Only jades and malefactors thrived on the skullduggery of such a night.

Whimpering with apprehension, she peered once again behind her and, despite spying no malevolent force at her heel, began to run in earnest. It did not signify that she could see naught, she knew there was someone — something — skulking in the fog thickening at the fringes of the lamp lights. She could almost feel it breathing down her nape, disturbing the hairs there once again.

Without a glance to either side of the street, she sprinted into the causeway, heedless of the traffic that might now be rounding the corner. Even if there was a hansom tearing down the road, this was London after all, she would not hear it for the blood rushing into her ears. All she could think about and imagine was what Jenkins had told her about this morning — that hapless, and bloodless, victim in Whitechapel.

That shall be you next if you do not hurry home! The voice that urged her into the road had surged from the darkest recess of her wild imagination.

As it happened, there was unfortunately a cab speeding down the street and, had she not been breathing too loudly and had her ears not been clamoring with the deafening beat of her own racing heart, she might have heard the sound of hooves pounding the stones well before the coach was nearly on top of her. Emma screamed in terror as it bore down on her, the driver shouting in panicked alarm as her ankle buckled under her.

She shot her hands out vainly and turned her head in horror as a pair of steely arms yanked her instantly from the middle of the causeway. The entire incident, she would think later, was incredibly surreal, for time had ceased completely, the world had stopped, and the only firm reality, in that harrowing moment, had been the stranger's iron fingers hauling her to safety as the carriage passed inches from her head.

She would always remember the feel of air rushing across her face as the momentum of her rescue caused her head to whip in the opposite direction she had been pulled — blurring the world until finally she stood on the walkway, gasping in distress.

As she reestablished her bearings and gaped at the retreating coach, the driver waving his fist furiously at her, she became aware suddenly of the unnatural drop in temperature and the menacing aura of the man who stood silently beside her — her rescuer.

"Y-you saved my life, sir!" she stammered the obvious, at a complete loss of what else she might say. She had barely glanced at him for she was still staring at the disappearing carriage, its wake disturbing and curling the fog that had already settled on the road.

"That is something I have not yet been accused of," the stranger chuckled, releasing his hold on her and moving away to place a respectful distance between them. His voice was as dark and low as a growl, the effect not a little sinister despite his silky grin, what little she could actually see of his face, mind.

He was dressed in somber colors, only the crisp white of his cravat contrasted with the rest of his ensemble, from the navy, superfine cutaway that he wore beneath a heavy greatcoat, to the brown buckskins, and dark top-boots. She caught herself staring at the shadowed lineaments of his face, but he was mostly veiled from the gas lights by the brim of his black beaver hat. Only his smirking lips, and square jaw were visible to her as he retrieved the cane that he had ostensibly dropped when he'd flung himself into the road to rescue her.

When she finally realized that he had answered her, had indeed practically laughed at her, she blushed her humiliation and averted her eyes.

"All the same, you have my thanks," she whispered diffidently, straightening her skirts with gloved fingers as she surreptitiously watched the leather of his own gloves tighten around his cane.

"That is not all I would have," he uttered softly — almost suggestively — and she glanced up in surprise, questioning whether or not she had heard him aright.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

But before he had a chance to formulate his answer, she turned from him suddenly, grabbing at her face. Having finally noticed that her spectacles were missing, she scoured the area by way of the dim light and finally discovered them trampled in the road.

"Blast!" she cursed, uncaring how unladylike she must sound to her rescuer. "Quite ruined!" She shook her head as he approached her to study the item in question that she cradled in her palms.

"Yes," he agreed with a desultory air, "beyond repair." He then abruptly changed the subject. "Do you, perchance, live nearby, madam? I cannot allow you to walk home alone; there are doubtless many fiends wandering here about, and I should not like to see you waylaid by men of that ilk."

"I think that's best, thank you!" She smiled, relieved at the suggestion; although, there was a slight prickling at her nape that seemed therewith to spread across her skin in waves of raised bumps and silent remonstration. She was ostensibly just cold and rubbed her hands up her arms restlessly as the stranger watched her with a keenness that unsettled her further. "Might I inquire your name, sir? I should like to know to whom I owe my life."

"Of course! How remiss of me." He bowed gallantly, however, did not remove his hat which struck her as curious behavior; besides which, she had been eagerly awaiting a glimpse of his features.

"Markus Winterly, at your every service, madam," he drawled, "I regret the circumstances of our meeting, but am pleased, nonetheless, to have the acquaintance all the same." His upper lip quirked slightly at the corner, affording her just the smallest flash of teeth. "And you are...?" He prompted her when she continued staring at his mouth.

"Lord, where are my manners! Do forgive me, Mr. Winterly!" She was by now mottled with shame. Oh, to be caught ogling the man! Tis unforgivable! "My name is Emma Lucas," she offered, tucking a stray hair out of her face and imagining the great chaos of her once perfectly coiffed hairstyle. "I am certainly glad you happened upon me at just the right moment."

"As am I, Miss Lucas," said he with an enigmatic curl of his mouth. "I hope you do not think me too presumptuous, but for what possible reason are you out here alone?" She was happy to note that there was no derision in his tone or contempt in his cryptic smile.

"I am not alone, Mr. Winterly," she quickly assured him, "but my aunt and uncle are both hard of hearing and neither happened to hear me when I petitioned them to stop a while so that I might admire a bonnet in the milliner's shop yonder." She pointed in the direction of the storefront whence she'd come.

"You are suggesting then," said he with obvious amusement, "that your love of fashion has almost cost you the ultimate price."

"It would seem that way." She bit her lip nervously and wished fervently that he would step more into the light so that she could study his features properly.

Before she could think to say anything more, she heard her name being called and turned to see her aunt and uncle marching hastily towards them.

"There now," she said pointing at her guardians, "they have finally realized my absence."

"Ahh, yes. How fortunate," he sighed with obvious displeasure. It was such a strange reaction for the man to have that she blinked her confusion, questioning her own hearing once again.

"If you will escort me thither, I am quite sure they too would like to thank you," Emma suggested.

He hesitated only a moment, but eventually nodded, accepting the invitation somewhat dubiously. She had, after all, not given him much room for demurral. 

"After you," he answered softly.

"What is the meaning of this, Emma-" her uncle blustered in ill-tempered impatience, but Winterly quickly interposed on Emma's behalf.

"If you please, sir, your niece has had rather a shocking experience; do not be wroth with her till you have heard her tale."

"Ay?! What's this Emmaline! Are you hurt?" He seemed suddenly overwrought, his ire quickly giving way to distress.

"I am well uncle. I tripped in the road as a speeding hansom approached, but this gentleman you see here happened upon me with timely expediency and managed to pull me from harm's way."

"Then I am indebted to you, sir!" her uncle declared, shaking Winterly's hand warmly.

"My poor lamb," aunt Sophie cried, wrapping her arms tightly about her niece as Winterly introduced himself to the Haywoods.

"Not the Lord Winterly." Her uncle's surprise caused Emma's own brow to furrow thoughtfully. 

And here I had called him Mr. Winterly! You thoughtless country bumpkin, she railed at herself silently. She would need to question her uncle later and find out as much as he might be willing to divulge about Lord Winterly.

"The very same, sir." He grinned, but still did not remove his hat.

Show your face, man!

"You must join us for a glass of cognac before you continue on your way, Lord Winterly, I simply must insist that you allow me to thank you properly."

"I believe we are walking in the same direction, but once I see you to your door I must beg your pardon and delay the invitation till another day; I thank you, Mr. Haywood."

They had all begun walking again, but she felt keenly that Winterly's eyes remained fixed on her though she could not see his face. The strange sensation of being watched had once again returned full force. When they reached her uncle's townhouse, Winterly stood by as they ascended the stairs.

"You are quite sure you will not join us, my lord?" her uncle inquired once more. "I hope you will not question your welcome despite the late hour."

The smile that lit the lower half of Winterly's face was purely devilish as he nodded his thanks. "I must again decline your invitation, but I am extremely gratified to know that it is, nonetheless, still open to me...should I venture this way again."

He acknowledge their farewell with a light touch to the brim of his hat and at once withdrew into the night.