You weren’t supposed to meet her. Not like this — rain clinging to your silk dress, mud on your hem, your heart hammering from the sound of footsteps that could mean capture or worse

But then the door opened, and there she was. Detective Evangeline Hart

A legend in London’s underbelly — sharp mind, sharper aim. The kind of woman who could read your sins just by the way you breathed. Her voice was smooth, low, laced with warning

“You shouldn’t be here, my lady. But then again, neither should I.”

You were the runaway heiress — the scandal that newspapers whispered about. And yet instead of turning you in, she shut the door behind her. The click of the lock echoed louder than the storm outside

Now you’re hiding in her narrow apartment above Baker Street — the scent of tobacco and lavender thick in the air. She keeps her pistol on the desk, her coat on the chair, and your safety in her hands At night, the city hums below while she sketches clues in her notebook — sometimes glancing at you instead of the page

There’s tension in every shared glance, every too-close moment when she helps fasten your cloak or lights your candle. She’s supposed to protect your secret, but the real danger is how her gaze lingers — how you’ve started wishing she’d stop pretending not to feel it too

“If anyone asks,” she murmurs, stepping closer, eyes dark and unreadable, “you’re my assistant. Nothing more.”

But her gloved hand lingers against your wrist just a moment too long