Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 4: Betrayer

A Christian Regency Romantic Adventure serial novel

Camille Elliot

Praise for Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 3: Aggressor

“One of the distinct advantages to a serialized novel is the depth of characterization and the chance to explore the relationships between people. I really enjoy getting to spend time with the characters, allowing each one to take the lead at various points and see things from differing perspectives. … The characters are fantastic and the story is engrossing.”

—Lynda, Goodreads reviewer

“The introspection peppered throughout the story gives it a realistic feel; the characters take their roles seriously, but are not immune to self-doubt and faith struggles, which the author intertwines organically throughout the book. … Overall, Aggressor is a fun, multi-layered addition to the series – looking forward to the next book!”

—Beth, moderator for Christian Fiction Devourers Goodreads group

“This third Lady Wynwood installment moved a bit quicker than the second, each book taking a pace of it's own like the chapters of one delightfully long novel. So much action, so much tension, and so much to look forward to in the books to come! I'm in agony each time I finish one and need to wait for the next to release!”

—Nicole Sager, author of The Heart of Arcrea

“Elliot's amazing descriptions of the darker, underworld side of London bring the setting of this story to life and add to the darker side of this tale. While her realistic characters, who care so deeply for one another, make a team that you want to cheer on through each and every pitfall and new development.”

—L. Ertelt, moderator for Christian Fiction Devourers Goodreads group

“I found myself so absorbed in the book, that time got away from me. How I long for the next volume! Best mystery series I have read in a while!”

—IndianaHappyTraveler, Amazon reviewer

Lady Wynwood’s Spies series

The Spinster’s Christmas (prequel)

The Gentleman Thief (prequel novella)

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 1: Archer

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 2: Berserker

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 3: Aggressor

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 4: Betrayer

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 5: Prisoner

Standalone novels

Prelude for a Lord

The Gentleman’s Quest

Devotional

Who I Want to Be

For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known.

Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops.

Luke 12: 2-3

Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him:

but I will maintain mine own ways before him.

Job 13:15

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Matthew 11:28-30

PROLOGUE

Laura, Lady Wynwood, sat in the dark in her drawing room and waited for an intruder.

Her errand earlier that evening had taken her longer than would have been expected for a simple trip to Rachey Street and a one hour conversation. As usual, they had taken a roundabout route to the Senhora’s establishment, and after the meeting, a meandering path home. It had given Laura ample time to worry about the conversation beforehand, and too much time to brood over the information afterward.

So many secrets, tangled, knotting, tightening. The strands were cutting into her skin and making her bleed regret and guilt, anger and suffering.

None of the events of the past several weeks had been coincidence—not Sol’s actions in confronting a Ramparts agent at the Meynhill birthday celebration, not Phoebe’s meeting with Mr. Coulton-Jones on Hampstead Heath, and not the way those disparate moments connected to her late husband. And to Laura’s own actions.

Normally, it would signal the Lord’s hand over her life, over the lives of those close to her. But to Laura, it simply felt like an accusatory finger that both judged and stirred up the morass of her past sins, which she’d spent years trying to forget. She should have known she couldn’t run from them.

The conversation with the Senhora tonight had tired her. The anxiety beforehand and the pain of facing her past, facing Wynwood’s past, had left her feeling like a burned out shell.

But she couldn’t sleep. She would toss and turn and nurture her pain like a madwoman, perhaps because everything had made her just a touch insane.

She had news that she knew Sol would want to hear, and she also knew he’d come to hear it despite how tired he might be himself. Upon returning from the Senhora’s place, Laura had sent Calvin to Sol’s townhouse with a message asking him to visit that evening if possible. Otherwise, she would await his presence at breakfast.

But he would come tonight. Or perhaps she willed him to come tonight so that she need not bear the burden of these secrets alone for much longer.

The servants were completing their duties for the evening before turning in to bed, and she could faintly hear voices and small noises from the kitchen in the half-basement at the back of the townhouse. She had hated asking it of her, but Laura had requested for Aya to remain awake in the kitchen so that she would be able to unlatch the back door and allow Sol into the house. Even if he arrived before the house was dark and asleep, she knew he would sneak in from the back so that her nosy neighbors would not spy him visiting so late at night.

She heard a change in the bustling in the kitchen, a subtle shift in the bumps and voices, and knew he’d arrived.

Sol’s steps were surprisingly soft and tentative on the stairs, and Laura realized she should have lit a lamp. When she started her vigil, she had felt more in sympathy with the darkness, and she had wished her neighbors to think she was either not home or had retired to bed unusually early for an evening during the height of the Season.

She was about to rise and open the drawing room door, which was only cracked, when flickering candlelight cut through the shadows, momentarily blinding her. She blinked, letting her eyes accustom to the light, and when she could see again, Sol was closing the drawing room door.

“Rather scandalous, Sol,” she said in a voice that sounded high-pitched and tight rather than carefree, as she had intended.

“Since we are both widowed?” Society dictated that he should leave the door cracked at the very least, but he engaged the latch firmly. “I gathered from the tone of your note that you have no wish to share this information with any other servants.”

“Only you could infer the tone of a short note.”

“Only your notes,” he said, placing the candle holder on a nearby side table.

She almost asked him to blow the flame out, but then chastised herself for being a coward.

She had chosen an elaborately carved chair facing the door, and he sat on the sofa beside her. She had forgotten about the splash of brandy she’d poured for herself earlier, and now gently pushed the crystal tumbler on the low table closer to him.

He sighed and downed the contents in a single swallow. Perhaps it was the dim light, but the shadows formed deep pockets under his eyes and drew long grooves alongside his mouth. “Gracious, Sol, you look exhausted.”

He rubbed his forehead with his long, square fingers. “I have come from the Ramparts, where I did a great deal of shouting.”

“About the deaths of the French agents?” Earlier that afternoon, she and Phoebe had been present—along with the rest of his team—when he’d received news that, due to senseless posturing between individual leaders in the Foreign and Alien Offices, the French agents whom they had captured had been killed.

He nodded. “Unfortunately, it yielded no purpose other than venting my feelings.”

It was a truly regretful ending to the hard work their team had exerted to find these foreign agents and capture them before they could return to France. Laura then smiled at herself. She said “their team,” but the ones in danger had been Sol, his agents, and Phoebe and Keriah.

He glanced at her, and even in the candlelight, the flecks of gold in his chocolate brown eyes glimmered softly. “I hope your message indicates you have something interesting to impart rather than more bad news.”

Laura grimaced. “Possibly both.” She hesitated. If Sol didn’t agree to her conditions, then all her effort—and the cost—would have all been for naught. “Before I tell you anything, Sol, I must have your solemn word that you shall not divulge to anyone—including to your superiors in the Ramparts—from whom you received this information.”

His dark brows rose in surprise, but he did not appear reluctant to grant her request. “May I ask why?”

“The men at the Ramparts mustn’t know that I was the person who imparted these facts to you. Any of them could surmise that there is no possibility that I would have already known any of what I am about to tell you. Therefore, they would assume that I must have received it from someone else, and I cannot have anyone looking into that person.”

He held out his hand as if to allay her fears. “The report would be only visible to a handful of people, the men in the Ramparts who know best how to keep secrets.”

She shook her head. “Sol, if my name is anywhere on your report, even if it is only for the eyes of the highest levels in your department, it is too dangerous. I am hardly an agent. Anyone with enough perseverance would find my connection to my … source. I cannot have any of those men, even men who keep secrets, to know about this.”

“This level of security seems quite excessive.”

“It is what is required of me.” The Senhora had always insisted that no one know of Laura’s connection to her.

Sol slowly asked, “What would you like me to tell my superiors?”

“Anything you like. I assume you often receive confidential information from others in society whose names remain anonymous on your reports except to your superiors. Perhaps you can say that you heard these things from one of them.”

His mouth set in a grim line for a moment before he spoke. “Laura, you are asking me to lie to my superiors.”

She swallowed. “I am sorry, Sol, but that is the price. Can you whole-heartedly assure me that if an important man at the Ramparts, tasked with the security of the nation, is intrigued by your report, that he would not investigate me and my ‘friend?’ And that he would not then instruct other agents to approach this ‘friend’ in hopes of other information?”

Her question caught him off-guard, but understanding lightened his dark eyes, although he said nothing.

Laura continued, “If even a whiff of a suspicion reaches my ‘friend,’ our relationship would be cut with the indifference of a woman snipping embroidery thread.”

He sat back in the sofa. “And this relationship is important to you?”

“It may be important to you, also. You may require information of this sort at some point in the future.”

He sat in thought for a minute, then finally nodded. “Very well. You obviously assign a great deal of weight to this connection, and I would not wish to force you to sever it. And if you believe that we should cultivate the favor of this person, then I will trust your judgment.”

Laura felt warmth radiating from her cheeks and neck, as if she’d remained too close to the fireplace for too long. He had used the word “we,” and he trusted her. It was a … nice feeling.

In halting sentences, she told him what the Senhora had told her tonight about Mrs. Bianca Jadis.

She never witnessed Sol so shocked as when she related her tale. Weeks earlier, he had already appeared rattled when he learned that Bianca’s pendant contained Jack’s mysterious symbol inside of it, but now, tonight, he kept asking questions about Bianca and appeared even more dumbfounded the more he learned. Laura also told him what the Senhora had told her about Jack Dix and the group behind that symbol.

At one point, he requested paper and began taking notes as she spoke. He studied his slanting scrawl on the sheets spread out upon the low table before them. “Is this everything about Bianca?”

Hearing her name on his lips was strange for her, but it was also, oddly, a relief. It made her almost forget that “Bianca” was also Wynwood’s mistress. The woman had only been referred to as “Mrs. Jadis” by the spiteful society acquaintances who wanted to deliver the news to Laura to distress her, but the Senhora had only referred to her as “Bianca.” The tendency seemed to have taken root in Laura’s thoughts, perhaps because it distanced her feelings from the pain of the past, and she had used “Bianca” when speaking to Sol, who now copied her.

“Yes, I believe so.” She hesitated, then decided that Sol wouldn’t have such great pride that he’d resist a sensible suggestion. “There was very little information about Bianca because she was a lone woman, unmarried without father or brothers, lost in the sea of other women like her in London. But the most valuable items I acquired about her were the names of her protector, Mr. Field Emsley, and her husband, Mr. Carl Jadis. A high-flyer like Bianca could die and leave no trace of herself behind, but the men she associated with could not. They would have left documents about themselves which could be found, if you looked hard enough.”

“You’d need more than effort,” Sol grumbled. “You’d need a fair bit of luck.”

She couldn’t resist the opening to needle him. “I shall pray for the Lord’s guidance, which would be far more effective than luck.”

He scowled at her, but did not argue theology with her as he might have several months ago. Perhaps Phoebe’s strong faith and the coincidences that continued to fall into his lap were softening him to the concept of the Lord watching over them all.

“Have you the means to investigate these men?” she asked. “You perhaps may need an attorney you trust.”

“I shall try to do what I can myself. There are attorneys trusted by the Ramparts, but …” He grimaced again. “After the way my superiors botched the capture and questioning of the French agents, I have no wish to risk the wrong attorney letting slip these names.”

“If Bianca was part of this mysterious group, as we suspect, then her husband may have also belonged to them. His may be one set of initials in Wynwood’s pocket watch.”

Sol nodded, animation erasing the tired lines of his face. After the frustration of finding nothing about Bianca these past weeks, he now had a thread to pull to see what it unraveled. She knew him well enough to know that he was relieved to have something to do.

He suddenly stilled as he studied her. In a soft voice, he asked, “What were you forced to pay for this information?”

She had hoped he would not think to ask that. She swallowed, glancing down at her hands clasped in her lap, and forced herself to relax her stiff fingers. “It is nothing criminal, but it is better that you do not know.”

Laura thought Sol would vehemently object, not simply because he worked for a government agency, but also because he hated being uninformed of anything that impacted his work or his life. She and Sol were the same—both desperate to keep firm hold of the things and people around them, because it made them feel they had some sort of control over everything.

But instead, he said nothing for long minutes. Sol’s hand rose to rub his forehead and cover his eyes, but not before she saw him squeeze his eyes shut in regret. When he finally dropped his hand and looked at her, his gaze was remorseful. “I am sorry you needed to pay such a price, Laura.”

“I have paid nothing,” she quickly replied. However, she would be risking a great deal next Season. But she would never reveal the truth to him.

“It should have been my responsibility to find this information and pay the person who gave it to you.”

“This person would never have met with you, Sol. Even meeting with me was a great favor to me and an expression of the trust between us.”

“Why was it necessary that it must be you?” He frowned at her, but she could tell he was concerned for her.

“It was not dangerous for me,” she assured him. “But you possess nothing that this person would want. Only I had that.”

He was silent in the face of that truth, but she could tell he still didn’t like it. He gusted a loud sigh and slouched back in the sofa, his head tilted back and staring at the darkened ceiling. She studied his shadowed face and realized that shame had been blurring his features ever since she started speaking about Bianca.

“What is troubling you, Sol?” she asked gently.

His eyes looked at her without moving his head. “I can never hide anything from you,” he complained.

“I’ve known you too long. Argued with you too much.”

“You’re probably correct about that.” He sighed again and returned his gaze to the ceiling. He didn’t answer her immediately, and she let him take the time to sift through his thoughts. Finally, he said, “We do not yet have definitive proof that Bianca belonged to this secret group, but it is becoming more and more likely.”

Silence stretched between them, but she knew he was simply trying to formulate the words for what was jumbling through his brain.

“When you told me weeks ago that you may know how to uncover more of Bianca’s background, I admit I only held faint hope that you could accomplish it,” he said. “At the time, I clung to my faith in my own abilities. I needed to trust in my abilities, because I was so dismayed by the revelation that she had the symbol inside her pendant. I was the one who had disregarded her. I had utterly missed any possible clues that pointed to her connection to a larger group with a larger agenda.”

“None of those clues may have existed at all.”

“We’ll never know. I’ll never know. You may not think too badly of me, Laura, but I know I failed when it came to Bianca. And what is more, my superiors know I failed. Some of them understand how I could have mistaken Bianca’s plans and secret motivations, but others are questioning my ability to investigate and lead.”

She chose her words carefully. “I cannot say anything in regards to the Ramparts. But Sol, none of us are perfect.”

“I must still expect the best of myself and the men I lead.”

“Yes, of course, but it is unreasonable to expect we shall never make a single misstep. It begins to affect the results of our work when we believe so strongly in only ourselves that we start to believe we are perfect.”

“I have never believed that I am perfect,” he objected, but with a hint of petulance in his tone.

“When I need a good dose of humility, that is often the exact moment when God gives me a swift kick in the rear end to remind me that I am not as wonderful as I think I am.” She leaned forward and tilted her head to the side, looking up at him with a hard, searching gaze. “Bianca is looking more and more like God’s foot up your backside, don’t you think?”

His mouth opened, then closed, and then he laughed, a sound tinged with chagrin. “Yes, I do believe so.”

She was relieved to see him attempt to move past his low spirits, but her smile was strained. She may have spoken confidently about not clinging to perfection, but it also reminded her that she could not move past her own sins.

She knew she needed to face the truth. She needed to tell him the truth, and yet she couldn’t. Her weakness only fed the anguish pressing against her chest, the one awful secret she was still keeping from him.

Sol left her soon after that, and she was not surprised to find Aya waiting for her in her bedroom.

“You should have gone to bed when you let Sol into the house,” Laura told her maid.

She smiled politely like an exemplary servant, and completely ignored her comment as she helped Laura remove her dress.

Aya was behind her, unlacing her stays, and as the stiff fabric loosened, it was as if everything it held in came flying out of her. “Aya, I might still have killed him.”

The words were quiet and scratchy in the dimness of the bedroom, like mice skittering through the walls.

Aya’s hands stopped moving for several seconds, then she continued undoing the laces. She didn’t need to ask whom Laura was referring to. “He was poisoned,” Aya replied in an equally quiet voice.

“I know that now, but it doesn’t matter. I might still have caused his death before the poison killed him.”

“You … We have lived with this for years. What has changed?”

“My relationship with Sol has changed.”

“Has it?” Aya drew the dress from her shoulders. “He still visits, day or night, whenever you send a note ’round to him. He is not colder or more distant to you. You still trust him.”

“He knew things about Wynwood.”

“He confessed those to you.”

“So shouldn’t I confess to him?”

Aya gave a soft sigh, then with strong fingers, clasped Laura’s shoulders and turned her around so that they faced each other. Laura moved obediently, like a lost child.

The expression on Aya’s face was that of a friend, not a servant, a woman who had always tried to protect her even against Wynwood, even on that terrible night. “If you tell him, it may cost your friendship. But you already know that. You may be willing to pay that price, but what will happen to Mrs. Rook and the servants who acted on her orders?”

Laura wanted to say that she knew Sol well enough to be certain what he would do, how he would feel. She wanted to say that he cared for her too much, that he knew what kind of monster Wynwood had been, that he would understand.

Sol was a good man. He also had a strong sense of duty and trusted the men he reported to, men whom Laura did not know.

From what she’d learned these past ten years through the women she’d met on Rachey Street, through the servants she’d collected in her household, there were some men who were honorable, like Sol. But there were other men for whom the law was flexible and easily bent for nobility, but hard and rigid for common folk.

And because of that, when she answered Aya, she said the only thing she knew was the truth: “I don’t know what Sol would do.”

It saddened her, because only a few weeks ago, she had thought she knew Sol better than she’d known her own husband. But ironically, it turned out that she had known neither of them very well.

No, that wasn’t quite true. “I trust Sol to help me.”

“Will he? Without hesitation, even if you tell him this terrible secret?”

“I trust in Sol’s heart. He could not have hidden it from me during all our years as friends.” Laura stared into Aya’s dark blue eyes. “But Sol also answers to other men in that secret department of the Alien Office.” She had not told all her servants about the Ramparts, but those closest to her, like Aya, knew the entire truth. “He has no reason to doubt those men.”

“But you do?”

Laura shook her head, looking down at her hands, which were open in front of her. When she spoke, it was in a whisper as if she were spilling a terrible secret. “For some reason, when I think of Sol’s senior officers and fellow agents, I feel … uncertainty.” It was like a worm wriggling in her heart, uncomfortable and faintly repulsive.

“Has he said something to make you doubt them?” Aya’s voice was calm.

“No. I have no reason for my feelings, but I still feel them.”

Yes, Sol trusted those men. But she could not.

Aya was silent as she pondered Laura’s words. Her hands dropped from Laura’s shoulders. “Then for now, perhaps you should trust your feelings.”

Laura was not surprised at Aya’s suggestion. Her maid was fiercely loyal, but tended to act on her emotions more than logic. She was a good contrast to the housekeeper, Mrs. Rook, who was cool and logical.

But Aya surprised her when she continued, “I do not know why, but I also feel some uncertainty when I think about the agents in Mr. Drydale’s department.”

Laura looked up at her. “You do?”

Aya bit her lip, her words tentative. “Like you, I have no reason to feel uneasy, but … something feels dangerous.” She gave a soft gasp as she thought of something. “Earlier today … or perhaps, yesterday,” she amended, and Laura realized it must be past midnight. “A man came to deliver a message for Mr. Drydale. The note was given to Mr. Coulton-Jones to deliver to Mr. Drydale at Stapytton House.”

“It was the news about the deaths of the French agents.” Laura had been at Stapytton House with Phoebe when Mr. Coulton-Jones arrived with the message for Sol.

“I remained in the servants’ staircase while they spoke in the drawing room,” Aya said shamelessly, but she knew Laura would have approved of her vigilance when there was a stranger such as that in the house. “When the man arrived, Mr. Coulton-Jones spoke to him at first. I couldn’t hear what was said, but the man’s tone was … belligerent. Eventually, Lady Aymer interrupted them. I believe it was she who convinced the man to give the message to Mr. Coulton-Jones to deliver to Mr. Drydale.”

“Why would he be belligerent?” Laura wondered aloud. “Why would a man from Sol’s department quarrel with Mr. Coulton-Jones? According to Sol, Mr. Coulton-Jones is working directly and officially under him.”

Aya gave a small shrug in answer. “I believe that is why I feel unease about the Ramparts.”

Laura nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I apologize that I did not inform you about this earlier.”

“You have no need to apologize. Today has been quite an eventful day.”

Aya helped her into her nightgown and left her. When Wynwood had been alive, Aya had slept in Laura’s tiny dressing room next door, where there was barely enough room for the maid to sleep amidst Laura’s wardrobes and dressers. After his death, she had insisted that Aya was entitled to a private, larger room in the servants’ quarters on the top floor. Laura could hear Aya’s footsteps on the narrow servants’ staircase, soft and hesitant, as if reluctant to leave her mistress, but then there was the distant creak of a wooden door, and the house was silent.

She lay in bed and stared at the darkened ceiling. She had long ago removed the canopy from the ancient bed so that she would feel less suffocated, something she had desperately needed when Wynwood was alive. But now the open air above her made her feel exposed.

She could not tell Sol. Would there ever come a day when she could?

She wrapped her regrets around her like a frost-laden blanket, and the chill turned her heart into ice.

CHAPTER ONE

Two weeks later

Stapytton House, on the outskirts of London, had once held a ballroom with numerous windows that looked out over a quaint French-style garden. The garden, alas, had been overtaken by weeds, and the ballroom had ceased to look like one.

Every single window had been cracked, although it was questionable what act of nature could have destroyed so many panes of glass. The wooden floor, which once likely gleamed with polish, now was a motley of brown, black, and dark green, which made one feel that a misstep would cause a broken floorboard and a dangerous tumble down into the basement level. It also bulged with warping from water damage, so walking across it was like traversing a bobbing boat.

Michael slowed the wide roundhouse punch he threw at Miss Gardinier, but despite how his hand looked to be moving like a slug in mid-air, she just barely ducked under it. Then in side-stepping to try to angle for a counter, the uneven floor made her weakened leg wobble and give way.

He didn’t even hesitate at the sight of a woman in jeopardy. Without an ounce of mercy, he moved in with a slow jab. Rather, it looked slow to his senses, still enhanced by the Root formula Jack had forced upon him, but it was apparently too quick for Miss Gardinier. She took too long to notice his attack and jerked backwards barely an inch from his knuckles. She yelped as she lost her balance and landed on her backside.

“Heartless! Cruel!” she flung at him from her position on the floor.

He tried. He really did, but no matter how hard he pressed his hand over his mouth, it would be obvious to her that he was trying not to laugh at her.

Miss Gardinier’s gray eyes blazed with ire. “You saw I lost my footing. Could you not have given me a moment?”

Miss Sauber, watching from the edge of the ballroom, was the one who answered her friend. “A real attacker would not have given you a moment.” Miss Sauber likely had taken pity on Michael and spoken up in order to prevent more of Miss Gardinier’s wrath from thundering down upon him.

“Et tu, Brute?” Miss Gardinier said with a pout.

“That is the only thing you remembered from your Shakespeare,” Miss Sauber replied dryly. She reached a hand down to help Miss Gardinier to her feet.

“You would do better to remember more of your lessons from Mr. Armstrong,” Michael told her sternly.

Mr. Drydale had been taking Miss Sauber and Miss Gardinier to the Ramparts in the mornings to be privately trained by Mr. Alex Armstrong, who trained agents for both the Alien Office and the Foreign Office. A giant of a man, with muscles the size of headstones and a very impressive blond mustache, he often flashed his gleaming white teeth in a ready smile, which was nearly as blinding as the light reflecting from his balding pate. He was cheerfully relentless in training the two women in the many methods by which they could incapacitate an opponent using only their fists or weapons of opportunity.

Miss Sauber had been the one to approach Mr. Drydale and request some sort of fighting training, confessing that she had been woefully outclassed by the abilities of the French spy Brigitte. Michael was at Stapytton House when she brought the subject up to Mr. Drydale, and she apparently expected an explosive quarrel, because her face was screwed up as if her arguments were going to come spewing out of her mouth. Her jaw had actually fallen open when Mr. Drydale immediately agreed to her suggestion.

Now, after two weeks of training, Michael had bullied Miss Gardinier into sparring with him while they waited for Mr. Drydale to arrive at Stapytton House. It had become standard for either Michael, Thorne, or Mr. Drydale to travel with the two women in Lady Wynwood’s coach, driven by her coachman. They would remain in the house with them so that the two would not be alone in such a remote area, with only the coachman, who would be in the separated stable for part of the time, caring for the horses.

It was often boring work, to guard the two women, both of whom would hole themselves up in their respective work rooms, and Michael often spent time doing physical training or chatting with the coachman, Mr. Havner. Michael gave the man pointers on his fisticuffs technique, but the coachman was not a great fighter, and in a confrontation, he was more effective with his accuracy with a horse-whip.

But since the two women had begun their training with Mr. Armstrong, Michael would instead spar with them to test their mettle. He now stood in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, hands on his hips as he frowned at Miss Gardinier. She was breathing heavily and perspiration dotted the edges of the plain gown she wore when working in her stillroom, while Michael’s breath was still long and even.

“You are quick and accurate,” he told her, despite the fact she hadn’t landed a single blow, “but you are lacking in mobility because of your leg injury. So you must work to become more flexible so that you may avoid punches you cannot move away from.”

Miss Gardinier looked rather sullen, but Miss Sauber said to her, “Isn’t that the same thing that Vadoma told you before?”

Miss Gardinier groaned. “But stretching hurts so much …”

“Vadoma?” Michael asked.

“A gypsy woman who taught us how to fight with knives,” Miss Sauber said. “Keriah’s father allows them to camp on his lands every summer.”

He had seen the two women knife-fighting with Brigitte, and despite the stress and heat of battle with the French agents affected by the Goldensuit plants, he had remembered being surprised and impressed. Sep had also mentioned that he’d seen them fight, and that their skill was considerable, although their movements were unconventional.

Now Michael understood why their attacks would surprise an opponent. Their teacher would be nothing if not unconventional.

Still, he wanted to help prepare them for fighters even more skilled than Brigitte. He told Miss Gardinier, “You must strengthen the muscles in your abdomen and lower back, so that you may more easily bend your torso and dodge the blows that you cannot sidestep. Your most important skill shall be to buy yourself time.”

“What do you mean?” Miss Sauber asked him.

“You mentioned that when you cut someone with the sedative smeared on your knives, it is several minutes before it takes effect, isn’t that so?”

“Ah, I see,” Miss Gardinier said, realizing why he’d mentioned buying time. “Yes, it takes three to five minutes for a normal man, more for a man on the Root, depending on the amount of sedative.”

“So we must engage an enemy while we wait,” Miss Sauber said.

“If your knife is knocked away, you must be able to keep his attention with your fists alone,” Michael added.

Both women looked thoughtful. They were still new to the types of physical confrontations that agents were trained for, the flow of battle and the tactics needed to defeat an opponent.

“How many normal men could you incapacitate with a sedative knife?” Michael asked them.

“Just one,” Miss Gardinier answered slowly. “The sedative must be replaced after being used once, or at most twice if the first cut was shallow.”

Miss Sauber immediately understood the problem Michael had touched upon. “So the knives are not effective if we are attacked by multiple people,” she said.

He nodded. “You shall need the means to fight without relying on the sedative.” He motioned to Miss Sauber. “Shall we?” he asked, as if asking her to dance.

She was taller and her reach longer than the petite Miss Gardinier. The width of her shoulders was usually disguised by the puffed sleeves of the fashionable gowns she wore, but now that she was dressed in something plainer for working with the plants, he could see the play of her muscles under the fabric as she circled around him, her hands raised before her a little awkwardly.

She threw a punch. Miss Gardinier had fought wildly and punched with great enthusiasm, but Miss Sauber was surprisingly tentative. Well, she would need to learn to overcome that. He stepped in, faking a jab and intending to simply tweak a stray curl from where her hair had been gathered at the back of her head, to teach her lesson.

Except that she slammed a hard fist straight into his chin.

There was nothing tentative about that blow. Michael realized with surprise, and also approval, that she’d been faking her awkwardness to draw him closer so that she could land an unexpected hit.

Miss Gardinier crowed in triumph as though she had been the one to strike him.

Miss Sauber’s eyes didn’t waver as she studied him, not giving in to any surge of confidence from her attack. But he noted that her gown was like most of the current styles, and the skirt—or perhaps her petticoat—was narrow. She had difficulty stepping to the side, and her legs were too close together rather than forming a wider, stable base for the rest of her body.

He faked a left jab to the right side of her head, forcing her to pivot away from him. She was at the perfect angle to his body so that he could bring his right foot swerving toward her in a fast arc, striking between her Achilles tendon and her ankle bone. The sudden jolt, coupled with her too-narrow stance, swept her left leg out from under her and she began falling.

But the movement of his feint and his kick had brought his body close to her, and even as she fell, her hands grabbed the loose collar of his white shirt. He thought at first that she was trying to pull him down to the ground with her, but then she reared her neck back and delivered a sharp headbutt.

Stars exploded in front of his eyes, and he didn’t resist as her grip on his shirt pulled him down with her. Except that he landed on something soft instead of the hard, dusty floorboards.

He smelled wildflowers rather than the mold from the warped wood, but he still couldn’t see beyond the flashes of light in his vision. “Excellent headbutt,” he groaned.

“Um … thank you?” Her voice was a little strained.

His vision began to clear and he saw fabric rather than a face. He realized with horror that he had been speaking to her bosom.

He tried to rise, but his head swam in figure-eights, and she was so soft and smelled so nice. So he ended up propping himself on his elbows instead.

This put his face directly above hers.

Her forehead was bright red, making his own begin to throb as if suddenly reminded that he’d been clouted. Her sea-foam green eyes were also a bit unfocused, so perhaps she was still seeing the stars that framed his field of view. Her lips had parted, and he abruptly realized that her mouth was terribly close to his.

His chest was pressed against her so that he could feel the thudding of her heart. Its rhythm was quick and light—and as fast as his own.

Perhaps the headbutt had also muffled his hearing, because he didn’t hear the footsteps that should have sounded on the rickety main staircase. Instead, he jolted in surprise at Mr. Drydale’s booming exclamation, “Mr. Coulton-Jones!”

The two of them scrambled to their feet amidst tangled skirt fabric and clouds of dust. They both blurted out at the same time, “We were only sparring.”

Which, of course, made it sound like they had been doing something exceptionally scandalous.

Keriah began whooping in laughter, braying like a donkey.

***

Fortunately, Thorne chose that moment to also arrive at the house, his heavy bootstrap sounding on the stairs. Michael shrugged back into his coat and tried not to look at Miss Sauber, who swiped dust from her skirt.

Thorne paused in the doorway to the ballroom, and his eyebrows rose slightly. From Mr. Drydale’s deep frown and Miss Gardinier’s snickering, it was obvious he had missed something, but he seemed unwilling to ask what it had been.

He usually drove Isabella with him in his decrepit dogcart, but she was not with him today. “Did you have a little tiff with my sister again?” Michael asked his friend, knowing it would annoy him.

It did. Thorne glowered at him. “We never have tiffs. We have full-blown shouting matches.”

“At least this time, she didn’t smack you in the eye with her fan.”

His glower grew even deeper. “I’ll have you know that scratch she gave me with her fan sticks made my entire eyelid swell to the size of a Bath bun.”

Michael knew that banter like this only served to distract him from thinking about what had happened. Or rather, from thinking about what he’d been feeling when it happened.

With his work as an agent, he had disciplined his emotions so that they would not lead him astray, no matter what might be happening around him. But since Richard had died, he had found it more and more difficult to keep a tight rein over his state of mind. And now that he was dependent upon the Root …

His heart rate suddenly broke into a gallop. Where the physical action of sparring with the women had not caused him to even breathe a little faster, suddenly sweat broke out upon his forehead, the back of his neck, the middle of his back. He suddenly felt as though his throat had closed, and he had to fight not to gasp and pant.

He squeezed his eyes closed, bowed his head, and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. The circular motion reminded him of when his mother would calm him during a thunderstorm, and the sudden rush of anxiety slowly began to leak out of his body like a dripping faucet.

“Mr. Coulton-Jones?” The voice was soft, and concerned for him, and a sweet tone he could have picked out of an entire buzzing ballroom. Miss Sauber patiently waited for his reply, which somehow helped him to calm himself.

“I am well,” he told her. “Slight headache.”

When he looked up, he saw Miss Gardinier still standing by the wall, although her body was rigid and swaying ever so slightly toward him. She had apparently had to fiercely prevent herself from rushing to his side, but Miss Sauber gave a small motion with her hand to her friend, and Miss Gardinier relaxed.

He was grateful for that mercy. Miss Gardinier meant well, and she was very thorough in ascertaining that he was still in good health, but she tended to be rather intensely focused, darting about him and poking at him. He felt rather more like an experiment than a patient.

Perhaps he was an experiment. After all, no one else had ever become a Berserker and lived.

He shut that thought down before his emotions could fly out of his control again.

Very few rooms in Stapytton House did not have some sort of hole in the wall or windows, but one room that was relatively comfortable to gather in was the butler’s pantry in the basement. It had once been a wine cellar, but the rotting wooden racks had been removed and a fancifully carved table placed inside with a mish-mash of chairs encircling it.

The men sat, but Mr. Drydale did not begin the meeting until the two women arrived with a tea tray laden with treats from Lady Wynwood’s cook, which Miss Sauber had brought with her from the townhouse. Mr. Drydale had at first objected to the refreshments, which seemed overly frivolous during a discussion of such serious matters, but then he’d grudgingly admitted he liked having hot tea in the cold room.

As Miss Gardinier was handing out teacups, she announced, “Before we begin, I have a request for Mr. Rosmont.” She shot him a sour look. “I hereby officially request your physical presence in my stillroom here at Stapytton House after the meeting. Today,” she added forcefully.

Her oddly specific demand was the result of Thorne finding excuses to avoid her during the last two team meetings they had had here at the house. She was only checking his health to ensure he was still feeling well and had fully recovered from breathing in the Goldensuit pollen, so Michael didn’t blame her for being irked by Thorne’s successful evasions.

The days after the French agents had been captured, Thorne had suffered from symptoms much like a putrid cough, and Miss Gardinier had ordered him to bedrest along with some rather vile-smelling tinctures for him to drink (which, Thorne admitted to Michael, he had poured into the chamber pot). But the headaches, chills and sweating had eventually passed, and for the last week, he had appeared to be normal.

“Miss Gardinier,” Michael said as he nonchalantly sipped his tea, “I asked my sister how Thorne was feeling, and she confirmed he hasn’t indicated he is still in pain or uncomfortable in any way.”

Thorne grunted in surprise and embarrassment, but Michael gave him an even look. He knew his friend was too accustomed to hiding his weaknesses—a byproduct of his years under his tyrant of a father—and would not be honest with Miss Gardinier, who was simply worried about the effects of the pollen on his health.

Miss Gardinier smiled in gratitude at the news, but still skewered Thorne with a sharp glare. “After the meeting. Today.”

“Yes, yes,” Thorne replied, conceding.

“Might as well report on everyone’s health.” Mr. Drydale gave Michael the same even look he’d given Thorne.

Michael grimaced, but replied readily. “Miss Gardinier has examined me regularly, roughly twice a week.”

“He is in good health,” she affirmed to Mr. Drydale. “His strength is still abnormally strong, but since I did not know how strong he was before, it is difficult to guess a percentage. He is approximately three times stronger than Mr. Rosmont. In addition, his speed and reflexes have decreased slightly, but they are still almost four times faster than Mr. Rosmont.”

At being unfavorably compared to him, Thorne frowned at Michael, who returned a cheeky grin.

“How often must you breathe in the Goldensuit pollen?” Mr. Drydale asked Michael.

He was more hesitant as he replied, “It is inconsistent how much time passes before the headaches and weakness returns to my body. Sometimes days, sometimes over a week.”

“I have been weighing and monitoring the amount of plant matter he is dosed with each time he comes to me for treatment,” Miss Gardinier added.

Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he remembered the last dose. There was something about the pollen that made him crave it, something about the scent that he longed for. And yet another part of himself was absolutely repulsed by it.

But it was only because of that pollen that he was alive.

Mr. Drydale’s voice cut through his disturbing ruminations. “Now then, as to Mrs. Bianca Jadis’s protector …”

He had explained to all of them the information that Lady Wynwood had somehow gathered about Bianca. It had surprised Michael, but he was used to receiving details about his missions without knowing the source. They were warned not to tell the Ramparts that it was Lady Wynwood who uncovered Bianca’s history.

Mr. Drydale said, “I have asked around discreetly about Mr. Field Emsley, but none of my acquaintance—or even their acquaintance—were friendly with him, beyond a passing nod if they saw him at a party. But last night at a social gathering, I happened to speak to Lord Bambrough.”

Thorne sneered at the name, for he had been a crony of his father’s.

Mr. Drydale saw the gesture. “Yes, I don’t particularly like him myself, but he apparently knew Emsley—at least, well enough to introduce me to Emsley’s heir, Mr. Giles Cooper.”

Nearly everyone sat up straighter in their seats at this news.

“I requested an audience with Mr. Cooper this morning so that we may discuss Emsley’s affairs in private. Mr. Field Emsley apparently died from a mysterious wasting illness only a few months before Bianca married Mr. Carl Jadis. Since most of his friends believed his mistress was dead in France, where he had abandoned her, suspicion of poison fell upon his wife. However, nothing was proven since Emsley had been in town and Mrs. Emsley had been away at their country estate, and had no means to put anything in his food or his drink.”

“Was Mr. Cooper aware that Bianca had returned from France?” Miss Sauber asked.

“He learned of it only after Mr. Emsley had died, and after Mr. Cooper had inherited Emsley’s country estate,” Mr. Drydale said. “He had been forced the sell Emsley’s London townhouse to settle the man’s debts, but he confessed he had simply thrown away any fripperies that may have belonged to Bianca. He only visits town occasionally, so he did not hear about her until several months later, but naturally he did not feel a need to speak to her.”

“He knew nothing about her?” Michael asked.

“He only heard the rumors about her and never met her face-to-face. But he mentioned that when Emsley took Bianca to France with him, it was likely in order to look over an estate that he had inherited from a French grandmother. That is probably where the couple stayed and where Emsley abandoned Bianca. Mr. Cooper now owns the estate—he mentioned the name and the nearby village—but he has not traveled to France because of the war, so he has not ascertained the condition of the house.”

“Was Emsley part of Jack’s secret group, do you think?” Michael asked.

“We have been calling them the Gentians,” Miss Sauber said.

Mr. Drydale apparently hadn’t heard that before, because he looked to her with eyebrows raised. “Why Gentians?”

“The flowers in the symbol they use are gentian flowers,” Miss Sauber said. “They mean ‘victory,’ but I couldn’t hope to guess at what the Gentians mean by it.”

“France’s victory over England?” Thorne suggested darkly. “Seeing as how they offered the Root to Napoleon.”

“Have they really been hoping for that outcome since Lord Wynwood’s time?” Miss Gardinier asked.

It certainly suggested something about their thoughts and motivations.

“Calling them the Gentians makes things easier for us, at any rate,” Mr. Drydale said. “As to your question, Mr. Coulton-Jones, I have discovered nothing that may indicate Emsley belonged to the group, but he may have been skilled at hiding it, as Bianca was. Even Wynwood’s connection would have remained unknown if Phoebe had not found the pocket watch.”

“We think perhaps Bianca’s husband, Mr. Carl Jadis, was one of them,” Thorne said.

“Oh?” Miss Gardinier shifted in her seat in interest.

“Lady Wynwood graciously gave us the address of Bianca’s townhouse from when she … er, visited her just before her death,” Michael said. He couldn’t forget the look of pain that crossed her face as she handed him the slip of paper with the direction of her husband’s mistress’s home in Soho. “From there, we searched every church in the parish but could find nothing, so we expanded into the nearby parishes.”

“We finally found church records for Mr. Jadis,” Thorne said. “Specifically, the record of the death of Miss Deala Jadis in 1791. She was apparently his older sister.”

“We also found the record of Jadis’s marriage to Bianca in 1792,” Michael said. “He died rather suddenly in 1793, and Mrs. Jadis had his funeral at the same church in which they married, which was convenient for us.”

“Convenient for her, too,” Miss Gardinier muttered, and Miss Sauber jabbed an elbow into her side for her crass comment.

“Jadis’s townhouse went to his widow, naturally, so we asked around the same parishes as the church and Bianca’s home, sniffing out gossip,” Michael said. It was something he excelled in, because he would approach different people depending on his disguise, and they would be more likely to share juicy tidbits with him. “Jadis had bought his townhouse only a year or so before his sister died.”

“Where had they lived before?” Mr. Drydale asked.

Thorne shook his head. “Neither of us could find the answer. None of Jadis’s neighbors could remember where Mr. Jadis and Miss Jadis lived before they moved to the townhouse. Some seemed to have forgotten, but others seemed of the impression that the Jadis siblings had specifically not mentioned it.”

“We also ventured into Rachey Street and the environs to speak to a couple women whom we heard were Bianca’s friends,” Michael said. “But as far as they could recall, Bianca never mentioned anything about her husband’s past to them.”

“Who owns the townhouse now?” Mr. Drydale asked.

“According to the neighbors, there was some irregularity about the affair after Bianca died,” Thorne said. “They didn’t completely understand, but through some legal setup, after Bianca’s death, the house was sold by the attorney to a rich merchant rather than being inherited by Bianca’s younger sister.”

“We think the name of the merchant was Mr. Jonah Farnam,” Michael said, “or perhaps Farnham. The neighbors were not certain. At the moment, the house is let to the mistress of Sir Adderly.”

“What of Bianca’s sister?” Miss Sauber asked.

“The neighbors remembered her because they were quite concerned about her,” Michael said. “She had been living with her sister, but the day Bianca was found dead, she disappeared. In fact, Bianca’s body was found not by her sister, but by a friend who had visited her that day. The sister—Zephyra Irvine—was already missing.”

“If she was not killed,” Thorne said, “she is running for her life. Probably from whoever murdered her older sister.”

“Was it obvious to the neighbors that it was murder?” Miss Gardinier asked.

“Not particularly, although all the people we spoke with were shocked by the suddenness of it,” Michael said. “They were all surprised that Bianca would take her own life, but none of them thought it was too unusual.”

“Or perhaps,” Thorne said, “none of them wanted to believe it was unusual and poke their noses further into it.”

Mr. Drydale nodded. “Likely.”

“One other thing we discovered,” Michael said, “is that Mr. Jadis was apparently a botanist. At least, that is what he told his London neighbors.”

“A botanist?” Miss Sauber leaned forward. “Did he have a greenhouse or a garden?”

Michael shook his head. “If he did, no one knew about it. And Bianca never spoke to her neighbors of a greenhouse or a plot of land outside of London.”

“Was it inherited by her sister, or was that sold to Mr. Farnam also?” Miss Gardinier wondered. “I have heard nothing pleasant about Mrs. Jadis, but I am beginning to feel some pity for her poor sister.”

Privately, Michael agreed. “I’m afraid we’ve come to a dead end in finding any other people in London who can speak about Mr. Jadis before he arrived in town,” he said, “but we will keep our ears open.”

“Yes, it may come to nothing, but we must discover where the Jadis siblings lived before they moved into the townhouse,” Mr. Drydale said. “If we speak with their former neighbors from their previous residence, someone might know the name of a relative.”

Michael said, “In the meantime, I will attempt to find and speak to the merchant who bought Jadis’s townhouse.”

“Be very cautious,” Mr. Drydale said. “Because of the way the house was sold, the merchant may be connected to the Gentians.”

“Of course,” Michael said. “I will remain in disguise.”

“Mr. Rosmont and I shall attempt to find the attorney who sold the house,” Mr. Drydale said. “Mr. Rosmont, please ask around the neighborhood, and I shall ask my contacts.”

“It likely goes without saying, but you and Mr. Rosmont should also exercise extreme caution, Uncle Sol,” Miss Sauber said in a chiding voice.

“Yes,” Miss Gardinier said, “Bianca’s attorney could very well be the same as Jack’s, or any other of the Gentians, and you mustn’t alert them to the fact that someone is looking into Mr. or Mrs. Jadis.”

The men nodded, and Mr. Drydale asked, “Miss Gardinier, how is Sep’s recovery coming along? I heard you spoke to Dr. Shokes yesterday.”

“He is improving,” she said. “Today marks exactly four weeks from when Jack injured his knee in the stable, and the swelling has completely gone down at last. When Dr. Shokes saw to him, Mr. Ackett was able to move his knee freely without any pain.”

“That is excellent news,” Michael said. “I had dinner with him this week and he looked very gloomy. I had to tease him about the sorry state of his nose.” While fighting Silas, just before he was captured by Jack, Sep’s nose had been broken in the fight. While Dr. Shokes had (quite painfully) straightened it, his once knife-straight nose was looking rather crooked.

“Didn’t you have dinner with him last week, also?” Thorne asked. “You are going to look like a fretting mother hen. Shall I call you Lady Cluck-Cluck?”

Thorne sat close enough for Michael to aim a well-placed kick on one of his long legs. The blow made his entire chair pitched upward for a few inches before thudding back down.

Mr. Drydale glared at their juvenile antics. “I have been visiting him when I can, as well, but he is often not at home.”

“He’s been at Aunt Laura’s house,” Miss Sauber said. “He’s searching for more of Uncle Wynwood’s hiding places.” She gave Mr. Drydale an admonishing look. “He’s well aware that it’s only meant to keep him busy.”

“Of course it’s meant to keep him busy,” he retorted. “I’ve known him most of his life. He’s likely to brood around his mother’s home and get underfoot of the servants.”

“However, it is undeniable that he has been quite clever and creative about coming up with ideas for where to look,” Miss Sauber said thoughtfully. “He found a hiding spot behind a wall in Uncle Wynwood’s dressing room.”

“He did?” Michael asked, at the same time Mr. Drydale demanded, “Why was I not informed of this?”

“There was nothing in it.” Miss Sauber shrugged. “I’m afraid Mr. Ackett is running out of places to look. But he appears to be moving about quite smoothly. His knee doesn’t seem to pain him at all, even when he was climbing into the attic.”

“He may appear normal, but because his normal level of activity has been hampered for four weeks, he is still weak,” Miss Gardinier said. “Dr. Shokes has been helping him to recover his lost leg strength.”

Michael idly supposed that Sep was missing his usual practice of running across London rooftops. “Will he be recovered soon?”

“I believe so,” Miss Gardinier said. “Phoebe, if he is at your aunt’s house today, ask him if I may see him tomorrow here at Stapytton House. And Mr. Drydale, I would appreciate if you would send him a note, in the event Phoebe does not see him.” Miss Gardinier preferred to treat their various ills here at the house, since her stillroom was now stuffed with all manner of medicines, poultices, and tinctures.

“I asked about Septimus because I’m afraid we need more boots on the streets of London,” Mr. Drydale said. “It has been difficult to find information on one or two specific men with only the three of us.”

“Isabella apologizes that she has not been available lately,” Thorne said. “Her mother ate too many lobster patties at a party last week and has been feeling poorly, so Isabella has been caring for her.”

“I thought she was feeling better.” Michael had visited her last week, but had left quickly because his mother had simply complained to him about his lack of attendance upon the Season’s parties. She was apparently being hounded by mothers of eligible daughters. It had been painful to him that he had to lie to her, and he hadn’t been able to endure the anguished expression that suffused Isabella’s face before she quickly hid it from their parent.

“Mrs. Coulton-Jones is feeling well enough to send Isabella running her errands and reading to her in bed, but not well enough to do without her company,” Thorne said.

“If she becomes available, I may ask her to infiltrate the merchant’s household,” Mr. Drydale said thoughtfully. “Disguised as a young boy, she would be able to discover things that grown men could not learn.”

“We could help you, Uncle Sol,” Miss Sauber said. Miss Gardinier nodded agreement.

“I would prefer you continue to work on your experiments,” he said. “Mr. Coulton-Jones’s life is dependent on your plant studies, and Miss Gardinier’s sedatives are the only things enabling us to match any of Jack’s men who are on the Root.”

“At the very least, we needn’t have one of you to guard us at the house,” Miss Gardinier said. “We shall be perfectly safe with only Mr. Havner.”

“That is why I wondered about Septimus’s condition. He may feel we are merely pandering to his ego, but his work at Laura’s house is quite important. I know Wynwood, and he would not have had only one hidden pocket space. He would have had several, with different things hidden within each. But if Sep is now coming up dry, and if he is on the road to recovery, it may be best to have him here, guarding you, where Miss Gardinier may monitor his progress.”

Miss Gardinier’s eyes lit up. “That would be most ideal. Dr. Shokes has recently shown me some exercises and stretches for Mr. Ackett to perform to strengthen his leg. He may perform them here. Dr. Shokes may even be able to come here to guide and direct his efforts.”

“The plants do not always require my entire day,” Miss Sauber said. “In disguise, perhaps with Calvin and Clara, I could help you and the others investigate the merchant …”

“Firstly,” Mr. Drydale replied dryly, “Laura would gut me. Secondly, I’m certain she has need of her pageboy and scullery maid during the day.”

Miss Sauber sighed, probably realizing—as Michael had—that Mr. Drydale and Lady Wynwood would not allow her to wander the streets of London alone, no matter how clever her disguise. “At the very least, direct me to whom I should speak with at evening engagements,” she insisted. “You are yourself gossiping with various men at your club, so why could I not chat with their wives or sisters at balls and soirees?”

The idea had merit, and Michael was surprised Mr. Drydale had not requested such from Miss Sauber in the past two weeks.

Mr. Drydale had the expression of a man about to be forced to down a particularly nasty medicine. “Actually, Laura and I discussed this two weeks ago. We even looked over the social events to which she had sent in both her acceptances and regrets. However, the men connected to Mr. Emsley, at least, are not of the highest caliber, and we had determined that they or even their female relations were unlikely to attend the events to which Lady Wynwood had been invited.”

Michael knew that Lady Wynwood did not value a person’s family name or titles or wealth, but she had strong moral requirements of the people she associated with. Those engaged in morally questionable activities were avoided, no matter if they were from an ancient family or owned the largest mansion in Grosvenor Square.

Michael had half-expected Miss Sauber to continue arguing, but she seemed to see the logic in his decision. However, her disappointment was writ large upon her face.

Perhaps to comfort her, Mr. Drydale added, “I can honestly say that if I thought there was a situation in which I could use your help, I would not hesitate. You have already proven you have sufficient mettle and your acting skills are superb. However, what you and Miss Gardinier are doing here is equally important.” He turned to Miss Gardinier. “Have you given everyone knives laced with sedative?”

“Yes, although …” She tilted her head in thought. “It might be best to have the sedative reapplied today or tomorrow. The paste loses its potency the older it is, and I should not wish you to enter into a fight with sedative that is less than full strength.”

At the thought of facing Berserkers with old sedative, several faces around the table grimaced.

“If any of you encounter a Berserker with only one or two sedative knives, I should hope all of you would have the good sense to run,” Mr. Drydale said sternly. “We can always gather together and come at them more prepared.”

“I have made copious amounts of sedative, so that we will have enough should something happen.” Miss Gardinier swallowed, and a look of worry flitted across her face as her eyes darted to Michael.

He knew she was not afraid of him, but she was right to be cautious. He did not know what might happen to him, and if the Root in his veins caused him to lose control again, he would want this team to be prepared.

“How much?” Mr. Drydale asked.

“Enough for five Berserkers, or ten to twelve men on the Root.”

“If we encounter both …” Thorne said.

“I am waiting on more ingredients to make more,” she replied. “However, I didn’t wish to make too large a batch only to have it be less effective by the time you must use it.”

Mr. Drydale nodded approval. “Have you finished the new sedative formula?”

Michael was about to ask why they needed a new sedative formula, but then he remembered what Thorne had told him weeks ago, when he first awoke. When they had gone to rescue Sep in the stable, Nick had become a Berserker and they had sedated him. But Silas had taken his unconscious body, and Miss Gardinier was concerned that Jack might be able to change the Root recipe to be able to resist the effects of the original sedative. It had also taken a much larger amount of sedative to incapacitate Nick compared to Michael, so she had wanted to make the sedative stronger.

“It is nearly completed,” Miss Gardinier said. “Perhaps a few days, perhaps a week. I cannot be certain.”

Mr. Drydale nodded. He asked Miss Sauber, “How are the Goldensuit plants we took from Jack and Maner?”

She shook her head. “I am at my wit’s end. The Goldensuit plants are very much like poppy plants, but they do not grow quite like poppies. I am uncertain if they have different nutritional requirements. Only two of the Goldensuit plants have died, fortunately, but the ones remaining are very sickly.”

“The Goldensuit is different from Jack’s hybrid? Which one is keeping Michael alive?” Thorne asked. His question was heartlessly blunt, but Michael could hear the concern in his tone. They had been friends since they were children, and although they had both undertaken dangerous missions for the Foreign Office, he had never heard Thorne sound so anxious about his well-being. It was perhaps because of the way Michael’s life had been rescued by Miss Gardinier’s sedative, when the Root should have killed him.

“Only one of the Goldensuit plants was flowering when we acquired it, and I collected pollen then,” Miss Sauber replied. “Now, however, none of them are flowering. We have much more pollen from Jack’s hybrid. We have tested the two types, and the Goldensuit has worked best, but we have too little pollen. Yet with the hybrid pollen, Mr. Coulton-Jones is ill again more quickly.”

“But even if we are able make the Goldensuit flower, using its pollen cannot be a long-term solution,” Miss Gardinier said. “Each time, the pollen’s effects are less and less potent.”

“What have you learned of Jack’s hybrid plants?” Mr. Drydale asked.

“I know now why Jack created the hybrid,” Miss Sauber said. “It is much easier to grow than the Goldensuit. However, the plant is very inconsistent.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mr. Drydale asked.

“We noticed this before when looking at the Root sample, but it is more apparent now that we can compare different hybrid plants,” Miss Sauber said. “When we compare leaves under a microscope, the hybrid plants are all alike, but when we compare the roots, they look different from each other. And the roots of the plants are the main ingredient in Jack’s elixir.”

“I believe this may be why the Root elixir has been causing only some men to become Berserkers, and why Mr. Shokes reacted to the Root in a different way than Nick or Mr. Coulton-Jones,” Miss Gardinier said. “The plant matter in the different vials of the Root elixir are a mix of different types and perhaps cause different effects.”

“Have you discovered how Jack made the hybrid plants?” Mr. Drydale asked.

“Not yet,” Miss Sauber said with an apologetic look. “The French agents did not care for the plants very well, and almost all of them were dry and wilted when I first acquired them. It has taken all my effort to ensure they do not die.”

Thorne appeared to be alarmed to hear this, and glanced at Michael.

Miss Sauber noticed his reaction and said, “In trying to grow the Goldensuit, I have not yet exhausted my knowledge. We are doing all we can to determine how to wean Mr. Coulton-Jones from the Root, so that his life may no longer be in danger.”

It was encouraging that she seemed hellbent upon growing the Goldensuit successfully in order to try to save him. She might have shot him—twice—but she was working tirelessly so that he would not die.

He felt it again, that niggling twist of discomfort in his guts, the rapid-fire beating of his heart. He wanted to close his eyes and rub his temples again, but he knew Miss Gardinier would insist upon checking him. So he turned his head to the side and stared at a dark corner of the wine cellar, concentrating on his breath, expanding his stomach to breathe in a thin stream of air through his nose, then expelling it slowly. After a few minutes, his heart rate slowed.

He couldn’t continue doing this. He couldn’t continue hiding this from people. He also didn’t know why it struck now, why he hadn’t been more emotionally unstable after he awoke. But it was only after the French agents had been captured and killed—nine entire days after he’d woken up—that he had started feeling these moments of anxiety.

And always it was about the Root and the inevitability of his death. He had faced mortal danger many times on missions, but this situation was turning him inside out. Perhaps because it was the dark, ominous dread that was approaching so slowly. Perhaps because this time, his sister was caught up in the storm and he regretted causing her so much sorrow. Perhaps because this time, he was regretting what—who—he was leaving behind, a woman who had become more than simply a strong fancy, who had become real and vibrant and dazzling.

When he felt more himself, he turned his attention back to the table. Mr. Drydale was speculating about the initials that had been found in the pocket watch, how the X in front of them may indicate that the person was dead when Wynwood wrote the note. It would explain why there was an X in front of “C. J.,” Carl Jadis, if those were his initials.

Then the meeting ended. Mr. Drydale was succinct and efficient and did not allow much time for rambling discussion.

As Thorne rose from his seat, his eyes fell on Michael with a troubled expression. Michael tried to ignore it, although with anyone else—such as Isabella—the act of avoidance would only make her nag him.

But this was Thorne, and he wouldn’t say anything in front of everyone else. So he blinked, and then his face became a neutral mask again. He nodded to the table in general as he left the butler’s pantry.

Michael was about to rise to his feet, but suddenly Miss Sauber appeared beside him, ostensibly taking his empty teacup. But she laid a discreet hand on his forearm, a signal for him to remain.

If it had been Isabella, he would have been certain he didn’t wish to hear what she had to say and would have ignored her with all the cheekiness and authority of an older brother’s rights. But this was Miss Sauber, and while he still didn’t think he wanted to hear what she had to ask him, he couldn’t find it in himself to ignore her.

And perhaps he should be more conscious of the conversations he would otherwise have avoided. Since he would soon not have them any longer.

He sighed to himself at his melancholy thoughts.

Miss Gardinier was the last to leave, pausing at the open doorway to glance at her friend, but there must have been something in Miss Sauber’s expression that conveyed some message, because she hurried out after that. And at last it was only himself and Miss Sauber in the room.

“I apologize if I am prying,” she said, uncharacteristically hesitant, “but … how are you truly feeling?”

His reaction was so automatic, he didn’t even stop to think. “I’m quite well, I assure you.”

The tendons in her neck tightened briefly, as if she’d endured a slap. She gave a small, tight smile and lowered her gaze. “Of course. After all, you look quite healthy.”

The hurt in her expression made him feel as if he’d been slapped. He was simply so used to hiding his feelings, not only in his capacity as an agent for the Crown, but also because he was used to hiding his feelings even from himself.

She continued gathering the teacups onto a tray, avoiding his gaze while the silence stretched between them tighter and tighter, and he tensed as if waiting for it to suddenly break. But then she simply curtsied and left him be.

That was perhaps even worse, because he’d driven her away. She had known he would likely not wish to talk to her, and she had known he had been lying directly to her face, and yet she had reached out to him. Because she wanted to help him.

He was such a wretched churl.

Disgusted with himself, he left the house as quickly as he could, saddling his horse and heading back to town. As he rode, the emotions began bubbling inside him, everything he’d been striving to hold down. But it was useless to simply slam a lid down on a boiling soup pot.

He didn’t manage his emotions well. He knew this, and he had always been like this. And now, everything was stewing inside him—the fear and dread of his possible death, the devastation and loss of Richard’s death, the frustration of being unable to find the killer.

Whenever he felt like this, uncertain and discomposed, he would speak to Richard, and his brother would always say something to help him feel better. Richard’s faith in God had seemed to grow stronger in the year after their father suddenly passed away and just before Isabella married. Michael had always been the wild, reckless one while Richard was the calm, dependable one, and as Michael grew older, he grew to need Richard’s presence and guidance more and more, especially during the short days or weeks when he would return to England between missions. It made Richard’s murder so much worse, because Michael was back on English soil, but his brother wasn’t here.

And now, soon Michael wouldn’t be here anymore, either.

If only he had been smarter and recognized that what Richard had found—the symbol, the scarred man who might have killed Albert—had been information much too dangerous for an ordinary citizen to know. If only he had been more concerned about Richard than his job as an agent for the Foreign Office.

But he hadn’t, and Richard’s death was his fault. He was whining about feeling upset that he was dying—when he’d faced death several times before this in France—and that Richard wasn’t here to cheer him up. But Richard wasn’t here because Michael had made a terrible, terrible mistake, and the consequences had been tragic. He had blundered like an ox in a china shop. Destroying everything.

He had destroyed Isabella’s peace, too. If he couldn’t speak to Richard, he would sometimes talk to Isabella. But his sister was barely keeping herself from flying into a million pieces. She had always been close to their mother, but now there was a horrid secret she was keeping from their remaining parent, and it was hurting her because she couldn’t speak of it to anyone. She avoided talking to Michael about what might happen to him, probably because she didn’t wish to distress him, but it was clearly distressing her. She would be alarmed if he revealed his emotional anguish. At the moment, her heart seemed exceptionally fragile, and he guessed that it was because she was afraid of losing him as she had lost Richard.

But Michael also didn’t wish to talk to her because then he’d have to confront the truth that he was the reason Isabella had lost her eldest brother.

He was so used to the guilt by now that it felt like a slow-burning, festering wound. He knew he ought to clean it out but it was too swollen, too sensitive to the lightest touch, too excruciatingly painful. He didn’t want to disturb it.

He knew Isabella wouldn’t want to blame him. She would try to forgive him, but the truth was that what he’d done wasn’t something that should be forgiven. The truth that Michael had caused Richard’s death would be a thorn pricking her heart every time she looked at him.

And the knowledge in her eyes of what Michael had done would pierce that festering wound he felt. It was a wound that couldn’t be healed, so perhaps it was just as well that the Goldensuit would eventually kill him.

Until it did, he would fight to protect what was important to him, the people who were important to him.

CHAPTER TWO

Laura rubbed her eyes. How strange, they felt dry and sandy. She stared blankly at the candle on the desk, wondering for a moment why it looked different, and then realized that it had burned down to a small nub.

She’d been too caught up in reading some letters she had received from friends. They were letters which she herself had written to them in the year before Wynwood died, and which she had requested they temporarily return to her. She’d been comparing the events in the letters with things jotted in her own appointment book and also Wynwood’s book, although understanding his cryptic phrases about his activities made her eyes cross more than once.

She set down her pen, only then seeing that she’d made a large ink blot on the paper where she’d been taking notes on the names of their acquaintance. So many people, who had all been in town for the Season that year, and yet none of them had struck her as strange or noteworthy. But perhaps she simply didn’t think with the suspicion of a spy.

She rose from the desk in the library, where she’d been working, and wrapped her robe more tightly about her. She hadn’t noticed the cold until now, but she hadn’t lit a fire when she snuck into the library. She shouldn’t have been up so late, but after Aya had gone to bed, Laura hadn’t been able to sleep, and so she’d crept down here to work on the letters she had received just this day.

Tomorrow she’d have to tackle Wynwood’s ledgers again, armed with a bit more knowledge of the events during that time period and the people they each had seen. She hated looking through the books, not because the numbers intimidated her, but because she wasn’t certain how to feel when she saw purchases that Wynwood most definitely hadn’t made for her.

In looking through the financial records during the time Wynwood had taken up with Bianca, it had been difficult to make out what his business transactions had been exactly. She admitted that she also didn’t have a head for these sorts of things. For all his faults, Wynwood had taken excellent care of his lands and had a skill for making money, buying and selling properties and enterprises for great profits.

Yes, Wynwood had been many things. Excellent manager, savage bully, unfaithful spouse, and a traitor. Quite colorful.

She headed back upstairs to her bedchamber as quietly as possible so that Phoebe would not hear her wandering about. Sometimes, she could swear that Aya, all the way from her own bedchamber on the top floor, could hear her mistress sneeze.

Laura crawled into her cold bed, blew out the candle, and quickly fell asleep.

She knew immediately that it was a nightmare, even though she was flying, which was usually a fun and exciting sort of dream. She was not flying very high. She could see the countryside, which looked familiar to her, but not enough for her to immediately identify where it was. There were no landmarks she could recognize, just trees, a few quaint houses. Then with that strange abruptness of a dream, she realized that the night sky was lit by a pale half-moon occasionally hidden by drifting clouds, which was why she couldn’t see much beyond the tree line and the distant lights that may be a village.

She tried to fly toward a tree that stretched long branches toward her, but she was suddenly stopped. A man behind her grabbed her hand and brought her back to her feet. His face was hidden, but there was a giant plant on his shoulders, the roots digging into his flesh and wrapping around his neck, burrowing into his head and ears. The plant looked like a Goldensuit plant, except that instead of green leaves and stalks, it was colored blood red, and the roots were dripping blood. It was as though the plant were feeding off of the man.

A detached part of her mind knew that if Laura had been awake, she would be screaming in horror, but now she only looked at him with regret and pity.

Then suddenly behind the man there was a young boy, but she somehow knew that it was the same man when he was a child. She saw the boy being pitifully neglected and barely tolerated by a strict, unloving father. The boy was always alone, and he never cried.

Then the boy was abruptly a little older, perhaps thirteen years old. He was being held down on a bed by a woman as fat and lumpy as the Prince Regent, and she looked to be at least twenty years older than the boy. He was thin and small for his age, and although he tried to resist at first, the woman was too heavy and strong. The woman touched him, and he finally stopped resisting, but there was fear and revulsion in his face.

Laura felt the same revulsion, and stepped toward him to try to save him. But then the woman disappeared. The boy, filled with vengeance and ferocity, stood behind the man with the plant on his shoulders. The boy’s rage billowed off of him like smoke from a rampaging fire. The smoke-rage covered the man, and the weariness in his face melted away as his expression hardened. But his momentary resolve was quickly sapped away by the plant sucking the lifeblood from his body.

Laura shrank back from the man and the boy. She wanted to reach out to them, but the horrifying plant and the boy’s overwhelming wrath hissed at her, threatening to attack her.

And then she felt a cool, soft touch on her head, like the hand of her father when she was a child. She suddenly found that she could see dark spots covering the boy’s body. No, they were wounds—bruises, lesions, cuts, gashes. Some were still seeping blood, others were infected and oozing yellow fluid. Others were angry red scars that looked raw, only a step below an open sore.

They were not merely all over his body. She saw blood and dark blemishes covering a dimly lit form, shaped like an emaciated version of the boy, residing inside his body. She knew she was looking at his soul. His body and soul were injured, broken, bleeding.

The hand gently rubbing her head somehow seemed sad. She thought she felt the drip of tears falling upon her head.

She awoke when the bed moved.

Ten years—nearly eleven—of finally living without Wynwood had still not cured her of her sensitivity at night, fostered by the ten years she was married to him.

Except that Wynwood was dead. And yet the bed moved.

Her heartbeat sped up. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so afraid. Even when Wynwood was at his worst, she knew that it would hurt, but she had become used to it. She knew what to expect.

But now, there was someone in the dark with her. Someone she didn’t know.

She kept her eyes shut, tried to keep her breathing long and slow despite how she felt she was gasping for breath. She pretended to sigh in her sleep and turned over, reaching for the bell pull hanging above the tiny side table next to the bed.

It was too far away. Her hand touched only the cool sheets.

She sprang at the bell pull.

A body landed hard on top of her, and then a hand slapped over her nose and mouth, cutting off her scream.

She still reached for the bell pull. No, it was still too far away.

She tried to bite at his hand over her mouth, but he had clamped down on her too tightly. His other hand fumbled at her forearm, then finally found and latched onto her wrist. It yanked at her and flung her onto her back again. Her free hand stabbed out blindly to try to scratch at his face, but she only brushed past his ear, feeling the coarseness of his long hair.

Long hair. The strength and agility of a man younger than fifty. But it was the strong smell of dried herbs that made her immediately think of a man who wore his hair long and in a queue …

He had straddled her, one hand still over her mouth, the other on her wrist. He shoved her forearm over her chest and then a heavy, bony shin pressed down on her arm. He quickly captured her other arm, crossed it over her chest, and shoved his knee on top of both. The bones in her wrists creaked with the weight, and he pushed her so hard that she began to have trouble breathing. She started to gasp, and white lights clouded the edges of her vision.

The voice that whispered in her ear was the same one she remembered, higher pitched and more nasally than Sol’s, but with a slow, smooth quality that she had previously thought made him seem relaxed and unflappable. Now, he just sounded sinister. “I am going to take my hand from your mouth, but if you scream, I will not hurt you. Instead, I will use this pistol in my pocket to shoot the first person to come through the door.”

The fear made her head spin. She still couldn’t breathe because of his knee on her chest, but now her lungs burned as her heart rate stampeded faster and faster.

He continued, “My guess is that it will be either sweet little Aya or your niece. I don’t really care which one, but whoever it is, she’ll be very, very dead. So I would rather you didn’t scream, and I think you’ll prefer that, as well. Nod if you understand.”

She jerked her head in a nod.

He removed his hand and her mouth flew open like a fish, gasping for air. He must have realized he was pressing her too hard because the weight on her chest eased a fraction, and her stomach spasmed as she sucked in air.

In the darkness of her bedroom, she could only see the outline of his head as he loomed above her. “Dr. Heddetch,” she croaked. “Why …?”

“Where is the pocket watch?” he demanded.

The question was so unexpected that it took her a moment to realize what he’d said.

She had known him for over ten years. Before that, Laura had had another doctor, but after a particularly bad incident about five years before Wynwood died, she had avoided all surgeons. Until she had met Dr. Heddetch.

Gradually he had been called more often, for the colds caught by the servants and checkups on Graham’s bad eye and Mrs. Rook’s aching knee. Soon he was automatically called for every injury, and he had proved himself trustworthy and very discreet.

He was the only doctor they trusted. In fact, it had been Wynwood who had first hired him …

Yes, it had been Wynwood, about a year before he died. Around the time he had started seeing Bianca and somehow becoming involved with the Gentians.

“What pocket watch?” she replied.

He drew back his hand and slapped her.

She saw the blow coming and knew to roll her head with it. It still hurt and made her jaw rattle. She cried out sharply with the blow, then started sobbing quietly.

It was the first time she’d been struck since Wynwood’s death. It almost felt nostalgic.

She had always tried not to make a sound with Wynwood, but this time she had a vague plan in her head, so she continued her low moaning. She was not a great actress, but it was not difficult to weep when in actual pain.

“Answer me,” he said, his voice pitched a little louder to be heard over her crying.

She sidestepped the question. “I don’t have it. I sold it.” To Sol, for information rather than money.

He was incredulous. “Why would you sell it?”

She took refuge in anger, which might have even been a little real. “Do you truly believe that I would keep something that belonged to Wynwood? Why would I do that? Sentimental value?” She gave a huff that sounded almost like a scoffing sound. “I even sold his wedding band.” Which was perfectly true, and in fact, she had derived a great deal of pleasure from it.

He leaned closer to her, and she could smell ale on his breath. “You’re lying.”

“Were you not paying attention when you were called to this household for all the bruises and broken bones?” she hissed.

He grew very still as he remembered. But then, even in the dimness, she could see a nasty smile spread across his face. “I see. You didn’t wish to keep it because of her.”

His comment surprised her. It sounded as though he were talking about Bianca.

But he would not have known the connection between the pocket watch and Bianca’s pendant unless he had seen the pendant and the identical design on the front. Had he known Bianca so well?

On the one hand, he appeared to halfway believe that she had indeed sold the pocket watch. But on the other hand, she didn’t like how he could so accurately hit upon the very reason she wanted to be rid of it so quickly that she had given it to Sol.

He gave a low chuckle and shook the long hair out of his eyes. He smelled like the herbs from his medicines, musty and grassy at the same time. “You saw what was inside, didn’t you?”

His words made her entire body grow cold. How did Heddetch know there was something inside the pocket watch? She tried to pretend confusion. “Inside? Why would I pry it open? I had no wish to break it.”

She had never been able to lie convincingly, even when a convincing lie would have made Wynwood hit her one less time, or a little less forcefully. Heddetch must have heard something in her voice, because she doubted he could see her very well in the dark. He laughed at her. “So you did. Did you understand it?”

“Understand? What are you referring to?” Was he speaking of the symbol or the paper? She suspected it was the former. She didn’t think Wynwood would have told anyone about that paper, not even Bianca, whose initials were likely the “B. I. J.” on the list.

He hesitated, perhaps because she had sounded genuinely confused.

But then she realized she could use this situation to her advantage. If he believed that she knew more than she was saying, then he might reveal to her things that he ought not to speak of. “Why do you wish to know what’s inside?” she asked.

He took the bait. In a taunting voice he said, “Bianca knew what was inside.”

He had called her by her first name, an intimacy that suggested he had known Bianca Jadis well enough to know of secrets that Laura was unaware of.

And yet this man had been welcome in Laura’s home for years. It was as if the taint of Bianca’s presence had never left the house, even after both Wynwood and his mistress were gone.

“How would you know about what Mrs. Jadis knew?” she whispered. She didn’t have to pretend to sound frightened.

He enjoyed her terror. “It must be driving you mad, knowing nothing about your husband and his secrets, desperately searching for other things he hid in other places in your own house.”

So Heddetch knew Laura had been searching the townhouse. The only ones who knew were Sol, Mr. Ackett, and her servants. Dr. Heddetch was treated like family by her servants, and it must have been from them that he learned that she had been looking for hiding places in the house for anything else Wynwood might have hidden away.

She had to goad him to make him talk to her. “I don’t think you know anything. You might have known Mrs. Jadis, but the only person she confided in was my husband. And the two of them were very good at keeping their secrets.”

She knew she had aggravated him because the pressure of his knee on her chest suddenly grew sharper and heavier. She grunted, but managed to gasp out, “You think the pocket watch will tell you what Bianca didn’t.”

“You don’t know anything,” he snapped.

“I think I still know more than you do.”

A growl came out of his throat, but when he heard it, his body stiffened, as if his own reaction surprised him.

“What’s so special about that ugly pocket watch?” she wheezed. She knew she was angering him.

“You ignorant cow,” he hissed.

“How am I ignorant? I know as much as you do about that watch.”

“You know nothing!” He was breathing heavily.

“Why? What would happen if you had that watch? Nothing. The watch is nothing. There was nothing important about it.”

“That watch is everything!” He leaned closer to her, the pressure of his knee threatening to snap her arms. “They would be forced to pay attention to me if I had it!”

She couldn’t breathe, but it was not because of his weight upon her. In a whisper, she asked, “Who are they?”

He jerked away from her. He remained silent.

“Whoever they are, you seem to hate them quite a bit,” she said.

Because she could feel his body, she sensed the tiny movements of muscles and the hitch in his breathing. She knew she was right. He despised them. She was certain that the people he was referring to were Jack’s secret group, so she must try to trick him into revealing more. “Why would you want them to pay attention to you when you hate them so much?”

He attempted to regain his composure, and retreated behind a scoffing tone. “You, a naive, pampered woman, would never understand what I want.”

“They obviously don’t understand, either, since you need Wynwood’s watch simply to make them notice you.” She infused as much scorn as she could in her voice. “You’re like a young girl standing alone at a ball with no one who wants to partner you.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” He hit her so swiftly that she didn’t have time to avoid it. The pain exploded in her temple, and she cried out as loudly as she could. “That watch will change everything for me!” He hit her again, on the other side of her face, and she cried out again, louder than before. But Heddetch was so enraged that he didn’t appear to notice the noise she made. “They’ll finally—” He slapped her with his open palm. “—let me in—” He hit her with his fist. “—to that inner circle …” He stiffened as he realized what he had just said.

She had to distract him, keep him talking. “I don’t understand. You’ve been the doctor for our household since before Wynwood died.”

“All these years, being forced to be friendly with your bizarre servants.” The irritation bled into his voice, mingled with jealousy as he muttered, “And instead they picked that painted Bedlamite.”

Someone—or several people—had instructed him to become familiar with her household. It could be that Wynwood himself had not known this. Who would they have been? If the “painted Bedlamite” he mentioned was Jack, then it was his group, the Gentians. But Heddetch had also mentioned an inner circle, which might indicate that the pale-eyed man and Jack were not the only people in this mysterious group. “Who are you talking about?” she asked.

He ignored her, or perhaps he could no longer hear her because of his anger. “Well, I am finally to be rewarded.” His hands grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Give me the watch.”

“I don’t understand why it’s so important!”

“You don’t need to know. Give me the watch!” There was desperation in his tone.

“I told you I don’t have it!” she said.

He was about to hit her again when there was suddenly a knock at the door.

Phoebe’s voice called softly, “Aunt Laura, I hope I am not disturbing you. Are you well?”

Heddetch jerked in surprise, then started fumbling for something in his coat pocket.

Laura immediately called out, “Just a moment, Phoebe.” To Heddetch, she whispered, “Let me speak to her—”

He leaned his face in close, his spittle raining in her face as he hissed, “She’s dead! I’ll kill her!”

“No, wait!” Laura’s heart pounded, but she made her limbs as limp as possible, so that Heddetch would be more unguarded. It had sometimes worked with Wynwood. “If I speak to her, I can allay her fears and send her away.”

“You’ll warn her,” he growled.

“I won’t.” She infused as much sincerity as she could in her trembling voice. “If you let me speak to her, if you don’t harm her, I will give you the watch.”

She couldn’t clearly see his face, but she could tell that both frustration and triumph warred within him. He didn’t like that she had lied to him about the watch, but he was trying not to care in light of his imminent possession of it. He eased his knee off of her chest, and she found herself gasping and coughing as she was suddenly able to take a deeper breath. Her breastbone and her wrists ached from where his bony knee had been pressing sharply against them.

“If you trick me,” he warned, “I will kill her.”

She did not doubt him. She nodded, then realized he may not have seen her gesture, so she whispered, “Yes, I understand.” She climbed off the bed, resisting the urge to yank at the bell pull that was now within reach. She had to trust in Phoebe.

She shuffled toward the door. Heddetch stood behind the door, with his back against the wall. He would not be able to see Phoebe, and Laura’s face would be obscured by the edge of the open door, but he would be able to hear them clearly. She saw the pistol in his hand when she opened the door and the light from Phoebe’s candle glimmered briefly on the metal. He was in the perfect position to be able to shoot her.

Laura swallowed as she looked at her niece, whose concerned face was illuminated by a small stub of candle in her candleholder. Laura tried to blank her expression. If she looked as ghastly as she felt, Phoebe would surely ask her what was wrong, and Laura needed this conversation to sound innocent and harmless. “Yes, Phoebe?” Her throat felt rough, and she cleared it.

“I heard you crying out,” Phoebe said.

“I hope I did not wake you. I’m afraid I had another nightmare about Terrence.”

Sol himself had remarked more than once that Phoebe’s acting was excellent, but Laura had never been more amazed than at that moment. If she had not been watching her niece’s face closely, she would not have noticed the tiny flicker in her eyelids between one blink in the next. Good girl! Laura’s use of Wynwood’s first name—which she never did—had alerted her that something was wrong.

The sad smile that Phoebe gave to her looked completely genuine. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you still have nightmares about Uncle Wynwood.”

“Usually there isn’t anyone to hear me except Aya,” Laura said. “I am sorry for disturbing you, but I am well, truly.”

Phoebe gave a little sigh of relief, her hand fluttering to the neckline of her cotton nightgown. “I am so glad it’s nothing worse, Aunt Laura. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Laura quietly shut the door and immediately glanced at Heddetch. She thought his face looked simply wary and not suspicious.

He kept the pistol in his hand, although his wrist was limp. While he was clearly showing her the weapon in order to intimidate her, it also made it very apparent that he was not as comfortable using it as someone like Sol. Paradoxically, it relieved her, even though he held her at gunpoint.

She moved away from the door as quickly as possible, keeping Heddetch’s attention upon her and not upon the sound of her niece walking off down the hallway.

He regarded her with a sneer. “Where’s the watch?”

Laura walked with heavy steps toward the carved wooden chest that sat at the foot of her bed. Her slow movements were deliberate, in order to give Phoebe time to do whatever it was she was planning to do, but to Heddetch, it would look as though Laura were reluctant to fetch the watch.

There was an iron key in the lock of the chest, and she struggled to turn it, even though she knew it was already unlocked. When she lifted the lid, she peered into the pitch black darkness of the chest. “I need light,” she said to Heddetch.

He hesitated, likely weighing the possibility that she was attempting to trick him, but he finally moved toward the small table next to her bed, where she had set a candle. He walked backwards, keeping the gun trained upon her, but he did not focus his attention very intently upon her. He finally had to set down the pistol in order to light the candle, but he took it up again as he made his way back to her.

The light of the candle was almost blinding after the long minutes she had been speaking to him in the dark. His face was drawn and looked more tired than she remembered it to be.

She had always appreciated that he was straightforward and not one to coddle his patients, although she also never thought he was particularly kind. But until she had met Dr. Stokes, she had not thought any physician to be very kind, including the doctor she had been seeing before the household switched to Dr. Heddetch.

But now she saw the lines of scorn along the sides of his mouth, the irritation in his gaze, and the nervousness in the shifting of his shoulders.

“Bring the candle closer,” she said, and bent over to begin rummaging through the chest. He did as she hoped he would and stood in front of the chest with her, leaning the candle over the dark opening.

It kept him perfectly positioned with his back to the door of her dressing room.

She roughly shoved things around as she searched through the chest. Despite the noise she was making, she thought she heard the faint creaking of hinges from the door that led from the hallway into her attached dressing room, but since the door between the dressing room and bedroom was closed, she couldn’t be certain. As she was running her hands over the contents of the chest, she happened upon a ring of iron keys, an old relic of the household, which Wynwood’s mother had given to her when she married him. No one knew what doors or locks fitted these particular keys, but no one wanted to throw the keys away, so Laura had tossed them into the chest. She pulled them out now, and then pretended to fumble them, dropping them upon the wooden floor.

“What are you doing?” Heddetch seethed at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said meekly. She picked up the keys, jingling them loudly, and she thought they might have covered the sound of the dressing room door opening.

Laura glanced at Heddetch. In a strangely disconnected way, she realized she was standing too close to him, and he still held the candle. “Give me the candle.” She took it from him before he could respond and then stepped away toward the corner of the chest, putting an extra foot or two of distance between them.

Phoebe attacked so silently that there was not even the groan of a floorboard before she had thrown her body against Heddetch, knocking him to the floor. Shocked, he wasted a precious moment or two before he began to struggle against her, but by then, she had twisted his arm behind his back in a strange movement that Laura had never seen before. Phoebe used her height to try to bear down upon him, but he outweighed her. However, her legs in her white nightgown tangled with his, which worked to prevent him from kicking her too sharply.

The door to her bedroom from the hallway burst open almost as soon as Phoebe had thrown Heddetch to the ground, and two small shadows rushed into the room. It was the twins. They were not surprised to see Phoebe on top of an intruder, and they immediately piled onto the man’s legs. She must have warned them before sneaking into Laura’s dressing room to ambush him.

Heddetch began to flail wildly, and although there were three people lying on top of him, one was a young woman and two of them were children, so they were having a difficult time keeping him pinned to the floor. Despite the fact the twins were both dressed in their nightclothes, Calvin pulled a knife from somewhere and stabbed Heddetch in the back of his thigh. He screamed, although it sounded more like frustration than pain.

Aya had entered the bedroom behind the twins, and at Heddetch’s cry, she suddenly gasped. “Dr. Heddetch?!”

Phoebe’s body jerked in surprise. The twins also stiffened and glanced at each other. Laura didn’t understand their reaction, then belatedly realized that they would not know who the intruder was.

Heddetch took advantage of their moment of surprise. He still couldn’t move the arm that Phoebe had twisted behind his back, but he struck out at her with his other elbow, and it narrowly missed her head.

However, the attack caused her to loosen her grip, and with a mighty heave, he flung her off of him.

Phoebe was still holding on to his arm, and he did not have the leverage to throw her very far, but she was knocked off of his body. Her grip on his shoulder caused his arm to move in an awkward manner, and he cried out with the motion. His shoulder was at a strange angle—he must have dislocated it.

But then Laura’s attention was arrested by the rage on Phoebe’s face as she tried to climb back onto Heddetch’s back. She had never seen such a horrible expression. It was as though her niece were a frenzied animal … like one of Jack’s Berserkers. She shuddered.

Heddetch managed to jab his fist at Phoebe’s face, knocking her away from him.

Fred, dressed in his nightclothes, now ran into the bedroom and tried to grab at Heddetch’s other arm, but the doctor savagely bit at Fred’s hand. Her footman cried out and jerked his hand away.

Heddetch kicked at Calvin, somehow ignoring the knife in his thigh, and shoved at Clara, who was lying on his other leg, sending her falling backwards. He was momentarily free.

Phoebe, the twins, and Fred all grabbed at him at the same time, but he slithered away and punched at Phoebe’s stomach. She was knocked aside, leaving him an avenue for escape. He raced toward the dressing room door, the twins and Fred running after him. Phoebe followed, and Laura ran after her.

Heddetch had gone all the way through Laura’s dressing room and into the connecting room beyond, the large chamber Laura used for target practice with her throwing knives, which used to be Wynwood’s bedchamber.

Laura entered in time to see Heddetch’s dark figure running to a far window, which was wide open. He climbed over the windowsill just as Fred and Calvin reached him.

Heddetch had tied a rope to the decorative iron railing attached to the outside of the window and was trying to slither down as quickly as he could. However, Fred grabbed the rope and began heaving it up.

Fred suddenly stumbled backward, still clutching the rope, which had gone slack. Phoebe gasped and Laura gave a small shriek. There was no balcony outside the window, and it was at least thirty feet above the ground. She and Phoebe rushed to look outside.

The windows faced the street out front, but the window from which Heddetch had escaped stood on the corner of the house. Most of the other windows were directly above the open area in front of the half-basement, but this one stood above a planter, and the small ornamental tree was now broken. Heddetch’s figure rapidly hobbled away down the empty street, nearly invisible in the dark between the sparse street lamps. It was obvious that there was something terribly wrong with his leg, and yet his desperation drove away from the house at almost a run.

Calvin and Fred began running from the room, but Laura called out to them, “No, stop.”

The two of them turned to face her. “You don’t wish us to go after him, my lady?” Fred asked.

“No,” Laura said. “Time is of the essence. I must send a note to Sol immediately.”

“My lady, your face …” Aya said.

She hadn’t noticed the stinging heat on her face from Dr. Heddetch’s blows, perhaps because it was nothing compared to what Wynwood had done to her. Other servants had entered Wynwood’s bedroom now, and Mrs. Rook was among them.

“Mrs. Rook, please fetch the usual from the kitchen for this.” Laura vaguely gestured toward her face, as though not acknowledging it would make it not quite so tragic. “And also bring me my writing table from the library.”

Mrs. Rook swiftly left to go downstairs.

Aya stood next to Laura, wringing her hands. “That was Dr. Heddetch,” she said in horror.

“Yes.” Laura tried to sound firm, but her voice shook. “He was after the pocket watch.”

Phoebe and all the servants around her stiffened in shock. After Sol and his team had rescued Mr. Coulton-Jones, she had explained everything to them.

“He knew about Jack,” Laura continued, “and he knows about Jack’s group. But from what he said, I don’t believe he’s told anyone else about the watch—certainly not Jack, but probably not his associate, either.”

“The pale-eyed man?” Phoebe asked. The rage that had twisted her face was now gone, but there were glittering vestiges of her momentary frenzy in her wide eyes.

“Yes. But Dr. Heddetch needed that watch—he was desperate.”

“How did he know about the watch?” Phoebe asked.

Aya suddenly turned so pale that it was obvious even in the dimness of the room.

“I don’t know,” Laura said, “but now that he has failed, and he is injured …” She swallowed, feeling a tightening in her chest. “… there is no possible way to know whom he would speak to about the watch. And about me.”

Phoebe reached for her hand and gripped it tightly.

Laura tugged her niece slightly away from the servants and asked in a low voice, “Are you quite well?”

Phoebe stiffened at first, but then a shadow passed across her eyes. She knew what Laura was referring to. “I am fine now.”

“Mr. Rosmont was … riled after he breathed the pollen from the plants,” Laura said carefully. “Perhaps you … ?”

A flash of antagonism flitted across Phoebe’s face for an instant … and then it was gone. She exhaled a long, low breath and covered her eyes with her hand. The tightness in her shoulders slowly eased. “Yes, you may be right.”

Laura still held her hand, and she squeezed briefly. “I shall ask Aya to make a better mask for you to wear as you work.”

Phoebe nodded, still not looking at Laura, but she returned the warm clasp of her hand. She was trembling. “I shall be more careful from now on.”

Mrs. Rook arrived with Laura’s writing desk, which she set upon the long table at the far end of the room. Aya moved some of the throwing knives to clear a space near the edge.

The housekeeper also handed a beefsteak to Aya, who held it to Laura’s temple. She found it quite disgusting, but the coolness was soothing, and she admitted that the swelling was much reduced when applied quickly after she’d been struck.

As Laura sat down to write a note to Sol, a delayed reaction to the events of the evening convulsed through her body. Dr. Heddetch, and the watch, and Bianca … and Phoebe. Laura fought the panic that tried to slither its way up her throat. She remembered the expression on Phoebe’s face, the delirious anger.

Even more than Heddetch’s violent attack, that memory of Phoebe’s uncontrolled rage made her shiver in fear.

CHAPTER THREE

Phoebe moved to the open window where Dr. Heddetch had jumped. He had likely managed to unlatch the window and tie the rope sometime that day. But wouldn’t a rope hanging from the railing outside have been easily spotted?

Fred had pulled the rope inside the room when Dr. Heddetch had dropped to the ground, and she picked it up. There was a string tied to the end. She realized the doctor had tucked the coiled rope behind the railing with the string dangling down to the ground. All he had to do was tug the string and the rope would have fallen down for him to be able to climb up.

Phoebe tried to untie the rope, but the knot was too tight. “Calvin, I need one of Aunt Laura’s throwing knives to cut the rope.”

“Here, miss.” He unearthed a knife from somewhere in his clothing. At another time, she would have him tell her the secret of how he did that.

She cut the rope and tossed it on the floor, then firmly closed the window and locked it.

“I apologize, miss,” Fred said. “When closing up the house for the night, none of us noticed the window wasn’t locked.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to notice,” Phoebe said. “This room is only used for Aunt Laura’s target practice, so there was no reason for the window to have been opened at all. We should check all the windows right now.”

“The servants can do that, Miss Phoebe,” Aya said. Phoebe had not noticed that she had approached. “You should change into something warmer.”

Phoebe belatedly realized that she was still in her nightgown. She had also forgotten to grab a shawl when she first heard her aunt’s cry and went to check on her.

She headed down the hallway to a table where earlier she had left her extinguished candle before she had snuck into her aunt’s dressing room. It took her a moment to relight it, then she went to her bedroom to root around in the closet for an old gown.

Now, after Dr. Heddetch had escaped, her heartbeat still raced, but her limbs had begun to tremble. She did not think it was because of the cold, but she fetched a shawl anyway. She picked up the first one she could find, a favorite one of warm wool in shades of blue lupine and green leaves, and hurried from her bedroom.

It seemed perhaps a little overprotective to rush back to her aunt’s side, but after seeing her face, already swelling from the blows she had received, Phoebe worried for Aunt Laura’s safety, even in her own home. Her aunt had been uncertain if or when Dr. Heddetch would tell Jack and his people about what happened tonight, and none of them knew how Jack would respond, or how quickly.

She reentered Uncle Wynwood’s bedroom in time to see her aunt crumple up a piece of paper and toss it onto the table in front of her, to join another crumpled ball. With a huff of frustration, Aunt Laura waved aside Aya’s attempt to press the beefsteak back to her temple. She scribbled on a fresh sheet of notepaper, muttering, “Come immediately … urgent.” She folded the note and handed it to Calvin to deliver to Uncle Sol.

Aunt Laura went to change into a gown, and Phoebe joined the servants in checking the doors and windows. She instructed them to light candles in every room, despite the cost, so that the house would be brightly lit. She wasn’t certain if it would help them to defend her aunt, but it made her feel safer to know there were few dark corners or hallways.

She was restless as she waited for her aunt, and she found herself back in Uncle Wynwood’s bedroom. She picked up a slim throwing blade and faced off against the large portrait of her uncle on the far side of the room. Her aunt had apparently been diligent in practicing, because his face was now a blur from the knife holes. Phoebe aimed at his chest, but the knife sank into his stomach instead.

If only they had been able to capture Dr. Heddetch. She was frustrated with herself and also slightly ashamed that despite weeks of difficult training with Mr. Armstrong at the Ramparts, she had been unable to hold down a man who was not on the Root.

She had become too confident when she managed to twist his arm behind his back and immobilize him. She was not concentrating, and when Aya cried out the doctor’s identity, she became distracted. He got a few glancing blows in before sending her body tumbling to hit the floor hard.

She had not been aware of her injuries at the time, but now she started to feel the ache of small bruises on her head and her shoulders. She threw another knife, this one landing deep in her uncle’s chest, and became aware of a sore spot on her side where Dr. Heddetch must have gotten a more solid blow.

When Dr. Heddetch had roughly thrown her off of him, the pain and the aggravation somehow triggered a rush of anger, immense and overpowering. At the time it felt completely natural, and she even welcomed the strength her wild emotions gave to her.

But then she caught a glimpse of her aunt’s face staring at her in shock, and Phoebe started to drop down from that blazing pinnacle. And as soon as she did, she felt horror and shame and fear that she had never known before, because she had never before been so afraid of herself.

Phoebe rubbed her forehead with her hand, which shook slightly. Aunt Laura had been delicate in asking after her well-being. Her aunt’s comment about Mr. Rosmont had made Phoebe realize that perhaps she, too, had been influenced by the Goldensuit plants she was tending to.

But while that may have been an explanation for her terrible, frantic frame of mind, her body still trembled at the remembrance of the foreign and yet familiar anger that had engulfed her like a flame.

It had not come from completely outside of herself. The frustration in being unable to capture the intruder and protect her aunt, the shock at being betrayed by the doctor she had known for so long melded with the similar frustration and sense of betrayal that had blazed when she discovered her father had stolen her dowry. She had not seen Dr. Heddetch in the exact same light as her father, but she felt the same hollow piercing in her chest that her faith was broken once again by a man she had trusted.

She would not have believed it if she had not seen Dr. Heddetch pointing the pistol at her aunt. She remembered the ugly expression on his face, and it contrasted with her memories of his kindness to her.

She had been a young girl, too active for her own good during the times she visited her aunt in London. When Dr. Heddetch had been called to care for her injuries, he could have simply done his job and left her to her own devices. Instead, he always took a little extra time, paid special attention to her.

One time, he bound up a great big lump on her head from falling down the stairs. He looked into her eyes, warning her not to slide down the banister again, while gently poking at her cheek so that his words did not seem like a scolding.

Had it all been a lie?

Perhaps in befriending this household, it had indeed all been a lie—but a lie he told for years and years. Why would he do that? What had he hoped to gain? Had he known the watch was hidden somewhere in the townhouse? Had he wanted to gain access to the rooms so that he could search?

Or was he simply that loyal to whomever had ordered him to become close to Aunt Laura and her servants?

Perhaps not loyal … but fearful. She could understand that kind of fear. She had only spoken for a moment with the pale-eyed man, but she had been able to sense that he was dangerous.

The large room had three doorways that led to the hallway outside, and the door behind Phoebe opened. Aya entered and asked, “Would you like some tea, Miss Phoebe?”

Phoebe followed her to Aunt Laura’s bedroom, where her aunt sat in a chair in front of the fireplace. A tea tray had been set on the small table next to her, and her hands were wrapped tightly around a steaming cup. She didn’t notice Phoebe when she entered the room, and she jumped a little when Phoebe sat down in the chair next to her.

“I beg your pardon,” Phoebe said.

Aunt Laura shook her head. “I am simply a little nervous.” She reached to pour Phoebe a cup of tea.

“Are you in pain?” Phoebe asked. Her aunt’s jaw was slightly swollen, and the beefsteak was nowhere in sight.

“I refuse to receive Sol with a piece of meat plastered to my temple,” she said.

With the house locked up tight, it seemed as if the very air were heavier. Aya stood in the corner, tense and on edge, as if waiting to see if another attack would come before Uncle Sol arrived.

Phoebe glanced around the cozy room, but felt strangely impeded. There wasn’t room to fight around all the furniture. The drapes had been pulled over the windows, but something about it still made her uneasy. They faced the back of the house, and she wondered if intruders could attempt to attack from that direction. If they did, the neighbors would not notice even if they were awake and at home. Should they have moved her aunt to a different room?

The next time she went for training with Mr. Armstrong at the Ramparts, she would ask him about how to best protect someone. In fact, she could see how it might even be useful to understand siege warfare and protecting someone within a room or a building. She had never thought she would need knowledge such as that, and yet here she was, hoping to protect her precious aunt within her townhouse. Was this how knights felt when protecting their king within a castle?

The rapping sound of the front door knocker echoed through the hallways. If that was Uncle Sol, the urgency of her aunt’s message had apparently convinced him not to bother trying to sneak into the house despite the lateness of the hour, as he had done before.

Despite how shaken they must feel, the servants escorted Uncle Sol to her aunt’s bedroom quickly. There was even a tea tray that followed on his heels, as if they’d prepared it the moment they saw his carriage drive up to the front of the house.

When Graham opened the door, Uncle Sol strode quickly into the bedroom, despite the impropriety of it. He spotted Laura sitting in the chair and seemed to deflate in relief. Kneeling in front of her, he asked, “Are you well?” His hand reached out, almost but not quite touching the swelling over her jaw. His face grew hard with anger.

“Of course,” she said in a voice almost like her normal tone.

Phoebe asked, “Uncle Sol, how did you know something had happened to Aunt Laura?” All her note had contained was a request for him to come immediately.

He pulled the note from his coat pocket. “Her handwriting was a shaking mess. I’d never seen that before.”

Aunt Laura reached out to place her hand over his, where he gripped the paper. “I am well now, so you needn’t worry. Do get up, Sol. Minnie managed to make scones despite what happened tonight.”

Her aunt retold what had happened, and Phoebe again felt the rumblings of frustration at her inability to hold Heddetch. But now with her mind calmer and a cup of hot tea cradled in her hands, she recognized how alien the feeling was, how extreme the reaction. She breathed slowly, calming her heartbeat, which had suddenly begun racing as though she’d been galloping a horse full tilt across a field.

Was this the Goldensuit pollen? And yet, some of that vexation was her own. She didn’t think her emotions would have been so easily swayed if she hadn’t been trying to cope with her resentment toward her father.

Uncle Sol hadn’t interrupted her aunt, but he had grown pale. When she finished telling the tale, he immediately demanded, “Who among your servants could have told him about the watch?”

“Sol!” Aunt Laura snapped. “How dare you?”

Undeterred by her anger, he said, “No one else could have told Heddetch. I told you it was foolish to trust your staff with the truth about all of this.”

“Mr. Coulton-Jones was unconscious in my storeroom,” Aunt Laura retorted. “If I didn’t tell them, they would have speculated and talked about it even more.”

Phoebe knew that her aunt could have simply ordered her staff to remain quiet about Mr. Coulton-Jones without explanation, and they would not have spoken of him outside the house. But the servants would have suffered hurt feelings at her aunt’s lack of faith in them, and in this particular household, that clear sign of distrust carried greater significance.

If Phoebe was correct about what had happened here the night Uncle Wynwood died, the servants had done a terrible thing in order to protect her aunt. Aunt Laura would never repay them by keeping secrets and casting doubt upon their loyalty.

But Aunt Laura would never tell that to Uncle Sol, and neither would Phoebe.

“Sol,” her aunt said, “I believe that God brought each of these people to my household, and I will not distrust them.”

Aunt Laura held Uncle Sol’s gaze, frigid glare against frigid glare, but their silent battle was abruptly broken by a soft sob. Aunt Laura looked in surprise at Phoebe, but she shook her head. The sound had not come from her.

“My lady,” Aya said in a broken voice, “it was me.” She still stood by the wall, but her figure seemed smaller as she shook with sobs.

“What do you mean, Aya?” Aunt Laura asked in a faint voice.

“I told Dr. Heddetch about the watch.”

Phoebe gaped at her. She would never have believed Aya would do anything against her aunt. Ever since Aunt Laura had rescued Aya from horrific abuse and captivity with a slave trader, Aya’s loyalty had been fervent and constant—almost blindly fanatic.

But … for years, Aya had been partial to Dr. Heddetch. Many of the female servants had been attracted to his pleasant face and clever conversation, but Aya’s interest had been a little deeper. Phoebe would occasionally overhear the other female servants teasing Aya about it. They called it her “unrequited love,” but Phoebe wasn’t certain her emotions ran quite so strongly.

Aunt Laura moved first, rising to stand in front of her lady’s maid and take both her hands. She gently drew her to sit on the sofa in front of the fireplace and sank down into the cushions next to her. Aya continued to cry in great gulps.

“Aya,” Aunt Laura breathed, “why would you do that?”

“He’s been our doctor since before the master died.” Aya was crying so hard that it was difficult to understand her. “He feels like family. He always seemed to care about all of us. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, also,” her aunt said softly. She pressed a handkerchief to Aya’s face, like an older sister comforting a sibling.

“Since before Wynwood died?” Uncle Sol asked.

Phoebe answered him. “Aunt Laura’s old doctor …” Aya had actually told Phoebe about him, not her aunt, so she didn’t feel she could tell the whole truth to Uncle Sol. “… died of old age. About a year before Uncle Wynwood died, Dr. Heddetch became the household doctor. He was always called because he was never too toplofty to treat the servants as well as Aunt Laura.”

“It was Wynwood who first called him,” her aunt said in a hoarse voice. “I don’t know how he found him.”

There was silence in the room for several long moments, and Phoebe could only hear the faint crackling of the fire. Finally Uncle Sol addressed Aya in a surprisingly gentle voice, “Aya, did he ask about the watch? Did he already know about it?”

She shook her head. Her breathing had calmed down, but tears still ran in rivulets down her face. “We—the servants—were all in the kitchen. We were speculating about the pocket watch when he came in. We didn’t know he was in the house, but he never needs to knock, he’s always welcome. When he asked about the watch, it sounded like casual curiosity.”

“What did you say about the watch?” Uncle Sol asked.

“I only said that the mistress had found an old pocket watch that had belonged to the master. I said nothing about where she had found it, or what she had found inside. I said nothing about the symbol or the list of letters.”

“Yet Heddetch knew there was something inside the watch,” Aunt Laura said. “But how did he know it was different from any other pocket watch that belonged to Wynwood?”

“Dr. Heddetch asked what was so special about the pocket watch, and I mentioned that it had the old Glencowe coat of arms on the front.” Aya bit her lip. “He didn’t seem any more interested than a normal person would be. But I should have realized there was something odd …” Her breath caught on a fresh sob. “… because he asked if there was any other jewelry with the old coat of arms on it.”

Aunt Laura inhaled sharply. “He must have known that Wynwood commissioned the watch at the same time that he commissioned Bianca’s pendant.”

“What did you tell him about the coat of arms?” Uncle Sol asked.

“I didn’t mention the pendant,” Aya said. “I said that the old coat of arms was only on a few very old portraits in the attic.”

“Yet he still came here tonight.” Uncle Sol’s voice was so low that it was like a growl.

“He knew Bianca,” Aunt Laura said in a voice that was both small and cold at the same time. “He taunted me about secrets that Wynwood was keeping from me.”

“It seems likely that Dr. Heddetch knew all about Uncle Wynwood and Bianca belonging to the Gentians,” Phoebe said.

“And yet, he seemed to hate Jack,” Aunt Laura said slowly. “From what he said, he knows other people in the group besides Jack, and one of them had ordered him to grow close to my household.”

“Did Wynwood know about this?” Uncle Sol asked.

“Knowing his personality, I don’t think so,” Aunt Laura said. “He wouldn’t have been so accepting of a man in his own house following another man’s orders.

“It sounds like Dr. Heddetch wanted the watch because it would enable him to join the Gentians,” Phoebe said.

“Not simply joining the Gentians,” Uncle Sol said. “But some inner group within the Gentians. All organizations have some circle of leadership.”

Aunt Laura’s eyes were unfocused as her mind seemed to be untangling something. “Because Dr. Heddetch wishes to join that inner circle, and because he believes the pocket watch is his key inside … I think that he’s unlikely to tell anyone what happened tonight.”

“I don’t agree,” Uncle Sol said. “How could you know something like that?”

“I was very close to him when he spoke to me, and while I couldn’t see him perfectly, I could feel his reactions when I asked him questions. I was able to observe some of his true thoughts.”

Phoebe glanced at Uncle Sol. “Aunt Laura, while I know you could make anyone confess to you their deepest secrets, I think I’m in agreement with Uncle Sol. What makes you think Dr. Heddetch won’t run straight to Jack?”

“I’m not certain he won’t do just that, but I could tell that the watch is very important to him. He will do everything he can to try to obtain it. Once he tells Jack, then Jack will likely attempt to find it, and he has far more resources than Dr. Heddetch. I believe the doctor will delay in telling Jack until he absolutely must reveal what he knows. Which means that we have a little time.”

Uncle Sol shook his head. “We don’t know how much time. There is no way to guarantee that Heddetch won’t go ahead and tell Jack or others in the Gentians about the watch, and about you. You should leave the house.”

“The measure seems drastic, but I agree with Uncle Sol’s logic,” Phoebe said. “If you leave this house and the servants don’t know where you are, then no one can threaten them to make them talk.”

Aunt Laura looked at Aya. The maid had been listening to the conversation with tears still running down her cheeks, but now she sniffed into the handkerchief Aunt Laura had given to her and said, “I want you to be safe, my lady. I’m so sorry to put you and the rest of the house in danger.”

“Dr. Heddetch had already overheard you and the servants talking about the watch, Aya,” Aunt Laura said. “He knew it was unusual enough for you to remark upon it. Therefore, it would have brought even more attention to it if you had tried to avoid speaking of it to him.” She looked to Uncle Sol and nodded. “I shall leave, but I don’t know where to go.”

“I can arrange for a safe location for you. The Ramparts have had reason enough to do the same for others throughout the years, so it can be done quickly.”

“Uncle Sol, if Aunt Laura will soon be safely tucked away, can something be done about Dr. Heddetch?” Phoebe nodded in Aya’s direction. “Aya can tell you where his rooms are.”

He nodded. “I shall go to Mr. Coulton-Jones’s rooms at the Albany to wake him and explain what happened here tonight. He will be able to find Mr. Rosmont and go to Heddetch’s rooms. If the doctor has not returned there tonight—and I doubt he has—they shall be able to search the house. But may I borrow Calvin? I shall need the boy to lead the two men to Heddetch’s residence.”

“Why do you doubt he has returned home?” Phoebe asked. “He is injured.”

“You mentioned it looked like a bad injury. If he is connected to Jack, I think he would go there to get the Root.”

“It was strange that he wasn’t already on the Root,” Aunt Laura said. “It might indicate that Dr. Heddetch isn’t as close to the Gentians as he wanted to appear to be. He may have perhaps been closer to Bianca, but then she died.”

Uncle Sol rose. “I shall leave now and take Calvin with me.”

“How long will you be?” Aunt Laura reached out to touch his hand, and there was some anxiety threaded through her voice.

“I hope to return within two hours,” he said. “I must go to the Ramparts to arrange a place for you, which might take some time since my superior is out of town at the moment. But it would be safest to have you move in the early hours of the morning, before your neighbors’ servants awaken, so that no one will see you leaving.”

After he’d left the house, Phoebe turned to her aunt, steeling herself for an argument. “Aunt Laura—”

“Why are you standing about? Pack a valise.” Then Aunt Laura turned to speak to Aya about what they ought to bring, leaving Phoebe standing with the wind knocked out of her sails. At the same time, it was gratifying that her aunt hadn’t even considered that Phoebe would not accompany her.

It took Uncle Sol two and a half hours, but with Aya’s help it had taken Aunt Laura only one hour to gather her things in preparation and apply rice powder liberally to her face, so she was left cooling her heels long enough to down two pots of tea by herself. Unfortunately, it made her testy, and Phoebe realized belatedly that she should have argued more with her aunt when she ordered the second pot.

When Uncle Sol arrived, he spotted Aya standing off to the side with her own simple bag at her feet, and he cast a questioning look to Aunt Laura.

She gave Aya a reassuring smile, then faced Uncle Sol with a mulish expression. “Yes, Aya is accompanying me, as is Phoebe.”

“My lady,” Aya said in a small voice, “are you certain it would be wise for me to—”

“You are coming with me, Aya,” Aunt Laura interrupted her in a firm voice. “I trust no one more, especially after this mistake, because I know that you will take great pains not to repeat it.”

Uncle Sol nodded. “As you wish.”

“And Sol,” her aunt said, “shall there be Ramparts agents at this safe location?”

“Yes, of course. They will be there to protect you, although they will not be privy to the exact threat.”

“I do not wish for the Ramparts agents to know that Phoebe is working with you,” Aunt Laura said. “So far, she has only met Mr. Armstrong, correct?”

“Yes, she and Miss Gardinier are only known to my superior and Mr. Armstrong, who has been training them. You needn’t fear, I also agree that there is no need to let any other Ramparts agents know that she and Miss Gardinier have been doing work for me.”

On one hand, Phoebe understood their caution. In light of her shaky reputation after leaving her father’s house, the fewer people who were aware of her scandalous and unconventional activities, the better. But on the other hand, she was a bit disappointed that she was not considered to be the same as any other Ramparts agents who worked with Uncle Sol.

However, she was not surprised at her aunt’s desire for secrecy. Two weeks ago, Aunt Laura had mentioned what Aya overheard on the day an agent arrived at the house looking for Uncle Sol, and Phoebe later found time to speak with Isabella directly about the incident. Phoebe wasn’t certain what to make of the man’s strange behavior, but she agreed with her aunt and with Isabella that it seemed odd. While she was glad to be trained by Mr. Armstrong and one day hoped to be able to work more consistently with Uncle Sol, her feelings about his department were conflicted. She decided that to keep her distance from them might be best for now.

As they headed down the stairs, Uncle Sol asked, “All your other servants will remain here?”

Aunt Laura nodded. “I have asked them to pretend that I am still at home so that no one will know that I am no longer here.”

The coachman had not pulled up in front of the house, but had instead driven the unmarked carriage to the back of the house. They traversed through what had once been the mews for the townhouse, but which Aunt Laura had converted into a laundry house when she leased a separate, larger carriage house along a nearby side street. It was the usual routine whenever she used her unmarked carriage so that her neighbors would not notice she was not riding in her normal carriage with the Wynwood crest. At this hour of the early morning, it was unlikely her neighbors would have been awake to see her leave from her front door, but there was always the remote chance that someone returning home from a late-night party or a round of gambling at their club would happen to catch a glimpse of her.

They did not travel through the darkened London streets for very long. In fact, they were only on the outmost edges of Mayfair when Uncle Sol, riding with the coachman, directed him through smaller side streets and finally into an alleyway behind a large building. Perhaps because it was the backside, Phoebe didn’t recognize the building. Strangely, there was a dirt area large enough for a carriage to turn around, and the building had several doors that opened into this back courtyard. They hurried out from the carriage and into one of the small doors, which proved to be a servants’ entrance. After climbing a narrow set of stairs, they emerged into a short hallway with three doors, each with a number painted on it. Phoebe realized they were inside a hotel.

A young man stood near the servants’ staircase they had just used, and he had respectfully stepped back when he spotted Uncle Sol, who had led the way for Phoebe, her aunt, and Aya. He was dressed in livery like a servant, but there was an athletic ease to his movements that reminded her of Mr. Armstrong, her fighting instructor at the Ramparts. At the other end of the short hallway in front of a closed unmarked door stood another man in the same livery, and he held himself with that same feeling of physical readiness. She realized that both men were likely Ramparts agents tasked with guarding the two entrances to the hallway—the unmarked door probably led to the staircase that was normally used by guests.

They entered the middle of the three doors along the hallway, into a room with a spacious sitting area. A smaller door led to a bedroom.

Once the door closed behind Uncle Sol, Phoebe asked him, “Where are we?”

“This is the Falcon and Crown Inn,” he said. “It mostly caters to merchants, so it will not be the style to which you are accustomed, but this is their most elegant set of rooms.”

“It is perfectly acceptable,” Aunt Laura said. She wasn’t one to care about elegant furniture, so he likely knew she wouldn’t have minded a hotel not utilized by the nobility, as long as it was clean and neat.

“We have taken all three rooms on this floor so that we may more easily protect you,” Uncle Sol said. “Phoebe may have one of the rooms and the other will remain empty. There is a small dressing room next to Laura’s bedroom with a cot where Aya may sleep.”

“I dislike that there is no door into Aunt Laura’s suite besides the one to the hallway,” Phoebe said. “It will make it more difficult if she needs me quickly.”

“The entire point of moving her here is that she will not need either of you quickly, for any reason,” Uncle Sol said sternly. “There shall always be two men outside in the hallway to guard you. And since they know nothing of Phoebe’s fighting capabilities, they will not expect her to rush to protect Laura should anything arise.” He glanced at Phoebe, and she sheepishly nodded. She would ensure that they never suspected anything about her unusual abilities.

“I will need to leave for Stapytton House every day to tend to the plants,” she said. She was relieved that the agents would be here to protect her aunt and Aya when she was not.

“You should leave and return through the servants’ entrance that we just used,” he told her. “You are registered in this hotel under the name Mrs. Snowden and her daughter Miss Snowden.”

Aunt Laura looked at Phoebe and smiled at the fictitious connection, although there was a trembling to her lips that she couldn’t quite hide. Phoebe had never seen her aunt so shaken before.

“How did you arrange all of this so quickly?” Aunt Laura asked.

“The Ramparts have a list of places that they have already determined are appropriate for situations like this. It was simply a matter of finding out which options were immediately available.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “I apologize, but I must leave you. Is there anything else that you need?”

“We are quite comfortable. Thank you, Sol.”

After Uncle Sol left, Phoebe said, “I shall leave you so that you may rest.”

But her aunt grasped her hand and led her to the sofa in front of the fireplace. “Stay and have a cup of tea with me. Aya, could you …?”

“Of course, my lady.” Aya left to arrange for the hotel kitchens to send up tea.

Her aunt wasn’t shaking in fear, and she was trying to act normally, but there was a restlessness to the movements of her hands, the way her eyes darted around the unfamiliar room.

“We shall be quite safe here, Aunt Laura.” Phoebe felt her words were impotent, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I am relieved that you are here with me.”

It was strange to see Aunt Laura this way, almost like a child clinging to her mother. Phoebe had always known her as a pillar of strength, but now her confidence was shaken. “I must leave you to train with Mr. Armstrong and to take care of the plants at Stapytton House, but I shall do only what absolutely needs to be done and return to you quickly.”

But her aunt shook her head. “It feels strange to have my sense of independence taken from me so abruptly, but I do not wish to curb your own activities. I know you wish to help find Dr. Heddetch.”

“Your safety is a higher priority,” Phoebe said. “I find I am reluctant to leave your side. I shall be like a barnacle.”

Aunt Laura smiled, but her grip on Phoebe’s hand was still tight. “I wonder how long I must remain hidden,” she mused. “I shall have to send my regrets to the events I had said I would attend.”

“It shall not be long. We will all be able to attend the masquerade ball at the end of the season.” She knew that Lady Treslove’s masquerade ball was her aunt’s favorite party each year.

“Do you truly think so?” Aunt Laura’s eyes searched her own, and Phoebe know she mustn’t lie to her. Her aunt’s sense of security had been rattled, and Phoebe only wanted to reassure her.

“I have faith in Uncle Sol and the others,” she said, and her aunt’s expression cleared.

“Yes, so do I.”

Aya arrived with a tea tray, and the hot tea and scones seemed to further calm her aunt’s fears. As Phoebe talked to her of inconsequential things, she inwardly determined to train even harder to protect her aunt, no matter what.

CHAPTER FOUR

The streets of London were pitch-black, but Michael still kept close to the buildings, hiding deeper in the shadows. Dawn was a couple hours away, but not even a finger of light in the sky could be seen through the fog, which clung to his skin like cold, sticky fingers. He felt the chill more because of the shabby clothes he wore in his guise as a beggar.

He couldn’t see him, but occasionally he heard a soft footstep behind him and to his left, and guessed that was Thorne. In contrast, up ahead of him he could see the swiftly moving shadow of Calvin, Lady Wynwood’s pageboy and one-time street urchin, but he couldn’t hear a single sound from the boy’s passing. It was as though he were a ghost.

The fog grew thicker, and Michael guessed they were getting closer to the river. The scent of rotting fish also grew stronger.

The boy finally stopped and ducked into the doorway of a house. Michael slowed his pace, ambling up to the doorway and leaning against the wall.

“It’s the one across and down, with the shingle hanging over the door,” Calvin whispered.

“I see it.” The narrow street boasted mostly residences and boarding houses which backed up directly into more buildings behind. Heddetch’s narrow house was flanked on either side by boarding houses, which had been built directly against the side walls so that there was no space between them. The front door had a small wooden sign above it which Michael couldn’t read in the dark.

Aya had said that Dr. Heddetch had rented this building for four or five years now. He saw patients in the front room, which had once been a sitting room, while patients waited in what had been the dining room at the back of the ground floor. He lived in the set of rooms on the floor above, using the front room as his study and the back room as his bedroom. There was a small kitchen and storeroom in the half-basement, and the cook lived in the tiny attic room. Heddetch had a maid he could only afford to pay for a few days a week, and she lived at home nearby with her parents.

A shadow approached from Michael’s left, and then Thorne casually leaned against the wall next to him.

“The one with the sign,” Michael told him. Thorne didn’t answer, but he shifted the shielded lantern he held in his hand. Michael’s shielded lantern had been tucked under his coat as he walked, but he took it out now. Once they were inside the house, they could light the lanterns and it wouldn’t be seen through the windows, but they’d be able to see as they searched the house.

Thorne coughed. “You smell worse than normal.”

“Do I?” Beggars weren’t supposed to smell like eau de cologne, and in case the scent lingered on his skin, he had washed before donning his beggar disguise. If Heddetch wasn’t at home—and it looked like he wasn’t—then Michael was to keep watch over the house in case he returned, and his disguise enabled him to loiter without attracting attention. However, he had also needed to smear mud upon his face and hands, and since they would be trespassing in a man’s home, he didn’t want a strong nasty scent to remain as witness to his passing.

Thorne sniffed again. “Perhaps not. My sense of smell is still sensitive.” Even two weeks after the Goldensuit pollen had affected him, he apparently still felt some of the effects.

They waited a few minutes, and Michael listened intently for any sign of someone outside with them and hidden by the fog—the scrape of a shoe against the cobblestones, a cough or sigh—but he heard nothing. He leaned closer to the darkened doorway and asked softly, “Hear anyone?”

“No, sir,” Calvin answered.

“Let’s go.” The three of them darted across the street toward Heddetch’s rooms, three shadows in the darkness.

The front door held a heavy latch, and the front windows were inaccessible because they stood directly above the deep area in front of the half-basement. However, when they crept down into the front area, there were small windows that opened into the kitchen, and one of them was unlocked and open. Aya had mentioned that the cook was an older woman who often had bouts of heated sweating, and she left the window open for that reason.

Calvin shimmied through the window, then opened the door to the area for the two men. They entered and found themselves in a short hallway with the doorway to the kitchen directly to their left, and smaller doors for storerooms on their right. At the end of the hallway was the servants’ stairway up to the ground floor.

Calvin was about to follow them down the hallway, but Michael set a hand against his chest, then pointed outside. Calvin might have pouted, but he couldn’t see it in the darkness. After a short pause, the boy turned and left the house, heading up the stairs from the area to wait across the street. Michael quietly shut the door behind him.

They climbed the staircase, which emptied them into the darkness of the narrow hallway at the back of the house. Michael listened, but heard nothing from the floor above. Was Heddetch at home? Somehow he didn’t think so.

The first door along the hallway was what had likely once been a dining room, cramped and windowless. In the open doorway, they lit the shielded lanterns so that they’d avoid knocking into the furniture in the room beyond. A square dining table dominated the space and there were many more chairs than could fit around the table. Aya had said that Heddetch both ate in this room and used it as a waiting area for his patients.

They crept into the front hall, then to the room where he saw his patients. They checked the shields on their lanterns since this room had a window, with two solidly-built wooden chairs in front of it so that Heddetch could better diagnose his patients in the light that streamed through. There was a small table nearby with gently curved legs, but it only held a lamp. A tiny fireplace with no mantlepiece stood against the far wall.

Thorne rummaged in a small chest of drawers standing near the fireplace while Michael searched the shelves along the back wall. The shelves were well-made, showing the exact joints and straight lines of a craftsman, and although he couldn’t tell what type of wood it was, he could feel that the shelves were heavy and hard. Small bottles stood on the shelves—not many of them, but all the same size and type of dark glass, and attached to each were labels in a neat, spidery handwriting. Michael noted the names of the tinctures, but they meant nothing to him.

He moved to stand beside Thorne, but the drawers only seemed to hold cloth bandages and the like. “Anything?” he whispered, and his friend shook his head.

They moved silently out to the hallway and then climbed the stairs to the first floor, moving slowly in case the stairs creaked.

The floor was laid out exactly like the one below, with a narrow hallway and two rooms. Both doors were slightly ajar, and the men halted at the top of the stairs as they listened for the sounds of someone sleeping in one of them. There was only quiet.

Then entered the front facing room, which was Heddetch’s study. A large desk stood in front of the window and another cold fireplace was set into the far wall, while a bookshelf leaned against the back wall. Michael again took the shelves while his friend went to search through the desk.

The books were only slightly dusty on the front, indicating regular cleaning by the maid, but the dust that had collected in the cracks between the binding and the pages indicated that they hadn’t been read in a long time. Michael was careful about not displacing the dust, but the titles appeared to be medical texts.

However, there was one book on a shelf at eye level that had no dust at all, and he pulled it out and opened it. It was a notebook bound in fine, thick leather, and the same spidery handwriting filled the pages. The book contained what appeared to be instructions and notes on making the same tinctures Michael had seen on the shelves in the room below.

From what Aya had said about his house, the half-basement only held storerooms and the kitchen, not a stillroom, and the small doors on the hallway had indeed appeared to lead to closets to store foodstuffs rather than a larger room where Heddetch could have worked. Aya hadn’t mentioned a stillroom, so he must rent another room elsewhere in which he made the medicines he gave to patients. Michael was familiar enough with Miss Gardinier’s work in the stillroom to know that he would need at the very minimum a room with a wide table and a fireplace or stove.

He searched the rest of the bookshelf but found nothing of interest. He went to the desk, which was solidly built but with nicely rounded edges and decorative brass handles on the drawers. Thorne shook his head before Michael could ask him what he’d found. “Bills,” he whispered.

Michael motioned with his head toward the other room, and Thorne nodded.

They moved even more slowly and carefully, but Michael already suspected Heddetch was not inside. The bedroom door creaked sharply as they opened it, and they froze at the sound. From the floor above came the groan of ropes holding a straw mattress as someone turned over. Likely the cook, who lived in the attic room. There was no sound from the bedroom beyond.

The bed dominated the small space, with the foot nearly touching a wardrobe. The bedclothes were rumpled, but Heddetch was not there. Crammed between the bed and the wall was a small table, and in the only other free corner stood a washstand.

Thorne went to the wardrobe, but the door opened with another creak that sounded abnormally loud in the quiet house. They both froze, but there was not even a whisper of sound from the attic room above, so they swiftly went back to their tasks.

Michael checked under the bed first—a habit he’d formed after a particularly disastrous mission where he’d been surprised and stabbed in the shoulder by a French agent who had been hiding under a bed. There were only rat droppings, and the underside of the bed frame was so narrow that even a child wouldn’t have been able to squeeze underneath.

The table beside the bed held a heavy candlestick atop it as well as an empty wineglass with the faint smell of sour wine. There was a single drawer, slightly ajar, and it opened smoothly, to Michael’s surprise.

Inside, several short pencil stubs rolled around atop a scattering of pieces of paper, which looked to be blank. Sitting atop the pencils and paper was a folded letter. When he picked it up, he immediately noted the worn feel of the paper, with creases that were soft, as if the paper might tear apart at any moment. This was a letter Heddetch read often.

As he was about to open it, a crash startled him.

But it was not the noise that caused his heart to suddenly thunder. He heard phantom sounds of glass and wood breaking, screams, yells. His knuckles stung with phantom pains as he pounded his hands against walls, against stone—anything to distract him from ripping apart the soft flesh all around him, the desire to gorge on blood.

But amidst the madness and darkness, he saw a lone face floating, illuminated by a lantern. Miss Sauber.

Phoebe. He had wanted to speak her name.

Then he heard Lady Wynwood’s voice:

“I believe God will save you.”

God help me, he pleaded.

Slowly the darkness lightened from pitch black to dark gray, from roiling anger to the dead quiet of night. He was in Dr. Heddetch’s bedroom. How long had he been outside himself? A minute? Five?

When he looked, he saw that the crashing sound had been because Thorne accidentally bumped into the washstand, and the pitcher atop it had fallen to the floor and broken into large pieces. They were still rocking slightly. He had not been distracted for more than a few seconds.

Michael then became aware that the bed ropes from the attic room above creaked sharply once, then several more times. A soft thumping on the floor made it obvious that the cook had awakened and was walking out of her bedroom and toward the stairs.

Michael pocketed the letter at the same time that he raced to the wardrobe. He grabbed the first garment he touched, a threadbare coat, and rushed to pick up some of the larger pitcher pieces and cradle them in the cloth. Luckily, it had been a heavy piece that only cracked into a few pieces rather than into many small shards. Thorne also grabbed a shirt and started gathering up the pieces, both of them working as quietly and quickly as they could. The sound of the cook’s footsteps muffled some of the clinking of the pottery.

Only a few tiny shards remained, and Thorne swept his foot to scatter them around the floor, which was already rather dirty. He jumped inside the wardrobe, dousing his lantern, and Michael closed the door for him, then dove to the floor behind the bed where he wouldn’t be seen from the doorway. He blew out his lantern just as the footsteps stopped outside the bedroom.

The door squealed loudly again as the cook eased it further open. She’d lit a candle, which didn’t illuminate the room very well, but she didn’t bother moving more than a step or two inside Heddetch’s bedroom, the candle held aloft. With a heavy sigh, she turned and left.

But instead of returning to her warm bed, the footsteps moved downstairs, toward the kitchen.

Michael sighed in frustration. They could easily open the front door and leave the house that way. But if they took this easier exit, they couldn’t lock the door behind them and the cook would see the opened door. She’d then know that someone had been inside the house. Even if she didn’t notice until the next morning, she would most certainly tell the neighbors, and possibly an officer of the law.

But Mr. Drydale certainly wouldn’t want anyone to know that there had been intruders in Heddetch’s home. Michael doubted any of the neighbors were involved in Jack’s group, but the news might still make it back to one of his men. They might tell Jack since Heddetch was known to him and possibly working with him.

They had intended to leave the same way they had gotten into the house, with Calvin locking the servants’ door in the area and then climbing out the open kitchen window. The cook would never know anyone had been in the house besides herself.

But they couldn’t do that if she was in the kitchen.

They waited five minutes, ten minutes, but the cook still hadn’t returned to bed. Michael eased open the wardrobe door, moving it slowly so that the creaking was barely a whine, and Thorne stepped out. He slipped out the bedroom door, which the cook had left ajar, being careful not to touch it and set the rusty hinges screeching again. He crept into the study next door, Thorne following him.

He touched the fireplace in the far wall, and it was warm. It was the heat from the kitchen fireplace as it rose through the fireplaces on the floors above. Michael grimaced. The cook was unlikely to leave the kitchen anytime soon.

Should they wait it out? She would leave the kitchen at some point, surely? But how would they know when their way out was clear?

Thorne suddenly moved to the window and unlatched it gently, so that the metal would not make a sound. He then carefully lifted the sash so that the cook wouldn’t hear the scrape of wood from two floors below.

Michael suddenly realized what he was hoping to do, but he also wasn’t certain if there would be light enough to see Thorne. He lit his lantern, then handed it to Thorne.

Sticking his head out the window, Thorne held the lantern so that the faint light fell upon his face. He motioned towards a shadow in the building across the street, then pointed toward the front door. He also held out a hand with fingers wide, which would hopefully indicate five minutes. Then he ducked his head back inside, and closed and latched the window again. Michael blew out the lantern.

The two men left the study and made their way down the stairs, again moving slowly to prevent the wood from groaning under their footsteps. They made it to the ground floor, then slipped into the dining room, which was nearest to the staircase down to the half-basement.

They were none too soon, because they had only just settled into the shadows of the room when there was a loud banging on the front door, fast and urgent. They could hear the cook’s swearing and grumbling even from their hiding place. There was the heavy trod of her steps up the stairs from the kitchen, then toward the front hall to unlatch the front door.

When her back was to them, they slipped out of the dining room and down the narrow stairs as fast as they could manage.

They could clearly hear the child’s voice at the front door, because he was speaking loudly and in a high-pitched, panicked voice. “Is the doctor in? My sister’s sick!”

The cook’s reply was quieter, although clearly irritated, and by then they were in the half-basement. They waited until they heard the front door close firmly, then Thorne opened the back door and raced outside.

Michael locked the door after him, then darted into the kitchen. The open window was a tight fit for him, but there was a table set in front of it, and he was able to rest a knee on the surface, then dive through the opening almost on the horizontal. From the outside, Thorne grabbed his arms and helped pull him through the window and out into the front area.

Michael had landed on the dirt ground just as he heard the cook stomping down the hallway toward the kitchen, the light from her candle glowing through the kitchen windows. The stairs up to the street were not directly visible from the windows, and he and Thorne crept up slowly so that the cook would not notice the two shadows directly outside.

They walked down the street a few buildings, then ducked into the narrow space between two boarding houses across the street from Heddetch’s rooms. Michael was to loiter along the street in case Heddetch returned to his house that night or in the morning, while Thorne was to return Calvin to Lady Wynwood’s home. But before the two of them left, Michael signaled for him to wait.

“Calvin, keep an eye on Heddetch’s house,” he whispered, then lit his lantern and took out Heddetch’s letter. Calvin stood at the entrance to the alleyway to watch the deserted street.

He heard the frown in Thorne’s voice as he asked, “You took that from his house?”

“It was in the drawer of the table near his bed.” Michael positioned the lantern as he unfolded the paper. “He has opened and handled it many times. A letter he re-reads so often must be important to Heddetch.”

“But it will alert him to the fact his house was searched,” Thorne said. “Otherwise, we could have simply run out the front door rather than going back out through the kitchen.”

“I didn’t want the cook to know someone had been in the house, but if Heddetch returns, the letter will be the least of his worries since I’ll attempt to capture him. And if he never returns to his house, he’ll never know.”

Thorne grunted as Michael moved the letter closer to the lantern.

The outside of the paper had no address, so it had perhaps been wrapped in a larger sheet.

My dear Heddetch,

Enclosed you will find my notes and thoughts on Jack’s crude concoction. I was surprised when you wrote to me that he uses the roots of his hybrid Goldensuit plant. My previous experiments with the original Goldensuit strain showed that the roots are hardly efficacious at all, and when used with Jack’s recipe, the results are disappointing. Jack’s strain is far inferior, as my experiments with the root samples of his hybrid plant have shown, so I am not surprised that he has run into problems with his current batch of plants. It is only to be expected of such an uneducated, mentally uncouth man.

Only upon you, my fellow doctor, can I place my trust, and I rely completely upon your discretion, expertise, and powers of observation whilst I am unable to be in London. Pray continue to report to me about what nefarious plots Jack and Seyward have involved themselves in, as you have been doing in your letters to me. Also please keep reminding them to look for the notebooks, for I do not believe that they fully realize how important they are. They are short-sighted and care only for violence, so I would not expect them to put such weighty intellectual matters to the forefront of their mediocre minds. In contrast, you understand how the notebooks are necessary for my further research, which is fueled by the most precious reason for my existence. I know how diligently you are working for me and for our cause. You must continue to trust that soon your efforts will be richly rewarded.

As with my other letters to you, please remember to burn this one. I fear for your safety should Jack discover the details of our correspondence. However, in answer to your question in your last letter, I am not overly disturbed if our close friendship causes Jack unease and irritation of mind. While I rely upon his work with the Goldensuit plants, his arrogance threatens our cause. Frequent mention of my name will remind him that he cannot perform his work alone, and that he would do well to remember that although I am far away, I am still watching him.

Yours, etc.

“What a strange letter to keep,” Thorne said. “It appears to have little information of which Heddetch is not already aware. Out of all the letters, he chose not to burn this one?”

“No, I know why Heddetch kept this letter instead of burning it,” Michael said slowly. “He was given a promise—‘your efforts will be richly rewarded’—and this letter is proof. Because he signed his name.”

Michael pointed to the tiny scrawl at the bottom, which read, “Dr. Ward.”

CHAPTER FIVE

As Septimus Ackett left his bedroom in his father’s London townhouse, he nearly ran into his younger sister, Octavia, who was struggling under a tea tray laden with a large pot and more scones than he could count. She shrieked as the tray tipped and several of the scones began to escape onto the floor.

Sep grabbed the tray for her with one hand while the other grabbed a wayward scone before it could fall.

“Thank you, Sep,” she said. Glancing at his riding clothes, she asked, “Going riding at this hour?”

He normally exercised his horse in the early hour just after dawn, before the parks became crowded, and it was now mid-morning. He was intending to find Mr. Drydale, but he couldn’t tell her that, so he said simply, “Yes. Where are you headed with this?” He dropped the scone he was holding onto the plate, then got a firmer grip on the tray.

“Curtis’s room,” she said, indicating their second oldest brother and fourth born child, Quartus. Their father had named all his children Latin names, but their mother had insisted upon referring to them using more conventional nicknames, and all the siblings had adopted the habit.

As they walked down the hallway, he asked, “How is Curtis doing?”

“How is he ever doing?” she replied with a bite in her voice.

“Hungover from last night’s drinking and weak as a cat?”

“Of course. Curtis is nothing if not predictable.” When in school, Curtis had formed friendships with a rather reckless crowd, and they continued their irresponsible behavior even into their thirties. Their parents, Lord and Lady Ammler, were of mild, quiet temperaments, so many of the siblings wondered at Curtis’s impetuousness. But when Sep considered his secret activities, he could not quite wonder at his brother’s daring nature. Their eldest brother, Skand, was even more foolhardy, and Sep rarely saw him.

Sep adjusted the tray as they walked down the hallway toward the bedrooms at the front of the house. “I am surprised he asked for tea.”

“He did not,” Octavia said. “The tea is for Mother, who is sitting with Curtis and listening to his unending complaints.”

“What would he have to complain about?”

“His poor luck at the gambling tables, mostly.” Octavia sniffed in disapproval. “He rarely keeps his head because he drinks too much.”

“He drank too much even before the accident.” Curtis had been quite gravely injured in a carriage racing accident two and a half years ago, and he never fully recovered from it. Despite his poor health, he insisted upon enjoying his time with his friends in town.

“I think he drinks to hide the fact that he feels quite poorly,” Octavia said. “However, it only makes Mother nag him to stop his behavior and stay and home to rest.”

As if Curtis would ever do that. “He looks as though he has lost more weight.” Last week, Sep had also noticed that his brother was walking rather gingerly and pressing his hand to his side, as though his torso were in pain when he moved. After his accident, his broken ribs had healed quickly, but he had remained weak and ill for nearly a year. He tried to act as though he were the same as before, but his movements lacked his previous strength and quickness.

“Yes, I think he looks more pale, but I value my life too much to mention it to him. Mother tried to say something, but Father …”

She didn’t need to complete her sentence. Their mother would worry about Curtis, and their father would always tell her to let the boy do what he wanted. Sep changed the subject. “How are you enjoying the Season?”

“It is much more enjoyable than last year.” She had debuted the previous Season, and her inexperience and inherent shyness had made it a painful few months. “I am enjoying it more now that I am a year older, and I have become used to the round of parties.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “How are you enjoying the Season?”

“It is the same as always.”

“You have not met anyone interesting?”

He frowned at her. “What do you mean by interesting?”

“No one new has approached you? Or perhaps an acquaintance is a little more friendly than before?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

She gusted a sigh. “I overheard some girls talking about how you have become even more of a catch than Curtis.”

He nearly stumbled and risked dropping the tea tray. Octavia’s hands reached out as the teapot swayed dangerously, but Sep righted the tray in time. He was so dumbfounded that the only thing he could say in response was, “What?”

“Well, Curtis is obviously quite ill, and in addition to his heavy drinking, he is unlikely to recover anytime soon, if ever. And Skand is so terribly reckless that it appears he is trying to run himself into an early grave.” In fact, Skand, their eldest living brother and the second born in the family, was currently spending the Season at their country estate with a leg that had been badly broken when he’d engaged in a dangerous horse race with his friends. The accident had been so terrible that they’d had to put the horse down.

“Do you mean to say that they consider Skand and Curtis to be poor marriage prospects?”

“No one has said so directly, but to be perfectly truthful, most believe that Skand’s reckless behavior and Curtis’s illness are likely to cause them to die young, before either of them can inherit the title and estate from our father.”

Sep was shocked. “That is a terribly callous way of thinking.”

Octavia gave him an apologetic look. “It is the way of girls during the Season, since their goal is to find an eligible man to marry. I am fortunate our parents are not desperate to marry me off.”

It was strange to think of his younger sister being married, but he supposed that was ignorant of him. All women in their social class were expected to marry advantageously, and those who did not were few and treated with disdain.

“So?” Octavia probed him. “Have you met any interesting young women?”

He thought briefly of Miss Gardinier’s lively gray eyes. Strangely, while he couldn’t remember seeing her do so, he suddenly had a fleeting image of her laughing out loud, her smile wide and bright. Somehow she seemed younger than she was now. It was like an old memory, with the edges faded by time and distance.

But he hadn’t met her before her first Season. He must have dreamed it and only just remembered it at this moment. “I have only interacted with acquaintances from past Seasons,” he answered truthfully. He knew he had to hide his closer relationship with Miss Gardinier since the work they were doing was secretive, but for some reason, denying their growing friendship seemed insulting to her.

They were nearing Curtis’s bedroom door, and he asked her, “Have you formed a tendre for anyone?”

She laughed and shook her head, and she seemed completely sincere when she said, “No, I would rather stay and help Mother with Curtis and Skand for now.” Their two older sisters had married and left home when Octavia was still young, and because their mother was rather flighty at times, Octavia had stepped into the role of managing the household at a young age.

“You’re a good daughter,” he found himself saying without intending to.

“Don’t be sappy,” she said, but he could tell her sharp tone was to hide her pleased embarrassment. “Shall you be at dinner tonight?”

“You have no parties to attend?”

She shook her head.

“I am uncertain if I shall be home,” he said slowly. The reason he was going out right now was to find Mr. Drydale to convince him to let Sep help with the investigation. The weeks of searching Lady Wynwood’s home had kept him occupied, but he was feeling restless to be out and doing more of the work he was accustomed to. If he gave his permission, he might perhaps be helping Michael with his investigation into Mr. Jadis.

Her mouth gave a little pout of disappointment, but then she shrugged her shoulders in a “Do as you like” gesture that reminded him of their French paternal grandmother. “Thank you for carrying the tray.” She took it from him carefully so as not to spill the heavy load.

“I can carry it inside the bedroom for you,” he offered.

“It would probably be better if Curtis didn’t see you,” she said frankly. “He’s in a foul mood and will only say something nasty to you about something foolish.”

Sep didn’t particularly get along with his older siblings. His personality was too different, his manner too cautious, his way of speaking too slow and tentative. Only Octavia truly understood him. Only she had the patience to wait when he was trying to communicate something, since he often found it hard to convey what he wanted to say in words. His other family members simply became impatient with him.

He opened the bedroom door for her, and she whisked inside. Just before he closed it behind her, he heard Curtis’s irritable voice. “Why would you possibly think I would want tea? Take it away.”

“Then how fortunate it’s for Mother and not for the grouchy old man in the bed.”

“What did you call me, you brat?!”

“Does that mean you don’t want any of your favorite lemon cakes?”

“Oh … uh …”

The door shut before he heard the rest of the conversation.

Sep went to Mr. Drydale’s house, but he wasn’t at home, so he rode to Stapytton House, which lay outside of London. During the ride, he kept his horse to a moderate pace, but it was hard to ignore the tightness in his knee. The discomfort brought on the deluge of negative thoughts that had been plaguing him for the past few weeks.

He wanted to do what he always used to do. He wanted to feel normal again. But when trying to do something as simple as riding a horse, his body still wouldn’t allow him forget that things weren’t normal.

This was possibly the worst injury he had ever incurred, and the loss of function of his knee was as if a huge hole had been punched into his life. His physical abilities were suddenly shackled, and his shocked mind couldn’t keep up with the abrupt changes to his routine, his life, his very purpose.

He knew that, logically, he would eventually heal. Dr. Shokes had said that there was a good possibility he would recover full function of his knee and be able to continue his unusual physical activities.

But a part of him felt as if he were adrift in the wide ocean, lost and alone. He had always been devout, ever since his childhood, and he had always trusted that God was with him. But now, he no longer felt close to God.

Instead, anger rose in him every time he remembered the brutality of Jack’s attack when he’d injured him. Why had God allowed that to happen? How could Sep be of use as an agent if he was so badly injured?

He arrived at Stapytton House at last and rode towards the stables. The dilapidated building barely qualified to be called a stable, but he heard hammering as he drew closer. When he turned the corner of the house, he saw Lady Wynwood’s coachman, Mr. Havner, repairing one of the stable doors. There were also newer pieces of wood along one of the walls that had been in the most disrepair.

He dismounted carefully, feeling a hard, almost-but-not-quite painful pull deep inside his knee as he did so, but when his feet hit the ground, his balance was stable. His knee throbbed once, twice, then it just ached sullenly.

“Shall I take care of your horse for you, sir?” Mr. Havner asked as he approached.

“Thank you.” Sep glanced at the half-repaired door. “It won’t take you from your other duties?”

Mr. Havner gave a brief smile at Sep’s consideration, but then shook his head. “No trouble at all, sir. I started repairing the building since I hadn’t much to do.”

“Thank you,” Sep said again, but as he turned to go, he hesitated. “Is Mr. Drydale here yet?”

“Not yet, but he’s expected soon.”

When he entered the house, it appeared empty at first, but then he heard thumps and hard footfalls coming from the other side of the building. He traversed the dilapidated hallways carefully, not only because he feared putting his foot through a weak board, but also because his knee was still sore after the ride, and he stepped gingerly to avoid putting too much of his weight upon it. Although he walked slowly, annoyance burned in his chest that he couldn’t simply stride as quickly as he normally would.

The door to the ballroom was open, and as he approached, he could see two figures attacking each other.

His heartbeat broke into a gallop for a moment, and his legs tensed to propel him forward, but then he realized the two figures were Miss Gardinier and Mr. Rosmont.

Due to her leg injury, Miss Gardinier was not as mobile as Mr. Rosmont, so her fighting stance was more like a tower under siege. Both of them held slim pieces of wood like knife blades. Mr. Rosmont struck out at her, and she was doing her best to dodge, but while her attacks with her wooden knife were quick and confident, she was not as fast in twisting or bending her torso to avoid Mr. Rosmont’s counters. After nearly being skewered a few times, he finally poked her in the stomach with his knife. He had pulled his blow just before contacting her, but it still made her wince and stumble backward.

“Better,” Mr. Rosmont told her, “but you still need to strengthen your torso—”

“Yes, yes,” she replied tiredly. “Mr. Coulton-Jones already nagged me about it.”

“I don’t nag.” Michael’s protest sounded from somewhere in the room, out of Sep’s line of vision, but he saw his friend as he stepped through the open doorway.

While Mr. Rosmont was sparring with Miss Gardinier, Michael and Miss Sauber were watching from far enough away to view the fight but not get in the way. Michael turned and smiled when he spotted Sep. He and Miss Sauber greeted him at the same time.

Miss Gardinier and Mr. Rosmont turned to him, although for a long moment, the only thing Sep saw was her gray eyes and the sweet smile that had appeared upon her face. “Hello, Mr. Ackett,” she said.

To hide his sudden embarrassment, he gave a short bow to the room in general.

“Good to see you, Sep.” Mr. Rosmont nodded to him.

“Thorne,” Sep returned awkwardly. Two weeks ago, Thorne had asked Sep to call him by his first name, as Michael did, and Sep had responded in kind, but he often forgot.

Miss Gardinier approached him. “We did not expect you so soon, but it is just as well that you are here. I would like to look at your knee—”

“After you finish your training with Thorne,” Michael said to her.

She was facing Sep, so he saw the grimace on her face. It was embarrassing to admit that he found it rather cute.

He snapped his thoughts back into focus. There were things he had to do.

Miss Gardinier reluctantly turned and plodded back to where Thorne was waiting.

“Are you here to guard the ladies?” Thorne asked Sep.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Drydale didn’t speak to you?” Thorne asked, then glanced at Michael.

“Mr. Drydale wouldn’t have had time to speak to Sep,” Michael said. “He was called out to Lady Wynwood’s house early this morning and he’s been busy at the Ramparts. He said he’d come straight here afterward.”

“Lady Wynwood’s house?” Alarm spiked in Sep’s throat and he looked at Miss Sauber.

She caught his look of concern and gave him a reassuring smile. “We are well now.” She then explained what had happened in the early hours of morning.

Sep couldn’t believe that the calm young woman telling him the tale was the same one who had tackled Dr. Heddetch. Her frustration in losing him was evident in the tightness of her voice, but on a whole, her manner was like a young lady who had simply lost her parasol in the wind.

Michael and Thorne then filled him in on their mission to search Dr. Heddetch’s house. Thorne had shown the letter to Mr. Drydale, then he had taken it to Lady Aymer early this morning to ask her to make copies and to inform her of what had happened, since she was still caring for her mother. He handed a copy of the letter to Sep to read.

Sep was astounded at the sudden turn of events.

“Did Jack or the pale-eyed name mention the names Ward or Seyward when they captured you?” Michael asked.

Sep shook his head. “But then again, Jack never referred to the pale-eyed man by name, either. He could have been one of those names.” Remembering those hours seemed to make his knee twinge, but he ignored it. “Is there someone watching Dr. Heddetch’s house on the chance that he returns?”

“I was watching it until a couple hours ago,” Michael said. “Lady Wynwood’s twin servants, Clara and Calvin, are watching it now.”

“I will take their place after this meeting, so Michael can get some sleep,” Thorne said.

This was exactly what Sep had wanted. “Let me help watch the house,” he said.

Instead of answering, both Thorne and Michael looked at Miss Gardinier. She turned red at the sudden attention, but answered their unspoken question. “I had thought Mr. Drydale simply wanted him to guard us here, where I could monitor him.”

“But that was before Dr. Heddetch attacked,” Miss Sauber said.

Miss Gardinier glanced at Sep with what seemed a look of apology. “It might be too soon for Mr. Ackett to be out and about …”

“I don’t work with anyone who is not in complete health,” Thorne said in his usual blunt manner. He was not being insulting or arrogant, but he was never shy about voicing his true opinion when it came to his work.

Michael was more tactful. “I know you’ve been cooped up, Sep, but if you’re not given a clean bill of health, it could potentially be dangerous for others working with you.”

Sep damped down his frustration and tried to speak in his normal calm manner. “There are no more places for me to look in Lady Wynwood’s townhouse.” He sought for the words to convey what he was feeling without betraying the frightening sense of being adrift that he was feeling. “I am an agent. Let me do my job.”

Michael continued to look worried, but Thorne had a light of understanding in his face, despite his frown. “Let’s decide this with a sparring bout,” he said.

“I beg your pardon,” Miss Gardinier burst out, not sounding like she was begging at all.

“The one way to know if a man is truly fit for duty is to see how he moves,” Thorne said, unconcerned by her protest. He raised an eyebrow at Sep.

Sep nodded and stripped off his coat.

“Wait just a moment.” Miss Gardinier moved to stand in between them. “I think both of you have forgotten just who is the one person here who was trained by a doctor. And she—I do not approve of this.”

“I won’t hurt him,” Thorne said. “I’ll just muss up his pretty face.”

Miss Gardinier rolled her eyes, while Sep thought he heard Miss Sauber stifle a laugh.

“Miss Gardinier is the one who knows best what Sep’s physical condition is,” Michael said. “Miss Gardinier, what distresses you about the sparring bout?”

Put on the spot, she opened and closed her mouth a few times, then skewered Sep with a glare. “You may think you are perfectly well, but you have not engaged in strenuous activity for two weeks. The sudden movement required of a round of fighting might cause you to overextend the recently healed portions of your knee and cause a new injury.”

Sep had been warming his legs up with bending, jumping in place, and stretching. “I feel fine,” he told her.

“Don’t coddle him,” Thorne said to her. “He’s an agent. He knows the limits of his own body. It’s how he stays alive.”

The reminder of the dangers they faced silenced whatever she was about to say next. She gave Sep one last concerned look, then stepped aside. She stood far enough out of their way that she would not interfere with the bout, but closer than Michael and Miss Sauber. He suspected that she wanted to be first to reach him should something happen.

Despite his disquiet about his stiff knee, now that he was moving about, it felt stronger, smoother, like a lubricated door hinge. As he faced Thorne, his mind was calm.

Thorne attacked without warning, swinging a swift punch directly at his face. Sep bent backward to avoid it, his torso moving with strength and suppleness, and realized Thorne had only been testing him. When he’d punched Sep, his arm had not been at full extension.

The two circled around each other slowly, warily. Sep’s muscles were relaxed so that he could react quickly.

Thorne snapped out a tentative jab, then another. He had said he wanted to see how Sep moved, but his eyes focused intently upon Sep’s face and raised hands. It indicated he was taking the fight seriously, and that gratified Sep.

They each sent jabs and cross punches at each other, sharply with the intent to connect, but neither of them got a solid hit. Sep stayed low and moved in response to his opponent, watching the line of Thorne’s shoulders and torso.

Thorne’s right punches were slower and weaker than his left. That surprised Sep until he remembered Michael had once mentioned that Thorne had originally been discharged from the army because of an injury. He hadn’t said what type of injury, but from the way Thorne was moving, Sep would wager it was the right shoulder.

His side steps were also slightly uneven—almost too subtle to notice, except that Sep had been watching Thorne’s movements carefully for signs of weakness. Thorne might also have a knee injury, but Sep shied away from taking advantage of that option.

He thought about Thorne’s shoulder … and decided what he would do.

He bided his time, taking a careful step to one side or the other, getting into an advantageous position, waiting for the right moment.

He feigned a jab at Thorne’s face, causing him to pull his hands up to guard, but leaving an opening. Sep followed up his feint by stepping right up to Thorne and hooking their right arms together tightly. Thorne’s injured shoulder made him unable to twist away, immobilizing him. Then Sep sent a hard left fist into Thorne’s back torso, directly over his kidney.

The man grunted and curled in on himself slightly. The motion lowered his head, allowing Sep to follow up with a jab to the back of the injured shoulder.

Thorne gave a harsh exhale, and as he dropped to his knees, Sep released the arm he still held. Then he stepped back.

On his hands and knees, Thorne was panting in heavy breaths, obviously in a great deal of pain from the two blows. His head was bowed so Sep couldn’t see his face, but it was probably contorted in agony.

The audience had been shocked by Sep’s surprising attacks, and no one had moved for several seconds after Thorne fell to the ground. Now Miss Gardinier rushed forward toward him.

But before she could reach him, he had pushed back and sat down on the dusty, uneven floor. And he began to laugh.

Sep wasn’t the only one disconcerted by the sight, because everyone else was staring at Thorne in bewilderment.

As he got his breath back, Thorne said to Sep, “Good show. You certainly caught me unprepared. Nice move, that.”

Sep let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He didn’t quite smile, but he felt his face relax.

Miss Gardinier frowned fiercely at Thorne, but she still crouched down next to him to examine where Sep had hit him.

Thorne winced but allowed her to raise his arms over his head. With his hands in the air, he looked over at Sep. “How did you know about the injured shoulder?”

“I didn’t. Your right punches were slower and stiffer than your left, so I guessed at a shoulder injury.”

“I told you that you needed to work on hiding that,” Michael called to him, unsympathetic.

Thorne sighed deeply.

“Can you stand?” Miss Gardinier asked him.

Thorne nodded, and Sep reached out a hand to help him to his feet.

As he did, the motion and the weight tugging at his body suddenly caused a sharp twinge in his knee.

He inhaled sharply, but it was at the same time he was hauling up on Thorne’s hand, so it simply sounded like a grunt of effort. He kept his face impassive, but his mind was whirling. Had he overdone things? He had to make sure his knee wasn’t injured again. Or was he being overly cautious?

“Now,” Miss Gardinier said firmly to Thorne, “I think you shall be fine, and Mr. Ackett’s punch was not too hard, but it was very accurately placed on your kidney. I must warn you to tell me immediately if there is blood in your urine.”

At her words, the entire room fell silent.

Then Michael burst out laughing, deep belly laughs like Sep hadn’t seen since Michael’s older brother had died. Miss Sauber’s hand was over her mouth as if in shock, but her eyes were suspiciously blinking as if she were trying not to laugh, also.

Thorne, on the other hand, had turned such a bright red that it looked like his head was going to explode.

Miss Gardinier stared at Miss Sauber and Michael in puzzlement. “Did I say something strange?”

They didn’t answer her, but Thorne muttered, “For some reason I feel like I was defeated twice in one day.”

***

Mr. Rosmont straightened and stared down at Miss Gardinier. “Just for that, you’re sparring with me a little more.”

Miss Gardinier gave a strangled sound of protest. “Why do I need more? I should think you’re weary of fighting with me since I’m not very good at it.”

“That’s the exact reason you should work on your movements.”

“I can practice with Phoebe—” she started to say.

Miss Sauber promptly strode toward one of the ballroom doors. “I must tend to the plants.”

“You should practice sparring against a taller opponent,” Thorne said. “Most of your battles will be against men who are larger than yourself.”

Miss Gardinier closed her eyes and heaved a sigh, but nodded in agreement.

As the two squared off again, Michael approached Sep and asked in a quiet voice, “Might I speak to you?”

Surprised, Sep nodded. He followed Michael out of the room.

Michael didn’t stop in the hallway outside the ballroom—he continued through the house and out a side door. They walked toward the back of the house and the edge of the forested area on the other side of the stable courtyard. Mr. Havner was no longer working on the door but was apparently inside with the horses.

They stopped under the trees, but Michael hesitated before speaking. His face seemed tired, with more lines along the side of his mouth and deeper furrows between his dark brows.

Sep waited silently, but he was strangely anxious about what Michael wanted to speak about, so he tried to calm himself by listening to the wind rustling the branches above them. He tried to guess what topic he would bring up, but nothing occurred to him … except the most obvious issue, his knee. Had Michael noticed his gasp of pain when he helped Thorne to his feet?

“I need your advice,” Michael said, then scratched his cheek. “I normally would talk to Richard, but …” There was pain in the echo of his last word. “I am struggling with questions about what will happen to me, and I know your faith is strong.”

His words surprised Sep, but when he thought about it, he shouldn’t be surprised at all. Michael had been living under this death sentence for over three weeks now, ever since waking up.

But his friend’s confidence in Sep’s faith made him feel an uncomfortable heaviness in his chest. He had always been steadfast in attending church, but lately …

His discomfort must have been written upon his face, because Michael sighed. “I apologize, I did not intend to make you feel ill at ease.”

“We have been friends for years,” Sep said quickly. “You needn’t hesitate to rely upon me. I simply feel … inadequate in these types of matters.”

“I wanted your views on this because you have shared the same experiences in France as I have.”

“Thorne …?”

Michael gave a soft sigh. “I’ve been friends with Thorne since childhood, but he has an antagonistic view of God. He dislikes conversations about faith in a higher power.”

“What you are going through …” Sep said slowly, awkwardly, “I would think it’s the same as when you’ve been on missions.”

“This situation feels different from anything else I’ve faced.” Michael looked out toward the trees. “When I was on a mission, there always seemed to be only a possibility I would die if I made a mistake or if someone else outsmarted me. But now, I feel as if death is stalking me and all I can do is wait for it to catch up to me.”

“When you were captured, and I came to break you out of that prison, even then you had been searching for an escape, despite how dire the situation was for you.” Sep had met Michael for the first time when he’d been sent to break him out a French prison—leading to an exploding boat in the Channel. “You are not the type of man to accept a bad situation.”

“Even when I was captured, for some reason, I never felt the situation was entirely out of my hands. But now there is no escape, there is no rescue.”

“Miss Gardinier and Miss Sauber are searching for a cure.” Sep didn’t like hearing how hopeless his friend sounded. “It’s as you said before, there’s only a possibility you’ll die. They are working diligently.”

“They may be only delaying the inevitable,” Michael said. “My time is limited. I need more pollen each time I start to feel the effects of the Root, and the time between each dose is shrinking. They have nothing that will help me so that I no longer need the Goldensuit. And if I stop taking it, I will die.”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“I don’t particularly wish to test the theory,” Michael said dryly.

There was silence for a moment, and Sep struggled with what to say. He had only ever been straightforward—perhaps even simplistic—in his thinking and his words. But perhaps that was what Michael wanted to hear. So he finally said, “I am a poor friend, and I fear I would give poor advice. I have felt distant from God lately. I feel as though God is ignoring me.”

As soon as Sep said the words, he worried that he only added to his friend’s melancholy, but Michael seemed to have been struck by his reply. “Yes, that is exactly what I have been feeling. I haven’t been able to pray. Or rather, when I pray, I feel as though the words aren’t being heard by anyone.”

Sep looked at his boots. “I have never felt as close to God when I am in England as when I was facing danger in France. My faith seemed strongest when I was about to undertake something exceptionally dangerous, and I had to stop and settle myself beforehand.”

Michael was thoughtful, perhaps remembering his own missions. “It seems strange,” he finally said, “but at those times, even though I was afraid, I was completely willing to die in the line of duty. I knew God was with me and that He would guide my decisions.”

Something about that struck at him. Sep spoke haltingly. “When on missions, we had control over our actions. We couldn’t control the situation, but we did what we could to accomplish our task. But now …”

“Now, my actions don’t matter.” Michael looked away, but his voice was tight.

Sep felt the same way, but he had a glimmer of a thought that seemed important. “I think we forget that God has always been in control of the situation. He will guide Miss Gardinier and Miss Sauber.”

Michael didn’t answer him.

Sep couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but he continued, “I think this is why we feel this way. To remind us that God is directing everything around us, and …” He struggled to put his thoughts into words. “… and we must trust Him.”

Michael exhaled, long and loud. “I have difficulty sitting back and trusting God.”

“I think we all do.” He didn’t think he did a good job of comforting his friend, but he felt that he might have said what Michael needed to hear. And what Sep himself needed to hear, as well.

They stood there in silence, except for the wind passing through the tree branches in rushing waves. Then Michael gave a mighty yawn.

“How many hours of sleep did you have?” Sep asked. From what Thorne had said, it had been barely past midnight when they’d been woken up in order to go to Heddetch’s house.

“One or two.”

“You should rest.”

Michael shook his head. “Mr. Drydale will be here soon.”

“Did he give a time when we should expect him?”

“No.”

“Then he could be another five minutes or another forty-five minutes. Why not have a nap until then?”

Michael closed his eyes and stretched his neck, popping the bones, then sighed in surrender. “I used to be able to stay up for three days straight.”

“I could do a great many things only five years ago.” Or even two weeks ago.

His friend gave a short laugh, then left him to go back into the house.

Sep remained where he was, tilting his head back to look up at the moving tree branches. He smelled a thread of woodsmoke for a moment, then it was gone.

He wondered if he was being a hypocrite, to be giving advice when in this state. It was laughable and perhaps even a little pathetic that he was struggling with his own thoughts about God because of his knee injury when Michael was facing a death sentence.

And yet, this injury had impacted him more than being stabbed or shot, and he didn’t know why.

Perhaps it was because he had had to quit the Foreign Office. When Curtis was injured, for a long time it wasn’t certain whether he would live after the accident. If he had died, Sep would have been the second eldest son. He would have stood to inherit his father’s title should something happen to his oldest brother, Skand, who was fully as foolhardy as Curtis and unlikely to marry and have a son anytime in the near future. So Sep’s father had demanded that Sep sell out from the military.

However, doing work for Mr. Drydale had enabled Sep to feel the same way he had when on a foreign mission. But until he healed, even that was closed to him.

Hadn’t he just spoken to Michael about trusting in God? He needed to take his own advice.

He leaned against a tree, closed his eyes and bowed his head. His mind seemed sluggish, searching for the words to pray but feeling as though there was both too much for him to say and nothing to say at all.

Please heal my knee. It sounded inadequate, somehow.

I feel lost. That sounded more honest.

Why did You let this happen to me? That was more honest still, and the anger colored his prayer with resentment.

He hadn’t wanted to pray because the truth was that he was angry at God. And yet at the same time, he felt guilt that he was blaming the Lord for what Jack had done to him. He wondered if that was the real reason he felt far away from God.

Here he stood, trying to pray, but all he wanted to do was complain to God about what He had allowed to happen. His heart felt bitter and cold.

But the wind whispering past his ears and ruffling his hair seemed to stir a memory of an old sermon given by the ancient rector at the church in his home village. He had spoken about the Biblical character of Job, another man who had dared to complain to God.

Job had been dealt a tremendous blow to his life, losing his children, his wealth, and his health, but he had refused to curse God. He had said:

Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him: but I will maintain mine own ways before him.

The rector had pointed out that Job had trusted in God, but he still wanted to argue his case before Him. There was no contradiction, because he could still have faith in God and yet be honest in his prayers to Him.

Sep had spoken to the rector after the service about his sermon. “Wouldn’t it be disrespectful for us to pour out all our complaints to God?”

But the rector surprised Sep when he replied, “God is not so small that His feelings will be hurt when we complain to Him. He values truth, honesty, and vulnerability before Him.”

Why did you let this happen to me? The words spiraled in his mind, and it seemed there were no other words he wanted to say.

Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.

Sep didn’t know how to do that, how to trust in God in this situation. So he prayed, Please help me to trust in You. He couldn’t think of anything else to convey what he felt simmering in his heart.

But maybe it was enough, because he started to feel as though a tightness in his chest started to loosen.

A snapping tree twig startled him and made him open his eyes. He hadn’t even known he wasn’t alone.

Miss Gardinier stood several feet away, looking uncomfortable. “I beg your pardon,” she said, and this time she did sound like she was begging. “I didn’t see you until just now because you were blocked by the trees.” Her face went red. “I did not intend to interrupt you in a private moment. Shall I return later?”

“There is no need,” Sep said. “God has already heard me.” And he found he truly believed that.

She still looked down at where she shuffled her feet on the grass. He broke the awkward silence by asking, “You have escaped from Thorne?”

“I did not escape from him,” she answered hotly, frowning at him. Then she blinked and looked away. “Although I might have exaggerated a trifle when he hit my shoulder.”

Sep tried not to smile as he regarded her steadily. “He only does it so that you will be prepared. We want you and Miss Sauber to be able to protect yourselves.”

She glanced at him, then away again, and her cheeks started to glow a faint pink. “I suppose I am too accustomed to being ignored by my parents and my younger sister. They rarely care about what I do. They certainly do not care about what I am capable of doing.”

She said it in such a bland, pragmatic tone. She did not say it to invoke pity from him, nor to feel sorry for herself. This was simply how things were, for her.

He couldn’t understand how her family would treat her thus. In his eyes, she shone as hot and brilliant as summer sunlight.

Obviously trying to change the subject, she asked, “How do you feel?”

“I feel fit,” he answered automatically. His neck tensed. He had a feeling she would again suggest he not exert himself. After all, she had objected to the sparring bout.

She regarded him with searching gray eyes, then said exactly what he didn’t expect her to say. “I’m not here to tell you to rest more. Even if you did re-injure your knee just now.”

Sep gaped at her, then found himself looking at the ground, the trees, his hands, anywhere but at her. Had it been so obvious?

She spoke as if reading his mind again. “You needn’t worry. No one else noticed it.”

“How did you know?” he said reluctantly.

“I saw a slight wobble in your leg when you helped Mr. Rosmont up from the floor.” She stepped closer, her eyes on his knee. “May I look at it?”

“Go ahead.”

Unheeding of the grass that would surely stain her skirt, she knelt and gently probed his knee with her fingers. Her touch was soft, but the pressure was slightly uncomfortable. At last she rose back up to her feet, brushing dried grass from her skirt. “It doesn’t appear you did anything too injurious to it. I shall give to you an herbal paste to put upon it as a poultice tonight. Does your cook have access to ice from an ice house?”

“Yes, although I don’t know if there will be any ice at this time of year.”

She squinted up at the spring sunlight through the trees. “Yes, I had forgotten about that. Well, if there is no ice, then cold well water will do the trick. Put some ice or cold water in a glass with some shillings or pennies and leave it for an hour or so. Then mix the coins with the paste.”

Sep winced at how that clammy mixture would feel against his skin, but nodded to her.

“For today,” she continued, “walking about might be healthful, so long as it doesn’t pain you.”

“Oh?” He hadn’t expected her to tell him to move around.

Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him. “I am quite serious about the ‘pain’ part of that sentence.”

“Yes, of course.” He might have answered her a bit too quickly.

She sighed. “No fighting and no climbing on rooftops, or you may do something to make your injury worse.”

“You agreed to the sparring bout,” he pointed out.

“Mr. Rosmont was unlikely to seriously hurt you. But in a true fight, the sudden movements might be too difficult for your knee, which is still weak. Straining it will cause permanent damage.”

He wanted to simply nod agreement, but it would be foolish for him to blithely ignore her advice. “I feel I must point out that I have no way to predict what I might need to do.”

“I understand.” She chewed on her lip. “Let me simply advise you to be cautious.”

If he were to be cautious, would he then simply be deadweight to the rest of the team? And after asserting that his injury had healed and he was able to help?

He was determined to do his job, but was that simply to feel normal again? Miss Gardinier was not trying to shackle him—she was simply concerned about him, and that made his heart feel warm, as if wrapped in a blanket. And she was not disregarding his feelings—she seemed to understand him, and it reminded him of how Octavia understood him.

Was his pride worth the risk of re-injuring his knee? Just the thought of her disappointment also seemed to cast a deeper gloom over the dire possibility.

“I will heed your warning,” he promised.

There was approval and relief in her expression. “Your knee shall heal quickly,” she said. “I will do everything I can to help heal you. I am certain you have no wish to feel more like an invalid than you already do.”

Her words were more understanding than he’d expect from a doctor. “I admit I am surprised you are not more against my desire to help Michael and Thorne.”

She looked down at her feet again. “I used to be more active … before the accident.”

He realized she wasn’t looking at her feet—she was looking at her injured leg.

“Since then,” she continued, “I have felt like a shadow of who I used to be. So I understand what you are feeling now.”

“You are not a shadow,” he said. “You blaze brightly when you are helping someone or doing your research. To me, you are beautiful just as you are.”

She stared at him, eyes wide.

It took a moment for Sep’s brain to catch up to what he’d just said. Then fire swarmed up his face, and he turned his head to stare at the tree line.

He had been feeling like less of a man because of this injury, but a few words from her made him feel capable and strong. He didn’t understand how she could do that, and he didn’t understand why he reacted to her this way. His emotions were new to him, and he didn’t know what to do.

His sister had once told him that his personality was like a standoffish cat, while his emotions were like a distrustful dog. They got along most of the time by dint of simply ignoring each other, but if anything upset his emotions, there would be troublesome fighting within him.

He finally understood what she had been talking about. His feelings for Miss Gardinier were intense and untamed, and they frightened him.

She frightened him.

On missions, when the fear threatened to make his heart pound out of his chest, he would wall his emotions away, ignoring his fear, and charge forward into the task ahead. He couldn’t ignore Miss Gardinier, but he could try to avoid her. He withdrew in a tactical retreat.

“Thank you for your help,” he said gruffly, not looking at her. “I hope I did not take you from your work. I know you have been very busy developing a new sedative.”

He had not moved away from her, but she grew quiet and didn’t answer him right away, as if she could sense the sudden emotional distance he had put between them. “Yes, I worked late yesterday,” she finally said in a low voice.

But then, rather than leaving him alone, she took a step toward him. “Come inside,” she said. “Mr. Rosmont is likely searching for another vict—er, another sparring partner, but Phoebe has too much work to do and Mr. Coulton-Jones looks tired and ought to rest. Come rescue them from Mr. Rosmont.”

Sep hesitated, but not because he didn’t wish to go back inside. It was simply so strange to him. He was so accustomed to working alone, and the few agents he had worked with at the Foreign Office had been businesslike and cool. He hadn’t even known their real names and had instead only referred to them by the alternative names they always used when in the field. The only exception was Michael, whom he had met at society events before their first mission together.

But now, he not only knew agents’ true names, he was intimate enough with them that they asked him to call them by their first names. He had rarely been so close to anyone in society to do that—even in school, he’d only referred to his friends by their last names or titles.

This team had stronger emotional ties than any group he’d worked with before. They worked together, but they also joked with each other. He trusted in the abilities of everyone here, but he also liked being with them. They were comfortable spending long hours together. It still always seemed so odd when they had tea and snacks during their meetings, something he had never done with other agents.

He could only think it was the influence of civilians like Miss Gardinier, Miss Sauber, and Lady Wynwood. This was not simply a team of agents, but was turning into a circle of friends.

And he found he rather liked that.

He nodded and moved to follow her, and she rewarded him with a smile that was bright like daffodils in sunlight.

Then the sound of a horse’s hooves broke through the quiet spring day, and in moments, Mr. Drydale had ridden around the corner of the house. He rode directly up to the stable doors, but he spotted Sep and Miss Gardinier.

Sep walked toward him as he dismounted. The coachman appeared from within the stable and took the reins from Mr. Drydale, who immediately turned toward Sep.

Now that the time had come for Sep to speak to him, he felt uneasy and unprepared. He didn’t know what Mr. Drydale’s plans for him had originally been—he should have asked Michael what they had meant about Sep guarding the women at the house.

But he was also suddenly glad to have Miss Gardinier with him. Considering how Mr. Drydale could be as unyielding as steel, Sep anticipated stronger resistance to his help with Dr. Heddetch. At least Thorne had given him a chance to prove his physical well-being with a sparring bout—Mr. Drydale might simply stand there and tell him no.

As Sep approached, Mr. Drydale nodded at him. “Sorry I’m late. Good, Sep, I’m glad you’re here. I’m assuming Miss Gardinier already got a look at you? Doesn’t look like she scolded you too much.”

Sep, who had opened his mouth, expecting to enter into a heated argument, suddenly had nothing to say. “Er …”

Mr. Drydale hurriedly strode away toward the back door of the house. He called over his shoulder, “Hurry up. I’m about to start the meeting. I’m assuming you’re ready to get back to work?”

Sep blinked in surprise, his sails unexpectedly deflated.

Miss Gardinier followed Mr. Drydale, but then paused to glance back at him. “Coming?”

Sep hurried after her.

CHAPTER SIX

“You are not a shadow. You blaze brightly when you are helping someone or doing your research. To me, you are beautiful just as you are.”

Keriah now understood how silver-tongued fortune hunters could woo unsuspecting women for their money. Mr. Ackett’s words had made her heart race and her stomach do a backflip.

Oh, he had regretted it as soon as he realized what he had said. His next words to her had been cool and polite, erecting a wall between them.

He needn’t have bothered. She would not make the mistake of thinking his compliment was anything other than kindness to her. And it had certainly been more sincere than other words of “kindness” from men in the years since her debut.

But she also did not want him to wall himself off from the others. She had noticed that he was not simply quiet, he distanced himself from people, even those he considered friends, like Mr. Coulton-Jones.

Keriah’s brother-in-law was a bit like that, but he opened up with Lissa, and she did her best to include her husband in conversations so that he was not isolated from people. Keriah did not think Mr. Ackett considered her a close friend, but she wanted to draw him out, as her sister drew out her husband.

She remembered the boy with the shy smile, whose eyes became bright when he was swimming. He had been in his element in the water, and in the fancifulness of her youth, she’d thought he must secretly be a merman.

Keriah wanted to see his expression light up like that again. She had not seen it since meeting him again in London after her coming out.

And so she had tried to bully him into coming back inside, rather than remaining out here with only the wind and the trees for company. And surprisingly, he had said yes. When he did, he hadn’t quite looked like that boy she remembered, but it had somehow made her feel, just a little, like the girl she had once been, the girl she could never be again. Perhaps it was simply nostalgia that made her want to remember them both as the children who had played and laughed together that summer.

She had been embarrassed to happen upon him when he was praying. At first, she had thought he was simply deep in thought, but then he had mentioned that God had already heard him.

His words had startled her. For her, prayer in church had always been something stately and reverent, a ritual to do for a God whom she no longer trusted. But for Mr. Ackett, it seemed that prayer was personal. Intimate.

It had never occurred to her that God would hear her when she prayed. For her, prayer didn’t seem like a conversation. Prayer was deferential language and phrases she’d heard all her life, but which no longer meant anything to her.

If she did pray to God, she would likely simply rant and rave about the injustice of her sister’s death and her own injury. Her anger that God allowed the incident to happen still smoldered within her, like a wall of glowing coals between herself and the Almighty.

And yet Mr. Ackett hadn’t seemed angry despite the seriousness of his injury. She had known, even though he hadn’t said it, that the damage to his knee had impacted him deeply because of how it seemed to suddenly shut a door on the things he had always been able to do.

Why hadn’t he been angry? How could he pray to God in that way? And why did it make Keriah feel like she was managing her grudges badly?

She couldn’t ponder such things at this moment, because she entered the house on the heels of Mr. Drydale. He strode toward the stairs down to the butler’s pantry, where they usually met, but Keriah went to the kitchen to prepare tea from the hot water she always kept on the hob.

Mr. Rosmont had once told her stiffly that when being briefed for missions at the Foreign Office, he had never had tea during meetings. In response, the part of her that always had to be contrary reared its irritated head, and now she made a point of always having tea. Phoebe obliged by bringing food from her aunt’s cook.

She had expected to annoy Mr. Rosmont, and maybe Mr. Drydale, but instead, the seasoned agents were always the quickest to grab the seed cakes, or the scones, or the chicken sandwiches. And they took far more sugar in their tea than either herself or Phoebe.

She supposed it served her right for her attempts to bedevil them.

Today, the offerings were lemon biscuits, and Mr. Drydale himself gobbled two of them before bringing the meeting to order. “I assume you’ve spoken with each other about what happened last night, but I’ll repeat it so that you all know all the details.”

Phoebe had told Keriah all this earlier on the carriage ride to Stapytton House, but she now became forcefully aware that Dr. Heddetch, the kind, mild-mannered doctor with the sleepy-looking eyes, had been involved with the Gentian group all these years. They now knew that Bianca had been one of them, was perhaps one of the initials in the paper inside the watch, and Dr. Heddetch had been intimate enough with her to speak about the Gentians. Yet he had used his knowledge to heal the inhabitants of Lady Wynwood’s home for years after Lord Wynwood and Bianca had been killed.

His duplicity caused a pang in Keriah’s chest. She had been an annoying child, talking at length to him about medicine and boasting about how much she knew, and he had never once raised his voice to her. He had listened to her and spoken with her almost as if she were a fellow doctor.

Strangely, Keriah had never felt completely comfortable with him. He had been affable but distant, and perhaps now they knew why.

Phoebe was now speaking about how she’d heard noises from her aunt’s bedroom. Keriah was amazed Phoebe had known there was an intruder when her aunt had simply mentioned her husband’s first name. Granted, Keriah belatedly realized that in all the years she’d known Lady Wynwood, she’d never heard her speak of her spouse by his first name, but from Phoebe’s accounts, her aunt had been outwardly calm when speaking to her at the bedroom door. Keriah didn’t think she would have noticed the hint that something was wrong.

“When I attacked him, he was not on the Root,” Phoebe said. “Otherwise, we would not have harmed him at all.”

Keriah stifled a shudder. If Dr. Heddetch had been on the Root, he likely would have killed someone.

“You injured him?” Mr. Coulton-Jones asked Phoebe. “What did you do?”

Phoebe’s brows wrinkled as she began to tick them off on her fingers. “Calvin stabbed a knife into the back of his thigh, and I twisted his left arm and dislocated his shoulder when he pulled away from me.”

Keriah didn’t think anyone else noticed it, but there was a flash of emotion across Phoebe’s face, a mix of pain and shame. Keriah had seen that same flash earlier when Phoebe had first told her about the attack. But when Keriah asked about it, Phoebe said she was simply frustrated that he had escaped despite all her efforts and their weeks of combat training with Mr. Armstrong. However, Keriah didn’t believe her, especially now as she noticed that something about the memory made Phoebe feel the same emotions again.

“It seems likely Heddetch was planted in Lady Wynwood’s household by the Gentians even before Wynwood was killed,” Mr. Drydale said.

But Mr. Coulton-Jones shook his head slowly, frowning with a crease between his brows. “From what I’ve discovered about Jack, he only appeared in London a year or two after Lord Wynwood died, and the Root started appearing in the Long Glades almost a year after that.”

“And Lord Wynwood couldn’t have been on the Root,” Mr. Ackett said. “If he were, he would not have died from the head wound he received from the fall down the stairs. He also likely would have killed Lady Wynwood long before that.”

Mr. Drydale crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, thinking deeply. “Laura said that Dr. Heddetch seemed jealous that ’they’ picked Jack instead of himself. That seems to indicate that Dr. Heddetch was overlooked for a position of authority within the Gentians that Jack now holds.”

Phoebe nodded. “She said that Dr. Heddetch was desperate to get the watch in order to get ‘them’ to notice him.”

“We need to know what Heddetch might know about the Gentians,” Mr. Rosmont said.

Mr. Ackett nodded. “We have to find him. Did you find anything else in Heddetch’s rooms when you searched last night?”

As Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Rosmont retold their harrowing adventure last night, Keriah was appalled at the extreme risks they had taken. But then they mentioned the bottles labeled with Dr. Heddetch’s handwriting and the notebook full of notes on making tinctures. Keriah asked, “There was no stillroom in his house?”

“None,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“So he has a laboratory somewhere else,” she said. “Did you find anything that might indicate where it would be?”

“No, although we were limited by the shielded lanterns, so we did not search as thoroughly as we could have during the daytime.”

“And Heddetch didn’t return?” Mr. Drydale asked.

“No,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “I watched the house until this morning, and Calvin and Clara replaced me an hour or so ago.”

“About the letter …” Mr. Drydale started to say, but Mr. Rosmont interrupted him.

“I gave it to Isabella early this morning and asked her to write out copies.” He laid some sheets on the table. “Everyone here has read it.”

Keriah then realized that it was still mid-morning. “You must have arrived at Mrs. Coulton-Jones’s home prodigiously early in order for Lady Aymer to have made so many copies before you rode here to Stapytton House. She and her mother must have been surprised.”

He shrugged. “I’m an old family friend. It’s not unusual for me to visit early for breakfast.”

“Lady Aymer is still caring for her mother?” Mr. Drydale asked.

Mr. Rosmont nodded. “Mrs. Coulton-Jones is gradually recovering, but Isabella apologizes that she will not be able to help at the moment.”

Mr. Drydale nodded. “I doubt Heddetch will return to his rooms today, but we should try to get some information from the cook and the maid. Mr. Coulton-Jones, please return in disguise to speak to them.”

“Aya mentioned that Dr. Heddetch’s maid is quite flirtatious, so you can lavish her with your charm,” Phoebe said with a grin.

Mr. Coulton-Jones gave her a sour look.

“Mr. Rosmont, Septimus, you two shall replace Calvin and Clara in watching Heddetch’s house,” Mr. Drydale said. “I shall allow you to decide on the schedule, but do not hang about long enough to be noticed by neighbors.”

Keriah glanced at Mr. Ackett. He had nodded at Mr. Drydale’s instructions, but his eyes briefly slid to the side as he blinked, and she wondered if he worried about doing his job without aggravating his injury. She had been surprised when he agreed to her plea to be cautious—when working with her uncle, a doctor, she was more used to men either arguing that they were fit and healthy, or lying to her uncle’s face about being careful.

“Isabella said that if she becomes available, she will help,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“She’ll probably do a better job blending in and being invisible than any of us,” Mr. Coulton-Jones added.

“Be cautious,” Mr. Drydale warned them. “We don’t know where Heddetch went after he escaped, and he may have told Jack about what happened. Jack is as crazy as cats in a bathtub, but the pale-eyed man is smarter, and they may suspect Heddetch’s house will be watched.”

Keriah had worked late yesterday in order to protect them from dangers such as these. “After the meeting, you must all come to the stillroom to apply new sedative to your fighting knives, should you come across Jack’s men,” Keriah said. “I have developed a new preparation.”

“A new one?” Mr. Ackett asked. “Was there a problem with the old one?”

“The night we rescued you,” Mr. Drydale told him, “after we sedated Nick, Silas came back specifically to rescue him, we think perhaps at Jack’s behest. So Jack acquired a sample of the sedative we used that night.”

“From looking at the Root, Jack doesn’t appear to be a very good chemist,” Keriah said, “but now that we know that Dr. Heddetch is … well, connected somehow with Jack, it is possible the doctor has been helping him to counteract the sedative.”

“We didn’t know about Dr. Heddetch before,” Mr. Drydale said, “but it is fortunate we now have a new sedative formula, just in case.”

“However, I must emphasize that you should be careful with this new sedative paste,” Keriah said. “It is very powerful and cannot be used against men who are not on the Root. So it might be best to carry a second knife to use against normal men.”

“Couldn’t it be useful to incapacitate a man even if he is not taking the Root?” Phoebe asked. “We were able to render Brimley unconscious with only two small cuts.”

Keriah shook her head. “Even one cut with this new paste might kill a normal man.”

When Nick had become a Berserker in the stables, Phoebe and Keriah had shoved Brimley’s unconscious body into an empty stall before rushing to help the others engage with the rampaging man. After that, in the confusion of dealing with Mr. Shokes, they had forgotten about him and left him there while they escaped from the stables with Mr. Ackett.

Keriah had worried about how the sedative affected Mr. Brimley, so she had asked the twins if they could find out how he was doing. A few days later, they reported that they had seen him in a tavern in Jemtown and he seemed to be healthy, although the rumor was that he was in disfavor with Jack because he was defeated in the fight and allowed them to escape.

“Perhaps we could search Heddetch’s rooms again?” Mr. Rosmont suggested. “With more light to see, perhaps we could discover the location of his stillroom, or maybe even the formula for the Root.”

“I don’t think Dr. Heddetch has anything to do with the Root,” Keriah said.

“Why not?” Mr. Drydale was not doubting, but instead seemed genuinely interested in her opinion.

“I have a theory about why the Root elixir is so inconsistent and inelegant,” she said. “I believe Jack is making the Root by himself and not allowing anyone else to know how he makes it. He guards the secret. The preparation must be something unusual.”

“Why wouldn’t Jack ask Dr. Heddetch for help to improve it?” Phoebe asked. “It might become more powerful, or less lethal.”

“From what I observed of Jack,” Mr. Ackett said, “he wouldn’t want anyone to help him because the Root is his own invention, his own secret.”

“So perhaps he wouldn’t allow Dr. Heddetch to help him counteract the sedative?” Keriah asked.

“No, I think he might ask Heddetch for help with that, if it can be done by simply giving his men an additional potion,” Mr. Ackett said.

“If Jack is not allowing anyone to help him,” Mr. Drydale said slowly, “then from what Heddetch said last night, the doctor might be hoping to find out the Root recipe and improve upon it himself.”

“That would certainly get the attention of the leaders of the Gentians,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

“I’m still confused about why the doctor wasn’t on the Root,” Phoebe said. “He seems to have known about the Gentians since before Bianca was killed, and he’s close enough to them now to consider Jack a rival of sorts. He probably has access to the Root. Why wouldn’t he take it?”

There was silence for several seconds, and no one seemed to have a good explanation. Then Keriah said slowly, “I think I know why.”

The others immediately looked at her. “What do you think?” Mr. Drydale asked.

The obvious respect from him and the other men gratified her. Among her family, only her surgeon uncle and his wife valued her abilities in the stillroom. Everyone else felt she was simply an oddity.

“Dr. Shokes heard a great deal about the Root from the friends and family members of men who are in Jack’s gang,” she said. “He suspected that once the men start taking the Root, they will die without it. Dr. Heddetch did not strike me as a man who would want to be dependent upon anyone, least of all Jack. He would not willingly put himself in a position to be at Jack’s mercy.”

“Jack was far stronger than his men,” Mr. Ackett said. “Is it possible he is taking something more powerful than the Root?”

“Perhaps a special elixir only for those in a position of power within the Gentians,” Phoebe said.

“Heddetch thought the watch would be a way for him to be accepted by those in power,” Mr. Drydale said. “If it worked, it would give him access to that special potion.”

“Perhaps only the leaders of the Gentians know how to make the Root?” Phoebe mused.

Keriah tapped one of the copies of the letter. “This letter was signed by a ‘Dr. Ward,’ and he seemed contemptuous of Jack and this man, ‘Seyward.’ He is possibly one of those leaders. But if Dr. Ward has some medical or chemical knowledge, he would not have made the Root elixir the way it is now. It would look quite different.”

“So you think that even the leaders of the Gentians don’t know how to make the Root?” Mr. Rosmont asked her.

She nodded. “Possibly.”

Mr. Drydale also nodded, deep in thought. He said slowly, “If Jack is the only one who knows how to make the Root, and if the Gentians are selling it to Napoleon, it would make Jack indispensable. None of the other leaders could harm him. It would establish his position of power within the group and afford him some safety.”

Keriah hadn’t thought that far in her theory about Jack and the Root. She was amazed that Mr. Drydale could make that kind of logical connection about the Gentians’ organization, but perhaps it was because he himself held a position of leadership in an organization.

“But this is simply my theory about Jack and the Root,” Keriah said.

“True, but I am glad for the opinion of a chemist when formulating theories.” Mr. Drydale gave her a warm smile, which made Keriah feel a bit like a puppy that had been given a scratch on the head.

Mr. Drydale turned to the rest of them. “For now, we will concentrate on Heddetch. Mr. Coulton-Jones, please speak to his cook and maid and then report to me. I shall remain here to guard Phoebe and Miss Gardinier as they work—”

“Uncle Sol,” Phoebe interrupted him, “Aunt Laura gave me a message for you. She asks that you return and speak to her as soon as possible this morning. She said it was an urgent matter.”

“Do you know what it is about?”

“She said that something Dr. Heddetch said bothered her, and she wants to return to her townhouse today for a few hours.”

Mr. Drydale frowned deeply. “It is too dangerous. Heddetch attacked her only last night. We don’t know if he told Jack, and they might return to try to take the watch from her again.”

“I said that to her, also.” Phoebe straightened and gave Mr. Drydale a grave look. “But Aunt Laura says that she may know where Wynwood might have had another hiding place. In fact, she said she was certain of it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sol felt as though he were trapped in a runaway carriage and he hadn’t yet had a chance to jump off. The sudden attack upon Laura had shaken him, but he had immediately been forced to arrange for her protection, and then he’d received Mr. Rosmont’s report on what they’d found at Heddetch’s house.

He had been so busy that he hadn’t thought about why he was so driven to sequester Laura away so quickly. Even his superior at the Ramparts had been taken aback by his insistence upon Laura’s immediate removal to a secret place of residence.

But now, riding back to London in Laura’s unmarked carriage with Phoebe, he was forced to face his fears. He had been terribly afraid when he had heard about Heddetch’s attack, because there hadn’t been anything he could have done to prevent it. This blatant evidence of his lack of control over her safety rattled his normally composed frame of mind.

He felt mildly more reassured now that she was safely in the hotel and guarded by Ramparts agents, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut when he remembered how vulnerable she was. Yes, he was intrigued by this new hiding place Laura might have found, but he was more worried about the danger to her if she returned to her townhouse.

He had arranged for Mr. Rosmont to guard Miss Gardinier at Stapytton House while he went to Laura’s hotel with Phoebe. Septimus was headed to Heddetch’s house to relieve the twins and watch for the doctor’s return while Mr. Coulton-Jones caught a few hours of sleep.

Since the carriage was being driven by Mr. Havner, Sol’s mind was unoccupied and could dwell upon the events in the past several hours. He didn’t like how it made him feel that he was simply reacting to attacks upon himself and his team—and he realized that he did consider Laura part of his team. She supported Phoebe and Miss Gardinier in ways he could not. She provided him help in small ways that eased his burden, such as hiding Mr. Coulton-Jones in her pantry while he was unconscious.

But she was still a civilian, and he was duty-bound to protect her. No matter how intriguing the prospect of a new hiding place in Wynwood’s house, his more immediate concern was Heddetch and the threat he posed to her. He would do all he could to convince her to postpone her return to her townhouse, even if that return was only for a few hours. It was simply too dangerous for her. Once he had decided this in his mind, he felt more reassured about this return to town.

He belated remembered the note in his pocket and handed it to Phoebe. “Before heading to Stapytton House, I went to Laura’s townhouse to check that nothing else happened, and the butler gave this to me to give to you. It arrived early this morning—probably only a short while after you and Laura moved to the hotel.”

She took it from him. It had been delivered by a servant, because only her name was written on the outside, but at the sight of the handwriting, she frowned. She cracked open the wax seal and began to read.

She went from cautiously curious to flamingly outraged within moments. The swiftness and also the strong emotion of her reaction startled him.

“What has happened?” he demanded, alarmed.

She handed him the note.

A slanting masculine hand had scrawled:

Daughter,

I require your presence at my home today. We shall expect you at two o’clock.

Father

Sol didn’t quite understand the rage lighting Phoebe’s eyes like fire. “Phoebe …”

“I won’t have him treating me like a dog he expects to come to heel when he barks orders at me.” Her voice dripped with venom.

Sol found himself becoming even more alarmed at the extreme intensity of her emotions.

He could understand why she would feel such distaste for Mr. Denholm Sauber. Her father had not even bothered to introduce Phoebe to the woman he had chosen to marry, Mrs. Audry Lambert, and at the woman’s request had then intended to pack Phoebe off to live as an unpaid servant to an aunt in Bath, barring her from her own home.

To top off his callous behavior, he had forged documents that signed over to him all of Phoebe’s dowry—a substantial sum given to her by her maternal grandmother, which he shouldn’t have had any right to touch. He had also taken her mother’s jewelry—another inheritance that belonged to Phoebe alone—and removed the gemstones from their settings, intending to reset them for his new bride.

Phoebe had been powerless to stop him, except for the lucky happenstance that enabled her to retrieve her jewels before he could steal that from her, as well. She had no loyalty to her father, not any longer. He had proven himself unworthy of the work she had done for him in managing his estates and hosting his political dinners.

But Sol was still shocked by the depth of her anger now, not because he didn’t feel she was entitled to it, but because it seemed to overtake her reason. It was as if she had lost all control over herself and given herself over to her rage.

He was wary because he had seen this happen to agents under his command. Tragic loss spurring a desire for revenge could make a man act according to what he felt, and not according to orders. And telling her this would not calm her.

But Phoebe was not simply an agent, she was a girl he’d known since her childhood. And so he adopted a softer tone as he spoke to her. “I understand why he angers you, Phoebe, but it worries me.”

Her eyes did not completely lose their fire as she turned them toward him, but the livid hostility dimmed. “What do you mean?”

“Because of his selfishness and how little he values you, your father will continue to do things that will upset you. But rather than become more and more wrathful, you must learn to control yourself.”

Her jaw tightened, and her mouth set in something like a pout. But in her expression, the resentment over how she was being treated kept her from looking petulant.

Sol reached across the carriage to close over her fisted hand, and he felt her relax under his gentle touch. “I understand that his betrayal has impacted you painfully. I remember you were very devoted to him even when I first met you.”

“That girl you met was a fool,” she spat.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “The faithfulness of a sweet, intelligent daughter is nothing of which you need be ashamed.”

“He has made me ashamed to have wasted my time and my heart on a worthless man. I only regret that it took years while he grew more demanding and uncaring of me before my devotion to him cooled.”

“Do not let his actions dictate how you will feel,” he said, putting a bit more steel into his words.

His tone surprised her and caused the antagonism in her face to slowly melt away, but she did not respond to him.

In a softer voice, he said, “Phoebe, of all of Laura’s nieces and nephews, you have always been the one with the most calm, practical temperament. This isn’t like you.”

She gave a soft sigh. “Aunt Laura said something to that effect, also.” Her face was expressionless, and he couldn’t tell what she was feeling from her even tone.

He realized that her rancorous emotions and thoughts were not receptive to his words. He should be glad she was making this much of an effort to calm herself, but he could see that her jaw was still rigid.

The sight reminded him of …

With a start, Sol realized that her unstable temper was similar to that of Mr. Rosmont after he’d first been affected by the pollen of the Goldensuit plants. He’d been tense and agitated, quick to anger. His control had seemed to be balancing on a knife edge, and he had become completely wild during the mission to recover Jack’s plants.

Miss Gardinier had been treating him in the weeks since, and he had gradually lost the restlessness and disquiet in his manner. But during those weeks, Phoebe had been working closely with those same plants.

“Phoebe,” he said cautiously, “is it possible that the Goldensuit plants are affecting your emotions, as they did Mr. Rosmont?”

She blinked at him, but then a flash of pain and shame raced across her face. She immediately closed her eyes and seemed to be making more of an effort to quiet herself. After a few long, steady breaths, she opened her eyes and said, “Aunt Laura mentioned the same thing to me, but I had forgotten about it. I cannot discount the possibility.”

“Will you need special treatment from Miss Gardinier?”

“I shall speak to Keriah,” she promised. “I cannot blame all my anger upon the plants, but there are moments when I don’t feel like myself.”

“Well, you don’t look like you’re about to turn into a raging madman, but we know very little about how the plants affect people.”

She gave him a small smile, but it quickly faded. “If these feelings are induced by the plants, I don’t know how to calm the … the animosity I feel. It is always there, just out of sight, waiting to come out.”

He was still holding her hand, which had relaxed from its taut fist, and he gave a light squeeze before releasing it. “I don’t know the answer, but we shall do all we can to help you. We shall speak to Miss Gardinier and Dr. Shokes.” His own jaw tightened as he added, “And when I get my hands on Heddetch, I’ll make him tell me everything he knows about it.”

Phoebe was quiet for the rest of the carriage ride, which was not long since Stapytton House did not lay far outside of London. But for the entire time, he saw anger and frustration warring upon her face as she crushed her father’s note in her hands.

***

Sol should have expected it, but Laura noticed Phoebe’s dark thoughts as soon as she saw her niece.

“Phoebe, what has happened?” she asked as soon as they entered her hotel room.

Phoebe had made a valiant effort to hide her emotions, but the faint tension across her forehead and the spark of hostility gleaming in her eyes gave her away. She shook her head. “It can wait—”

But Sol interrupted her. “No, you should tell her what has happened.” While he was certainly concerned about her, he also secretly hoped that her troubles would distract Laura from the foolishness of wanting to return to her townhouse so soon.

Phoebe seemed to only then realize she still held the twisted and mashed note from her father still in her hands. She hurriedly tried to smooth it out before handing it to Laura. “This came to your townhouse for me.”

The tension across Laura’s brow matched that of her niece as she read the note. “That man …” she muttered. But when she looked up, her irritation at her brother-in-law melted into unease as she saw Phoebe’s bitter expression. “I admit Denholm’s note is arrogant and condescending, but you look as though you’d like to flay him alive.”

For a brief moment, Phoebe’s face looked savage. It was so fleeting an expression that Sol didn’t even have time to be startled before she bit her lip, her face back to normal.

“It is not only the note,” she said slowly. “Just the sound of his name makes me remember what he has done to me. What he stole from me. I feel betrayed all over again.”

“Phoebe,” Laura said in a voice that was both tender and yet also firm, “Denholm has certainly been a selfish beast to you, but you cannot harbor your anger at him forever. It is simply not healthful for you.”

“I thought perhaps the Goldensuit …” Sol said.

But Laura was still resolute. “Phoebe, even if your anger is enhanced by those plants, you must try to forgive him.”

Phoebe’s face was like a series of dramatic masks—first irritated, then frustrated, then dismayed. “I don’t know if I could ever forgive him,” she said in a low voice.

“Right now, the gall in your soul is poisoning you and not affecting him at all,” Laura pointed out.

“I know this. I know this.” Phoebe bent her head and smacked her fist against her temple. “But everything inside of me rebels at even the thought of releasing this anger.”

“You must release it, if you wish to be like Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Rosmont and Septimus,” Sol said.

“Sol,” Laura protested, but he shook his head at her.

A piece of his heart clenched with pain at seeing Phoebe in so much conflict. But he also knew her inner strength, because he’d seen it as she grew up. She had the potential to be as capable as any agent he had ever trained, if she could learn to control herself. “Phoebe, an agent must be as emotionless as possible in order to do his job,” Sol said. “His priority is his mission. He keeps in mind the desire to protect others and defend the nation.”

“I don’t want to protect him,” Phoebe said. “I don’t want to do anything that would benefit him. It makes me feel like I’m letting him win. It tramples over my sense of justice in this world.”

“Phoebe.” Laura took her niece’s hands in her own and made Phoebe look into her eyes. “In the book of Matthew, chapter eighteen, the disciple Peter asks the Lord Jesus Christ about forgiving others. I read this story to you many times as a child. Do you remember it?”

She obviously did. There had been a spark in her eyes when she spoke about her father trampling her sense of justice, but now that spark seemed to dim. She nodded.

Laura continued, “The man’s great debt was forgiven by the king, but he refused to forgive a small debt someone else owed to him. Our Heavenly Father sent His only Son to die to pay for our sins. We who believe in Him are absolved of all blame, no matter what we have done. The least we can do is forgive others who wrong us. Like your father.”

The mention of religion had at first made Sol tense in unease, but he realized that it was more reflexive than any real objection to what Laura was saying. In contrast, Phoebe’s breath caught and she released a long, slow breath, making an obvious effort to calm the raging storm inside of her.

“I certainly don’t expect you to simply cease to feel this sense of outrage, but you must make an effort to compose yourself,” Laura said. “Your reactions are far too erratic.”

Phoebe was quiet, her hands still in Laura’s, but at the very least, her emotions were no longer so intense that they appeared on her face.

Aya must have either been listening at the door or had an uncanny sense of timing, for it was then that she knocked on the door and entered with a tea tray. Her expression was the smooth, polite face of the perfect servant, but there was a shadow of concern in her eyes as she glanced at Phoebe.

Yes, she most certainly had been listening at the door.

Phoebe stepped away from Laura. “I’ll leave you with Uncle Sol.”

“No.” Laura reached out to grab her hand again. “I know you, Phoebe Sauber, and you’ll only brood over this if I leave you alone. You’ll remain here and have a cup of tea.” She pulled Phoebe down to sit next to her on the sofa in front of the fire, and then poured tea as Aya left the room.

Sol took this opportunity to start to edge toward the door. “Perhaps I should leave you alone with Phoebe …”

Laura didn’t speak, but gave him a narrow look that told him she knew exactly what he was attempting to do.

Sol gave in and lowered himself gingerly into a delicate-looking chair with a flowery cushion and spindly legs. “Phoebe said that you wished to return to your townhouse,” he said to Laura.

“I know you disapprove, but allow me to explain,” she said. “It is just as well that the two of you are here, since you both knew Wynwood.”

Sol glanced at Phoebe. He had assumed Laura had explained the situation to her niece, but Phoebe looked as confused as he felt.

Laura hesitated, seeming to suppress a shudder before she spoke. “When Dr. Heddetch attacked me, he took great pleasure in taunting me about all the secrets Wynwood had kept hidden from me. But later I realized that Wynwood only had those secrets after he started seeing Bianca.”

Phoebe winced. “But Aunt Laura, wasn’t Uncle Wynwood always a little secretive? I had assumed it was because of his … other paramours.”

Sol was profoundly relieved that Phoebe had stated that fact, because he had no wish to say it to Laura himself and stab that knife of memory deeper into her heart. Or she might stab a knife into his heart for bringing up such a painful subject.

But Laura waved that away with a careless hand. “He had ten—no, I believe it was twelve other mistresses before Bianca,” she said blithely.

Sol choked a little in surprise. He had assumed that all gently-bred women, no matter how little they cared for their husbands, had mastered the art of ignoring the existence of the other women in their spouses’ lives.

Phoebe had turned pink. “Aunt Laura, you needn’t speak about this if you don’t wish it …”

“It no longer pains me,” she said, although there was a sternness to her face that indicated she was not as unmoved as she wanted to appear. “Wynwood had long ceased to hold any place in my affections, but others in society who wished to stir up trouble thought that informing me of his liaisons would discompose me and possibly result in scandalous arguments.”

Sol realized he probably knew exactly which individuals she was referring to, those whose only desire would be to cause someone as likable and proper as Lady Wynwood to become hysterical and fly into a rage at her husband, simply because it would be entertaining.

Laura continued, “My point is that once he took up with Mrs. Jadis, his behavior altered slightly. It was so subtle that I didn’t notice it at first, but in hindsight, he was more secretive, and not simply about the identity of his last mistress. He also changed little things about his daily activities, and he tried to hide those actions from me. This behavior was very different from when he had his other lovers before Bianca.”

“They both knew about the Gentians,” Phoebe said. “They were possibly meeting with the others and needed to keep it hidden.”

“Yes, I think that is why he became more careful about hiding where he went and when he was going out,” Laura said. “He then hid the pocket watch in his bedroom, and I am assuming he would keep that fact even from his own valet.”

Phoebe started. “I had forgotten about the valet. He was a thoroughly nasty character.”

“He used to try to molest the maids, so I had sacked him as soon as I could,” Laura said.

“But perhaps we should try to find him,” Phoebe said. “He might have known about Uncle Wynwood’s hiding places.”

“When Laura first told me about the pocket watch, he was the first person I tried to find so that I could question him,” Sol said. “I used my contacts to search for him. Very curiously, a month after Wynwood died, the valet was suddenly hired by a rich landowner from the Colonies, but he never arrived in Virginia. The captain of the ship he sailed on said that he had been very depressed in spirits, and one day he simply disappeared. They believe he jumped into the ocean during the night and no one noticed.”

Phoebe’s mouth tightened. “Is that account true, or did the Gentians arrange for that to happen? I suppose it is just as well. It would not be wise to suddenly bring a stranger into this. After we questioned him about Uncle Wynwood, he might eventually realize he could go to Jack and tell him what we talked about.”

Sol had been thinking that same thing in a vague way, and it impressed him that Phoebe had also considered the dangers.

Phoebe asked Laura, “What about Uncle Wynwood’s secrecy made you think about another of his hiding places?”

“I’m not surprised it has been so difficult to find any of them,” Laura said. “Wynwood was many other things, but he was also very intelligent—he managed his finances well enough that his heir had no complaints. Naturally he wouldn’t hide his most valuable things where I or a servant would have easily found it. But I’m afraid that I rather arrogantly thought that I knew him and his favorite places too well.”

“What do you mean, too well?” Sol asked.

“I was searching in places where I knew he had liked to be alone. For example, he liked relaxing in his bedroom rather than other rooms of the house, and he hid the pocket watch there.”

“So your method isn’t wrong.”

Laura shook her head. “Dr. Heddetch mentioned the secrets Bianca knew and the secrets Wynwood hid from me. It was only then that I realized that the favorite places I had been searching were all favorites before he met Bianca. His habits changed. He developed new favorite places to be alone.”

“Like when Uncle Wynwood renovated his bedroom by knocking down the wall and appropriating the next door guest bedroom,” Phoebe said.

Laura nodded. “It turned the master bedroom into a larger space, and he enlarged the fireplace. He also bought other pieces of furniture to set in front of the fire. He always enjoyed spending time in his bedroom, but before, he would do his work in the library and relax there sometimes since he kept the best brandy there. But when the renovations were completed, he stopped spending time in the library. He also didn’t spend as much time at his club. After Heddetch’s attack, I realized that the renovations occurred after he’d started seeing Mrs. Jadis.”

“But Septimus spent several weeks searching the townhouse,” Sol said. “He didn’t know Wynwood’s favorite places either before or after he took up with Bianca, but he searched everywhere.”

“I realized that he didn’t search everywhere. When Wynwood died, his heir naturally inherited the estate, but I also offered him some of my husband’s bedroom furniture. The pieces were quite new since he had bought it within the year, and very masculine in design, which I had no use for.”

Sol realized what she was implying. “Wynwood might have hid things inside that furniture? So we would need to go to the estate, not to your townhouse.”

“The furniture did not go to the estate—Glencowe Castle is already full to bursting with heirloom pieces. Lord Wynwood moved the furniture to his own townhouse in Grosvenor Square.”

If that was the case, then why would Laura still need to go to her own townhouse?

He was about to ask but she anticipated him. “I don’t remember which pieces he took,” she said. “If I can replace the remaining furniture in his bedroom as it used to be, then I and the servants might be able to recall what is missing.”

“I can send Septimus,” Sol said. “He can work with your servants, and he can also search the furniture that is there.”

“He already searched the furniture in the house,” Laura said. “And I knew Wynwood’s bedroom far better than the servants.”

“Ferreting out more of Wynwood’s secrets is important,” Sol said, “but you were attacked only last night. At least wait until we have apprehended Heddetch.”

But she shook her head again. “It must be today because the Lingleys’ soiree is tonight.”

He blinked at her. But it was Phoebe who said, “What?”

“You are perhaps aware that Lord Wynwood is not in London at the moment?”

Sol nodded. He vaguely remembered her telling him several weeks ago, as a bit of passing gossip. The Wynwood title and lands had been inherited by a cousin her husband hadn’t been particularly close to, but the current Viscount Wynwood kept up a frequent correspondence with Laura.

Phoebe also nodded. “He broke his leg while riding on his estate. I believe you said it was only a week before he was intending to arrive in town.”

“It happened after the Meynhill birthday celebration,” Laura told Sol. “It was quite a last minute thing, but he lent his London house to his cousin, Mr. Fritz Lingley, whose daughter Donelle is having her second Season.”

Sol realized what the problem was. Laura’s direct relations were not in residence at the townhouse, and so Laura couldn’t simply waltz in for a visit at any time as she might have if Wynwood were at home. “Are you acquainted with the Lingleys?”

“Of course, but they only throw one or two parties during the course of the Season.” She had that look that indicated she was going to say something he wasn’t going to like at all. “And tonight is their soiree, to which I was invited.”

“Is it necessary to go to the house during the party?” Phoebe asked. “Couldn’t we simply drop by to visit them one afternoon?”

It was Sol who answered. “You would need to search the house for the furniture pieces, some of which I am assuming are in the master bedroom?”

Laura nodded. “If we dropped in for a visit, we would most certainly run into servants if we wandered into the family wing.”

“Oh! But during the soiree, all the servants will be busy,” Phoebe realized.

“So you must go to your townhouse today to determine which furniture pieces to look for, then attend the soiree tonight to search the townhouse for them?” Sol groaned at this problematic situation. “In the midst of everything that has happened to you in the past several hours, how did you even remember the Lingleys’ soiree was tonight?”

“When I realized I would need to visit Wynwood’s townhouse, I recalled that I had sent an acceptance to the Lingleys’ party weeks ago, so I went looking for the invitation. I vaguely recalled it was to be soon, but I hadn’t realized it was tonight.”

Sol rubbed his temples, which had started to ache. “And tonight is the only night when you would be able to search the family rooms in the house, with the servants and family occupied with the guests.”

“Precisely.” She smiled brightly at him as though he were an obedient schoolboy.

“Setting aside the danger of returning to your townhouse,” he said heavily, “couldn’t you give the descriptions of the furniture to one of us who might have been invited to the party? Surely Mrs. Coulton-Jones or Lady Ammler would have been invited?”

“Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Ackett would certainly be more suited for such sneaking about,” Laura said placidly, “but I highly doubt their mothers were invited. The soiree is small since the townhouse has no ballroom.”

“Aunt Laura, I would think that going back to your townhouse would be more dangerous than attending the Lingleys’ soiree,” Phoebe said. “Dr. Heddetch might have told Jack about the pocket watch, if he hadn’t already, and Jack certainly has the men to spare to watch the house. Such ruthless men could overpower the servants and invade the house.”

“If he is watching the house, Jack would certainly give up if you wait a week or two,” Sol said. “We could think of another way for you to search Lord Wynwood’s townhouse.”

Laura looked at him with serious eyes. “Sol, I know you would prefer more time to consider all possible problems and plan for them, rather than hurrying to do this. But don’t you feel there is too much about Wynwood and the Gentians that we do not know? So far, we have found very little about Jack, or Bianca, or her husband, or her former lover Mr. Emsley.”

Sol couldn’t deny that. It had simply been too difficult to discover information about people long dead, and Jack seemed to have appeared in London one day out of thin air.

Laura continued, “If Dr. Heddetch tells the Gentians about the pocket watch, they will also want to look for more things Wynwood hid. I feel I must do this now, while there may still be time before Jack and his associates find out.”

“Don’t you think Heddetch would have already told Jack by now?” Sol asked.

Laura tilted her head. “I perhaps do not understand the thinking and behavior of criminals as well as you do, but I flatter myself that I am adept at observing people and deducing their feelings and thoughts. I know for a certainty that Dr. Heddetch despises Jack. If he tells Jack about the watch, it will only be because he absolutely must. That is why I believe he did not tell any of the Gentians about the watch before he attacked me.”

“But Dr. Heddetch was injured last night,” Phoebe said. “He may need to tell Jack in order to procure some of the Root elixir to heal his leg.”

“He knows Jack well enough that I think he works with him to an extent, but he is subordinate to him and hates that. He may already have access to the Root and if he does, he will avoid Jack so that he will not have to explain what happened to him.”

Sol sighed heavily. “So now might be the only time you could return to your townhouse before Heddetch tells Jack about the watch, or it might be the absolute worst time to return to your townhouse because Heddetch has already told Jack about the watch.”

Laura gave him a wry smile. “Essentially. But I believe I am right about Dr. Heddetch’s feelings about Jack.”

“Is it truly necessary for you to expose yourself to danger in this way?” he asked.

“I believe that if I can replace the remaining furniture in his room and see it as it used to be, I may remember something important.” She did not look at Sol, but her eyes reminded him of cracked glass, riddled like a spiderweb but not yet shattered into pieces. “I must face all the secrets Wynwood hid from me.”

It was hurting her, discovering more and more she did not know about a husband long gone. She was trying to keep her pain hidden from everyone, but he could still see it, and it caused her as much agony as if she were pushing the knife blade into her heart with her own hands.

He hadn’t intended to do so, but he found himself reaching out to touch her cheek, as if he could wipe the anguish from her face. He had removed his gloves, and her skin was soft and warm.

At his touch, her entire body jolted in surprise, and she looked directly at him. Their eyes met.

In the dim room, her eyes were a dark bronze color, and the color seemed to waver like molten metal as a deep emotion passed through them. His heart raced for some reason.

Then he awkwardly dropped his hand. Laura turned her head aside and, also awkwardly, cleared her throat. He didn’t need to look at Phoebe to know her mouth was likely wide open in shock.

Laura cleared her throat a second time, then said, “So shall you allow me to return to the townhouse today? I am ready to leave at any time.”

He didn’t like how rushed and slapdash the venture was, nor did he like sending a civilian into a potentially dangerous situation without adequate time to consider all possible risks. But if he did not send her back home, her servants may not remember all the pieces of furniture that Lord Wynwood had taken from the house. Also, the sad fact was that no one could attend the soiree tonight unless they were accompanying Laura.

He rubbed his forehead against the headache pounding there. “I shall tell Mr. Coulton-Jones to meet you here and accompany you and Phoebe back to your house.”

“Thank you, Sol.” Her voice quivered slightly, and he knew she was masking her fear at returning to the place of her attack, to a place where brutish men might attack her again.

“He is currently questioning Heddetch’s servants, but I expect him to return in two or three hours. Will you have enough time to look through Wynwood’s bedroom?”

“If you would allow me, I shall send a message to my servants to ask them to bring his old furniture down from the attic. It shall save us time when we eventually arrive.”

He waited while she scribbled a message. The coachman needed to drive Sol back to Stapytton House so he could relieve Mr. Rosmont from his duties of guarding Miss Gardinier in her stillroom, but he’d instruct Mr. Havner to first stop by the townhouse to deliver the message before they headed to the outskirts of London.

Laura walked with him toward the door to the hotel room while Phoebe remained near the fireplace, which gave them a bit of privacy. Despite her victory in strong-arming him into giving way to her wishes, her shoulders were stiff and her face twisted with apprehension. She reminded him of a soldier heading into battle.

Sol and his agents willingly walked into dangerous situations, risking life and limb, but he recognized that she also was walking into danger. She was not risking her physical well-being, but her mental and emotional peace, facing knowledge that cut like swords into her spirit, and hurt almost as much as a real blow.

He nearly reached out to touch her again, and stopped himself just in time. After so many years of a comfortable friendship with her, he didn’t understand why he now suddenly felt the need to bridge that physical gap between them.

He tried to ease her fears with his words instead. “Laura, I wish you to know that I shall always support you as best I can. You needn’t shoulder this burden alone.”

As soon as he spoke them, his words seemed trite and shallow, but she still gave him a grateful, if slightly sad smile. “Thank you, Sol. That means a great deal to me.” However, her actions seemed to speak for her feelings, because she took a small step away from him and curtseyed, saying in a gentle but impersonal voice, “Goodbye.”

He knew immediately that it was her belated response to his touch on her face earlier, a reminder that he shouldn’t do such things again because it was inappropriate. And she was correct, because he had been too familiar with a woman who was not his wife or his lover.

Her coachman drove him back to Stapytton House. Once there, Sol would send Mr. Rosmont to help Septimus watch over Heddetch’s house. In an hour or two, Mr. Coulton-Jones would return there after questioning Heddetch’s servants, and Sol could give him his new instructions then.

Unfortunately, the journey gave him time to brood. But rather than worrying about Dr. Heddetch and Jack and the Gentians, his mind turned toward Laura.

She was still comfortable with him, and on the surface everything was just as it had always been, but she had become distant from him recently. Perhaps it was because she had discovered Wynwood’s secrets. Perhaps it was because Sol had confessed that he had become close to her because he had been ordered to keep an eye on her and Wynwood. Perhaps it went back even further, when he had put his work for the Ramparts above the safety of her family at the Meynhill birthday celebration.

Many, many things had been revealed between them lately, and he could see that they were straining their friendship like too many burdens upon a packhorse. And then he had broken the packhorse’s back by touching her cheek, and she had hastily retreated behind a wall of propriety between them.

She didn’t seem to be afraid of him, even though she now knew about his dangerous work for the Ramparts. She still held genuine affection for him, despite how he had involved her niece and Miss Gardinier (and, he thought with chagrin, several of Laura’s servants) in his various plots.

But their friendship was no longer the same. He could sense that something was changing between them, and it frustrated him that he didn’t quite understand what was changing, and why.

He didn’t fully understand what he was feeling. He only knew that he didn’t like that she seemed to be turning away from him when she hadn’t seemed particularly troubled by this new side of him that he had revealed. He didn’t like this distance between them when up until now they had been such good friends. It seemed ages since they had last laughed together over something trivial and silly. They no longer shared that comfortable silence they used to have together.

He felt as though something inside of Laura had changed. Had cooled. Had hardened.

Sol sighed as he stared at the empty seat across from him in the coach, as if she would appear and he could speak to her. What would she say?

“Sol, I still consider you my friend.”

But while that may be true, he also had the sense that she didn’t completely trust him. In the mass of secrets they had both uncovered, he had not noticed until recently that there may be one or two secrets that she was keeping to herself, for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom.

And, he admitted, it pricked at him that she didn’t trust him enough to unburden herself to him so that he could share these problems with her. It also worried him that she had things she couldn’t reveal to him.

It made him wonder, just for a moment, if he could still trust her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Keriah stared into the flame of the special oil lamp on the table and tried not to let the dancing light put her into a trance. She normally would not scrutinize her sedative mixture so intently, but this new preparation had many more steps than the old one. It involved some different ingredients, and she was forced to monitor the temperature very carefully.

She was anxious to make more of this new sedative because she’d used the last of her supply on the agents’ knives earlier today. She shuddered to imagine what would happen if one of them watching Dr. Heddetch’s house were suddenly attacked by Jack’s men on the Root. Even a man not turned into a Berserker required a prodigious amount of sedative to incapacitate.

It didn’t help matters that she was very distracted. Some of the distractions couldn’t be helped—earlier, Mr. Drydale had suddenly appeared to tell her that he was replacing Mr. Rosmont as her guard here at Stapytton House, and he had also told her what Phoebe and Lady Wynwood planned to do later this afternoon and this evening.

Keriah had fought—had trained—with Phoebe, both with the gypsies on her father’s land and with Mr. Armstrong at the Ramparts. She knew Phoebe’s strength and skill was extraordinary for a woman, even more so for a young lady of society. And Mr. Coulton-Jones, still powerful because of the Root and his occasional doses of Goldensuit pollen, was more than equal to any of Jack’s men.

But she couldn’t help feeling a shiver of fear when Mr. Drydale told her about the plan to return to Lady Wynwood’s townhouse. Dr. Heddetch had attacked Lady Wynwood only a few hours earlier. And while they had managed to keep the pocket watch a secret from Jack so far, he probably knew about it by now, thanks to Dr. Heddetch. She had not seen Jack yet, but from what Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Ackett had said about his strange personality, she thought it likely that he had already set a trap at the townhouse. He may not even know yet that Lady Wynwood had already vacated her house.

She dragged her attention back to the sedative as bubbles began frothing on the surface. She’d been distracted again! She grabbed the oil lamp and removed it, waiting for the mixture to stop boiling. She had to stop letting her thoughts wander and pay attention or she’d ruin this batch of sedative.

She eyed the thermometer resting in the container with the liquid. It helped her to monitor the temperature, but for her purposes, thermometers were a bit too slow to indicate when the temperature fluctuated, often lagging behind the actual temperature by several seconds, sometimes an entire minute.

She replaced the lamp and studied the surface of the mixture again, waiting for it to begin to simmer once more.

There was a knock at the stillroom door, then Mr. Coulton-Jones stepped inside, dressed in the coarse, loose-fitting clothing of a dockworker. He coughed and waved a hand in front of his face. “Did you forget to open the window again?”

She had. And after working in the room for a couple hours, she had grown accustomed to the strong medicinal smell. Luckily these particular fumes didn’t have a soporific effect, or she’d be asleep on the floor by now. “I was just about to do so.” She rushed to the small window and unlatched it, swinging it open with a scream of metal hinges. She hoped the outside air would cool the flush she could feel in her cheeks. She put on an innocent smile and asked (a little too) brightly, “Did you just return from speaking to Dr. Heddetch’s servants?”

He gave her a scolding expression like a tetchy uncle, indicating that he hadn’t missed how she quickly changed the subject, but he answered her anyway. “Yes, it took less time than I expected.”

“Why? You didn’t kick down the door and stomp about, demanding answers?” she asked cheekily. She knew very well that he couldn’t barge into the house—although they were agents, they weren’t officially working for the Home Office.

He gave her a narrow look as if to say, Very funny. “No, I knocked on the front door like any civilized person. The cook answered in an exceedingly sour mood.”

“Your infamous charm didn’t sweeten her up?”

His face reddened. “What charm—?!” He cut himself off when she giggled and he realized she was bamming him. “The august presence of Prinny himself couldn’t have brightened her day. Apparently Dr. Heddetch had been absent this morning, but he had failed to inform her that he was ‘called out,’ so she made a breakfast that he didn’t eat.”

“‘Called out?’” It confused her until she realized, “Oh, she thought he’d been called to a patient last night?”

“Just so. I suggested that perhaps he was at his laboratory, but she didn’t know where that was.”

“She didn’t know? I suppose his maid would clean the place for him, then.”

“That’s what I thought, and I asked about the maid. However, the maid wasn’t there today—she’s only scheduled to come in three days a week. But my question then reminded the cook of yet another reason she was in a temper, which was that she had to answer the door for me herself. She nearly broke my nose trying to slam it shut in my face.”

“You couldn’t get the maid’s address? What a useless spy you are.”

He glared at her playful badgering. It reminded her of her younger brother when she needled him. “You are an obnoxious brat,” he told her.

He’d said as much to her more than once in the past few weeks as she had treated him, so she only answered with a smile.

He sniffed in mock offense. “I would have acquired her address if the cook had known it. I managed to just get that tidbit before she really did push me out of the way and slam the door.”

“How sad. A woman you can’t wrap around your finger.”

“Where do you get your inflated view of my supposed philandering nature?”

“My older sister, Lady Stoude. At the parties she attends, she hears about it from all the women who pine after you.”

He choked. “I have never dallied with anyone!”

“That is your failure. Many of them sincerely wish for you to do so.”

He groaned and dropped his head, rubbing his forehead with his fingers so hard that his skin wrinkled.

She laughed, but he had become accustomed to her teasing by now. In many ways, he reminded her of Phoebe, who was much too serious sometimes.

Keriah gave an unladylike yelp as she saw the sedative boiling, and she swept the lamp away. To hide her moment of panic, she cleared her throat and asked, “Did you need my help for something?”

The smile faded from his face. “I need another dose of the Goldensuit pollen.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Already?”

“I am afraid so. I have had a mild headache since Mr. Drydale woke me this morning after Lady Wynwood was attacked. I thought at first it was because of lack of sleep, but the pain has increased. Also, my muscles have begun to tighten and ache.”

“Yes, it does sound like you need another dose.” Keriah turned to the shelves against the far wall and removed a wooden box. She set it upon her worktable and opened it, taking out a glass vial with a small amount of dark gold-colored powder.

The pollen was not actually from the Goldensuit plant, but from Jack’s hybrid plants. Phoebe’s Goldensuit plants were still doing poorly and had yet to flower again. In contrast, Jack’s hybrid plants had taken only a few days before they recovered from their rough handling.

Keriah had done extensive testing with the pollen in the past few weeks. She and Phoebe had discovered that the hybrids were inconsistent and that there were significant differences even between one hybrid plant and another, so she had tested the effect of the pollen from each of the plants Phoebe was cultivating. She isolated three potted plants whose leaves, roots, and pollen grains looked similar under the microscope and which also had the strongest effect on Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Rosmont.

Phoebe harvested the pollen for Keriah, who weighed exact amounts for each dose and separated them into glass vials. She kept them in her storage chest because she had discovered that exposure to sunlight decreased their effectiveness.

She had run poor Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Rosmont through tedious tests for how best to administer the pollen into their bodies. Inhaling provided the quickest reaction, but the dosage was inconsistent since both men always sneezed out some of the pollen after breathing it in.

She measured whiskey and water, added it to the glass vial, then corked it and shook it. After taking it from her, he downed the entire volume. She needed to give him larger amounts of pollen when Mr. Coulton-Jones ingested it this way, but the dosage was more precise.

He grimaced as he handed the vial back to her. As she placed it in a special basket for items requiring thorough cleaning, she asked, “Does it taste so foul? I used good Scottish whiskey.”

He gave a disgusted sound. “That’s a terrible waste of Scotch.”

She ignored him, because Mr. Rosmont had complained even more loudly when she used cheap whiskey. “May I examine you?”

“Of course.”

It would be scandalous for a young woman to touch a man’s body in this way, but she’d become inured to it after working with her doctor uncle, and Mr. Coulton-Jones had finally stopped blushing every time she did this.

She bit her lip as she studied his reddened eyes, the slightly brittle texture of his skin. She massaged his arm muscles and he winced slightly. “It’s a bit sore. In the past hour, it’s been tightening suddenly, at unexpected times. It did the same thing just before the last time I needed a dose of pollen.”

“Muscle spasms,” she murmured, continuing her examination. She pressed his torso over his kidney, but he didn’t react. Good, no tenderness. “Any other symptoms?”

“No.”

She straightened and sighed as she regarded him. “I’m concerned,” she said bluntly.

Mr. Rosmont no longer needed to expose himself to the Goldensuit pollen, but Mr. Coulton-Jones had needed some every three days, on average. When she had begun dosing him with the pollen from those three plants she’d selected, he had lasted for at least 100 hours—a little more than four days—before he began to feel headaches. But this time …

“It has not been many weeks yet,” she said, “but the time intervals between doses seems to be slowly shrinking.”

He nodded, and there was a shadow over his eyes. He knew what was happening. He knew what was coming.

“I know that is why you never ask for a dose as soon as the headaches begin,” she said.

“The symptoms are never bad for the first several hours.”

“But it may not be best for you to delay and push things too far.”

“The more I take, the sooner I’ll need the next dose,” he said in a harsh voice.

“No matter how determinedly you wait before taking another dose,” she said slowly, “we cannot deny that soon, I must think of a different method to curb your symptoms.”

And if she didn’t, he would die.

She bit her lip sharply and tasted blood in her mouth. In working with her uncle, she had seen death before. She had seen it come suddenly. She had seen it creep up upon a person wracked with illness.

She never seemed to become inured to it. Like a bitter tincture, it never became easier to withstand.

Perhaps because she had grown close to Mr. Coulton-Jones, and because she saw how his eyes followed Phoebe whenever they were in the same room, the thought of his death was a roiling mass of fear and frustration and grief in her gut.

She also admitted to herself that his courageous and upright personality reminded her strongly of her twin sister. The resemblance between their situations was not exact, but they were both fated to die young, and that hit her in the place in her heart where she was most vulnerable.

She shoved the lamp back under the sedative mixture, then found herself moving and replacing instruments on the table, anything to keep her hands busy. “I’ve been perhaps too focused on making sedative lately. I felt it was the more urgent necessity because we cannot know when one of you will encounter Jack’s men,” she babbled. “But I have been devoting as much time as I can to trying to find a way to remove your need for the Goldensuit, as I did with Mr. Rosmont. It is difficult perhaps because you ingested the Root and he did not. If Phoebe could only grow the Goldensuit plants and not only the hybrids … if only I could think of something, then you wouldn’t have to …”

She choked and couldn’t finish.

Mr. Coulton-Jones laid his hand over hers, which were clutching both a spatula and a stirring rod together. “I have faced death before. Many times,” he said. “I’m certain you have, as well.”

She nodded. However, it still hurt terribly when it was the death of someone close to her. In those situations, she was perhaps haunted by the echoes of her sister’s violent death.

Mr. Coulton-Jones removed the spatula and stirring rod from her hands. “Sep and I talked recently about my situation.”

The mention of Mr. Ackett drew her attention and might have made her heart skip a little. She cleared her throat. “Is it true that you both have faced dangerous missions in France?”

“More times than I like to admit.” He laid the instruments in the wrong place on the table. “We talked about how strange it is that we feel closest to God at those times when we face death while in the midst of some perilous mission.”

She hesitated in surprise. “It is not strange. In fact, I wonder if perhaps it is human nature.”

“Oh?”

“I have sat at the bedsides of several patients, and whether they are gravely ill or not, their thoughts often turn toward the Almighty.”

He tilted his head. “Yes, I see. Then perhaps you will understand. Sep suggested that this situation is no different than those times in France. And he is right. I have found that the faith that sustained me at that time does help me face things now.”

He did seem remarkably calm. If she were in the same situation, she’d be a tangled mess of tears and snot.

But his presence before her now, strong and solid, free from hostility and panic, made her more forcefully aware of the contrast between them. Even in her younger years before her sister’s death, when she had been more devout, she had never felt the kind of otherworldly, unexplainable comfort and courage that seemed to be supporting Mr. Coulton-Jones at this moment.

It struck her that she was missing something.

She realized she had not replied to him, but she couldn’t think of anything to say.

He broke the awkward silence with that captivating half-smile that made debutantes swoon, whether he was aware of its power or not. “Of course, I do hope you will not cease to search for some means by which I may avoid drinking this swill—er, fine Scotch quite so often.”

His words pulled a reluctant snort of amusement from her, unladylike though that may have been. She moved the spatula and stirring rod back to their proper places and noticed an extra knife she’d left on the table. “If you will wait but a moment, I shall make one more sedative knife for you. Did you already speak to Mr. Drydale about Lady Wynwood?”

“Yes. I am to go to her hotel and escort her to her townhouse.” He looked down at his stained blouse and ill-fitting coat. “I shall need to transform back into Mr. Coulton-Jones, respectable gentleman.”

She opened the oiled cloth where she had smeared her last batch of the new sedative formula and began scraping the last bits of it onto the knife. “Do be careful, this will be only a half-dose.” The worry that had distracted her before he arrived flooded back into her. “Do you have enough to protect Lady Wynwood? It will be only yourself as a guard. Perhaps you should wait for me to finish this batch …”

He shook his head and reassured her, “I have two other knives, and I certainly do not discount the fact that Miss Sauber will be there, as well, with sedative knives of her own.”

His faith in her friend heartened her, but did not erase her concern. As often happened with her, all her fears came rushing out of her mouth. “It has been only about twelve hours since Dr. Heddetch attacked Lady Wynwood, which would give Jack ample time to plan something heinous, especially if he believes Lady Wynwood might have more items that her husband hid from the Gentians, and—”

He held up a hand to forestall her prattling. “I promise to be careful. Also, because I have been taking the Goldensuit pollen, my sense of smell is still heightened. I can smell the Root elixir taken by Jack’s men when they are nearby, or if they’ve recently walked past. They shall not surprise me.”

She could only nod in the face of his confidence and trust in his judgment. He was not given to rash or foolish actions, and she knew with a certainty that he would not endanger Lady Wynwood or Phoebe. She handed him the sedative-smeared blade.

“My thanks.” He nodded and gave her a smile, then left.

Only after he departed did she suddenly wonder:

What if Jack attacked them with men who were not on the Root?

CHAPTER NINE

It was just as well that Uncle Sol wouldn’t allow Aunt Laura to go to her townhouse right away. While they waited for Mr. Coulton-Jones to arrive so that he could guard them, Phoebe was alone in her room.

Aunt Laura had suggested that she spend time in prayer and reading her Bible, but she also had Aya send for a snack from the hotel kitchens for her. The act of consideration made it seem less like her aunt was banishing her to her room like a misbehaving child.

The Bath cakes on the tea tray were a bit dry, but Aya had managed to find honey and marmalade and slathered them both lavishly on the cakes. It was a simple gesture, but Aya had always indulged Phoebe’s sweet tooth when she wanted to comfort or encourage her. Both Aya and Aunt Laura understood the turmoil inside of her, stirred up by the continued conflict with her father.

It took her two cups of tea and two cakes, but Phoebe finally realized that yes, her aunt was correct about Phoebe’s anger. The vitriol in her thoughts never touched her father, his opinions, or his actions. Instead, it only served to make her feel a loss of control over herself.

The Goldensuit pollen might be a factor in the depth of her emotions, but she also didn’t want to place blame entirely upon the plant pollen. The Goldensuit didn’t fabricate her acrimony out of thin air—that came solely from within herself.

She found and read the passages in the Bible that her aunt had mentioned.

Then came Peter to him, and said, “Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times?” Jesus saith unto him, “I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.

“Therefore is the kingdom of heaven likened unto a certain king, which would take account of his servants. And when he had begun to reckon, one was brought unto him, which owed him ten thousand talents. But forasmuch as he had not to pay, his lord commanded him to be sold, and his wife, and children, and all that he had, and payment to be made. The servant therefore fell down, and worshipped him, saying, ‘Lord, have patience with me, and I will pay thee all.’ Then the lord of that servant was moved with compassion, and loosed him, and forgave him the debt. But the same servant went out, and found one of his fellowservants, which owed him an hundred pence: and he laid hands on him, and took him by the throat, saying, ‘Pay me that thou owest.’ And his fellowservant fell down at his feet, and besought him, saying, ‘Have patience with me, and I will pay thee all.’ And he would not: but went and cast him into prison, till he should pay the debt. So when his fellowservants saw what was done, they were very sorry, and came and told unto their lord all that was done. Then his lord, after that he had called him, said unto him, ‘O thou wicked servant, I forgave thee all that debt, because thou desiredst me: Shouldest not thou also have had compassion on thy fellowservant, even as I had pity on thee?’ And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the tormentors, till he should pay all that was due unto him. So likewise shall my heavenly Father do also unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not every one his brother their trespasses.”

Phoebe remembered listening to her aunt read this story to her as a child and thinking that the wicked servant was cruel and unfeeling. It was heartbreaking that at this moment, she was the one being cruel and unfeeling.

A part of her argued that her father had not pleaded for forgiveness, and never would. Instead, he would continue to remain selfish and indifferent to her.

But his worthiness or unworthiness did not erase the fact that she was the one who had been forgiven by God and yet was bearing this poisonous grudge against him.

She understood logically that she needed to release it. But it was especially difficult for her because as soon as she managed to calm herself, some random wisp of thought would abruptly remind her of her father all over again. Her indignation was a constant presence at her side, an unwelcome companion from whom she couldn’t simply walk away.

But strangely, that realization reminded her of a time in her childhood when she had had a terrible row with her second cousin Reginald. One Christmas, she had been at a large family gathering at the estate of the head of the Cambrook family, Lord Layburn, who was Phoebe’s maternal grand-uncle. Her mother had still been alive but pregnant with her younger brother—she would not have attended except at the insistence of her husband since she was not yet showing. Aunt Laura had naturally been there.

Phoebe had insisted upon bringing her child-sized bow and arrows with her because they were a new present that had been gifted to her for her birthday that year from her mother. But Reginald, only a year older, had snuck into the bedroom where all the younger girls had been sleeping and stolen her weapon.

He then went out and killed one of the egg-laying hens that had been carefully tended to by the estate’s cook. Unsatisfied with such lame entertainment, he then stalked the kennel master, who was out walking some of the hunting dogs and injured one of the them, nearly hitting the kennel master with the same arrow.

Phoebe had discovered the theft and searched for him, arriving in time to see him shoot the poor dog. She’d hurled herself at him in rage, even though he was several inches taller and almost a stone heavier. Shrieking and crying, she’d pummeled him with her tiny fists until the kennel master pulled her off of him.

Reginald’s father, Lord Layburn’s nephew, took away the bow and arrows and never returned them to Phoebe. He also decided not to punish Reginald, which infuriated Phoebe even further than the injustice of having her bow and arrows taken.

In hindsight, she realized that her uncle had perhaps been merciful to his son because Reginald had had to suffer the indignity of being thoroughly trounced by a girl and still bore the bruises, bloody lip, and broken nose as evidence. (Phoebe was still secretly rather proud that Reginald’s nose remained broken to this day.)

But at the time, she’d been livid over Reginald’s cruel actions and the injustice of being punished when she had been innocent of wrongdoing.

Her mother had been rather ill because of the pregnancy and hadn’t had the strength to deal with her wildly emotional daughter. So she had asked her younger sister, Laura, to see to her, since Phoebe got along so well with her aunt.

Aunt Laura had managed to coax Phoebe into a calmer frame of mind with a private tea party with just the two of them, accompanied by a dizzying array of sweets from the kitchen. (Thinking about it now, her methods hadn’t changed in fifteen years.)

Then she had allowed Phoebe to fully vent her frustration. Over the course of nearly two hours, she merely listened and understood her feelings.

But as Phoebe’s whining and tears had wound down, Aunt Laura had poured her another hot cup of tea from the refreshed teapot, slid the last slice of lemon pudding onto her plate, and said, “You don’t wish to make things uncomfortable or difficult for your mother during this house party, do you?”

Phoebe shook her head.

“But if you remain as you feel now, you will most certainly pick another fight with Reginald before Twelfth Night. That will make things very awkward for everyone, but mostly for my older sister. You wouldn’t like to upset her whilst she is in the family way, now would you?”

“Of course not. But … Reginald …” Phoebe’s brow furrowed as she spoke the name.

Aunt Laura reached out and poked her between her eyes, right where her skin wrinkled. “Stop that right there.”

Phoebe was so stupefied that she simply blinked, her eyes crossed slightly as she stared at her aunt’s finger, which was still pointed like an arrow shot into her head.

“Every time you think of something—anything—relating to that unpleasant incident, you must stop the feelings right here,” Aunt Laura said, poking her again between the eyes. “Pray and surrender your anger up to God, so you needn’t be irritated by it any longer.”

In confusion, Phoebe asked, “Why would I give God something so ugly?”

Aunt Laura smiled. “God wishes for everything from us, good and bad, because it means we trust Him with both our joys and our burdens. There are verses in the Bible in the book of Matthew from a time when Jesus Christ is speaking to the people. He said, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’”

It was strange, but simply listening to the words had made her childish heart ache less and feel warm as if wrapped in a blanket.

Aunt Laura continued, “When you give to Jesus your anger at Reginald, He will carry it so that you shall not be weighed down by those feelings.”

“But I think of Reginald all the time, constantly during the day,” Phoebe protested.

“Then surrender your anger up to Jesus constantly during the day.” Aunt Laura removed her finger, and her hand smoothed the hair at the side of Phoebe’s face. “It will be hard, my darling, but it will help you to remain calm—er, well,” she corrected herself, “calmer, at any rate, whenever you see Reginald. And you will find that relieving yourself of your tempestuous feelings will make you feel happier, eventually.”

It had indeed been hard, but Phoebe had at least not exchanged fisticuffs with Reginald for the entirety of the house party. He sneered at her, and she growled back, and he usually backed down at one sight of her clenched fists, not wishing a repeat of their earlier round. But despite her threatening stance and her ire at the sight of his petulant face, she did not physically assault him again before they left her grand-uncle’s estate.

Even years later, her aunt gave her the same advice. And Phoebe realized that in the same way, she needed to surrender to God her rage at her father every time it came to mind.

She pressed between her eyebrows with the tip of her finger, and found herself smiling ruefully. The touch didn’t quell the storm inside of her, but it made her feel more in command of herself. She felt more stable.

It reminded her of what she desired most, to not simply be of use to Uncle Sol, but to work for him and the Ramparts as Lady Aymer did. She had been strongly impacted by Uncle Sol’s injunction about agents being less emotional. Now that she could reflect on his words, she knew that she could not remain as level-headed as she had previously been in other dangerous situations if she could be upset by her anger at any moment.

She had to prove to Uncle Sol that she could do this work. That he could trust in her.

Just as she was determining this in her mind, she heard the creaking of the wooden staircase outside her room. Her aunt’s two-room suite was in the center of the hotel hallway, while Phoebe slept in a smaller room with only a bed that lay to the left of her aunt’s room, close to the narrow servants’ staircase. The room on the other side of her aunt remained empty, and beyond that room was the guest staircase, which Phoebe had yet to use since she usually exited and entered the hotel from the back door and the servants’ stair.

The creaking of that servants’ stair indicated it was someone who had come for her aunt, since Aya, the only other person who would use it, remained in Aunt Laura’s suite. Phoebe couldn’t be certain, but there was something about the cadence of the tread that made her think she knew who climbed the stair and stepped out onto the landing for their hallway.

She snatched up a new accessory which Aya had made for her—a set of lace muffatees to smooth over her forearms and under the ruffled muslin of her gown sleeves. But hiding underneath the lace cuffs were slim leather sheaths which fit Phoebe’s fighting blades, both concealing them and making them more quickly accessible than where she’d previously stowed them in her reticule or a pocket sewn into her cloak.

Phoebe hadn’t known Aya possessed such leather-working skill. Aunt Laura had blithely remarked that Aya had made leather holsters for her own throwing blades, which could be strapped over her gown and hidden by a cloak, but she also confessed that she hadn’t had an occasion to wear it yet.

Phoebe collected her gloves, cloak, and bonnet, and stepped outside her room into the hallway just as Mr. Coulton-Jones knocked on the door to her aunt’s suite.

He smiled at her, which lightened his glass-green eyes to a color more like a new young leaf. That smile did treacherous things to her steady heartbeat. He really was much too handsome for his own good, and the best—or worst—part about it was that he didn’t deliberately take advantage of his looks to flirt with women of the haut ton. This was simply his natural kindness.

She inwardly sighed. After weeks of seeing him regularly and even sparring with him in a scandalously physical manner, she had hoped to accustom herself to his presence. But it seemed she only grew more aware of him as she grew more acquainted with him.

And perhaps that was the problem, she thought as she returned his smile with a tight one of her own and strode toward him. He was never improper with her, and he even sometimes treated her like a friend. It was her own ridiculous secret attraction toward him that made her eager to be in his company in a way that would make him uncomfortable if he knew of it.

He must have seen something in her face that mirrored her conflicted feelings about him, or perhaps vestiges of her resentment against her father, because his smile faded as she approached. “Miss Sauber, are you well?”

She hadn’t expected him to inquire, much less notice her volatile feelings. “I am well,” she lied, but as soon as she spoke, she realized that it was patently obvious it was not the truth. She grimaced. Perhaps her disturbed spirit made her unable to act as well as normal.

But before he could respond, the door opened and Aya and her aunt exited the room. Both were already dressed to leave, and Mr. Coulton-Jones led the way out of the hotel.

There were two Ramparts agents standing guard in the hallway, and Mr. Coulton-Jones grunted something familiar and masculine to the young man guarding the servants’ stair. The guards must have known Mr. Coulton-Jones was a fellow agent, or they would not have allowed him access to the hallway.

As Phoebe and Aunt Laura passed the man, they nodded to him, but his eyes flicked away from the women without responding, and his mouth tightened. How strange. What was the reason behind his displeasure? He was probably bored, and might resent being assigned this punishingly tedious job, but it did not excuse his rudeness, surely?

Was his behavior because he did not know about her aunt’s title? Or was it specifically because he did know about her aunt’s title? Or was it simply because they were women? The only other member of the Ramparts with whom Phoebe had interacted was Mr. Armstrong, who trained her in fighting. He did not even know her true name, but he treated her with respect and civility.

The coachman waiting with a carriage outside the back door of the hotel was unknown to Phoebe, but Mr. Coulton-Jones nodded to the man, who nodded back. It was not the subservient gesture of a hackney cab driver, but the alert confidence of a Ramparts agent. Uncle Sol must have arranged for him to drive the carriage to her aunt’s home, which made Phoebe glad for the reprieve for Mr. Havner. Her aunt’s coachman knew how to take care of himself, but he was not a trained fighter.

Inside the carriage, Phoebe said to Mr. Coulton-Jones, “Uncle Sol mentioned you had gone to speak to Dr. Heddetch’s servants. Did they know where he might be?”

He explained that he had not discovered anything of note from Dr. Heddetch’s cook, and he had been unable to speak to the maid. Phoebe was disappointed the cook had not known the location of Dr. Heddetch’s laboratory or stillroom.

The ride was short since the hotel was on the outskirts of Mayfair. Her aunt’s street looked quite as normal as it always did, with a few tradesmen climbing up and down from the front areas of the houses and servants striding along the street on errands for their masters. At the moment, theirs was the only carriage stopping in front of a house.

When the vehicle halted, she exited behind Mr. Coulton-Jones and ahead of Aya and her aunt, glancing around them. Phoebe recognized several merchants she had seen before in their business with her aunt’s neighbors, but there were still many people who were unfamiliar to her.

Mr. Coulton-Jones considerately helped Aya from the coach, surprising her and bringing a rosiness to her cheeks. Apparently even Aya’s disciplined temperament was no proof against Mr. Coulton-Jones’s natural courtesies.

He held out his hand for Aunt Laura, and her foot had appeared from the coach when he suddenly stiffened. Phoebe reacted instantly and scanned her surroundings once again, but none of the people on the street appeared to have moved in their direction.

Her aunt was already halfway out of the coach, but Mr. Coulton-Jones released her hand and said something to Aya. He stepped away as the maid surged forward and maneuvered Aunt Laura back inside.

Mr. Coulton-Jones closed the door behind them. “Miss Sauber,” he said in a low voice, “there are three men standing in front of the third house down the street from us.”

She followed Mr. Coulton-Jones’s example and merely glanced in that direction, not giving away that she was paying particular attention to them. “Yes, I see them.”

“The taller man asked, ‘Is that her?’ and one of the other two just said, ‘Are you ready?’”

Her muscles tightened. She hadn’t heard the men, but she knew Mr. Coulton-Jones’s hearing was still unnaturally sensitive because of the Root. She reached toward the sedative knife in her left muffatee. “Are they taking the Root?” she whispered.

“No. If they were, I would have smelled it as soon as I exited the carriage.”

She reluctantly left the knife in her muffatee because it was smeared with Keriah’s newest sedative, which was too strong to use on a normal man. She became even more apprehensive—it would have been more dangerous fighting men on the Root, but she was not as skilled at fighting without a blade.

The three men suddenly began sauntering in their direction, looking for all the world like ne’er-do-wells at their leisure. “They’re approaching,” she said.

“Protect your aunt.” Mr. Coulton-Jones swiftly turned and strode to meet them.

Phoebe set the carriage at her back. At the same time, the vehicle shook as the coachman suddenly jumped down and joined Mr. Coulton-Jones in heading toward the three men.

When she had first seen the men, it had been but a quick glance since she hadn’t wanted them to know she’d been interested in them. She had focused on assessing the possible threat they would pose, as Mr. Armstrong had taught her. She looked at the frames of their bodies and their stance—if they looked strongly athletic or like experienced fighters. She scanned for the bulges of obvious weapons under their clothing and for any obvious weaknesses she could exploit, such as an injury.

But now as they advanced upon Mr. Coulton-Jones and the coachman, she had more time to take in their faces, and she realized that one of them looked familiar. However, she couldn’t immediately remember where she’d seen his face.

Mr. Coulton-Jones’s gait was casual and smooth, as though his muscles were liquid, and it amazed her how despite his height, his relaxed posture made him seem harmless. “Gentlemen,” he said in a lazy voice, “I’ll ask you to keep your distance until the ladies enter the house.”

One man walked slightly ahead of the other two, sporting uneven patches of beard on his jaw. He sneered at Mr. Coulton-Jones and tried to shove past him. Mr. Coulton-Jones pushed him back, his posture still languid, belying the strength of his thrust.

There was a tense moment when all five men stared at one another, neither speaking nor moving.

Then the man with the uneven beard threw a punch at Mr. Coulton-Jones. He dodged easily, although his beaver hat fell to the ground. However, the attacker’s movement allowed a slender man behind him to slither past, and when Mr. Coulton-Jones tried to grab the man’s arm, he missed. The third man, seeing his leader attack, threw a punch at the coachman, who ducked.

After escaping from Mr. Coulton-Jones, and seeing that his fellows were otherwise occupied, the slender man headed toward Phoebe with a jauntiness in his step that belied the menace in his eyes. “I mean you no harm, miss.” His sick smile showed two darkly discolored teeth amongst his other yellowed ones.

She didn’t answer. Mr. Armstrong had told her that conversation would only distract her and prevent her from reacting as quickly as she must.

He had also suggested that she wait for him to attack if she didn’t know his capabilities. But a part of her was growling inside her, a rabid dog that had been cooped up, desperate to unleash its madness. It was the loss of Dr. Heddetch last night and her father’s arrogant note, a stinking mess that all of her frustration formed in the pit of her stomach.

And so she reacted without thinking.

Phoebe walked up to the man with long, quick strides, which took him by surprise. She even saw his weight shift backward on his heels.

She drew closer than the distance for a normal conversation, close enough to smell the ale and garlic on his breath and see the gray spikes in the brown stubble on his face. Then in one swift movement, she jabbed him in the throat with the cleft of her open hand.

Mr. Armstrong had taught her this, along with the quickly followed blow to his solar plexus that made him hunch over, gasping.

The narrowness of her skirts prevented her from doing anything with all her strength, and Mr. Armstrong had taught her that she needed to continue her attack during the split second the man was distracted by the pain, so she couldn’t waste time grabbing it to hike it up.

Despite the hampering fabric, she managed to kick at a precise spot on the side of the man’s knee, making his leg buckle. He cried out and his eyes screwed shut for a moment. It was enough time for her to put all her shoulder into a punch that landed precisely on his chin. Mr. Armstrong had had her practice these moves in succession over and over until it felt familiar to her muscles.

She didn’t expect one blow to fell the man, but he must have had a glass jaw, for his eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the ground.

Phoebe turned back toward the other two men fighting with Mr. Coulton-Jones and the coachman, but they were also lying on the ground. The man downed by the coachman was unconscious, but the man at Mr. Coulton-Jones’s feet was groaning. Since the agent’s superior strength could have easily knocked him out with barely a tap to his head, he must have been holding back quite a bit.

Mr. Coulton-Jones took in the sight of her standing over her would-be attacker and gave her a warm look of approval, the corners of his mouth deepening in a slight smile. Her heart was already beating quickly from the exertion, but now it romped about like a joyful colt.

The groaning man, who had been the leader with the patchy beard, abruptly began spitting and cursing.

“Oh!” Phoebe remembered where she’d last seen the man. “That’s my father’s servant!” What was his name? She remembered he had a very foul mouth and she often chastised him for cussing. She seemed to recall that one of the maids, Agnes, was rather sweet on him. But what was his name? “Findley! No, Filmore!”

“Filbert!” he snapped at her, and let loose with another stream of expletives.

Mr. Coulton-Jones’s brows drew low over darkened eyes. He gave the man a not-so-gentle kick. “So you’re from Mr. Sauber’s household? Are the other two, as well?”

Filbert told him of various places he could stick his various man-parts.

She suddenly realized this was why the slender man she had dispatched had not seemed as well-trained in fighting as Brigitte, the French agent she had fought. He had not even been as skilled as the man, Brimley, whom she and Keriah had defeated when rescuing Mr. Ackett. After all, servants were not normally expected to excel in brawling.

Then the front door of the house next door swung open and a man rushed down the stairs. It was Aunt Laura’s neighbor, Admiral Blore. He was retired, but she still referred to him by his rank, and when she was a child, he’d often given her pieces of candy.

Despite his age, he raced toward Phoebe and began beating the man at her feet with his cane. “Dastardly scoundrels! Attacking a woman in broad daylight! What is this world coming to?”

Phoebe hadn’t realized that the man had awoken. At Admiral Blore’s thrashing, he curled up with his hands over his head. “I was only doing what the master told me! We were escorting his daughter home!”

It confirmed her suspicion that their aim had been Phoebe, not her aunt. They had likely been staking out her aunt’s townhouse, waiting for her to arrive.

That her father would resort to such measures made the acid rise in her stomach and her head feel like a boiling teakettle. “I will not go anywhere with you!”

She hadn’t heard the coach door open, but suddenly her aunt was standing next to her, with a gentle hand laid upon Phoebe’s arm. Aunt Laura spoke to her neighbor, “I thank you ever so much for coming to our rescue, Admiral Blore.”

He stopped beating the man on the ground and smiled proudly at them. “Of course, my lady.”

Aunt Laura then addressed the bruised servant. “Please inform Mr. Sauber that his daughter shall call upon him in two days’ time, on Thursday at one o’clock.”

Phoebe’s mouth dropped open. She felt rather as if she’d received a blow to the chest, and she struggled to draw in a breath. The hurt twisted into anger so quickly that it surprised even herself.

Why would her aunt say such a thing? It was as though she were offering Phoebe as a sacrifice on the altar of her father’s pride.

However, Aunt Laura’s hand on Phoebe’s arm tightened sharply, and the squeezing sensation jarred her mind from the dark place it had begun to descend.

Her aunt held her gaze for a moment, then turned back to speaking to the servant. “You should realize by now that further attempts to ‘escort’ Phoebe back to her father shall not be successful unless Denholm wishes more of his servants to be bruised and beaten. Do you quite understand what I am saying to you?”

A feral expression flashed across the man’s face, full of rancor. But then it melted into sullen acceptance, and he nodded.

Her aunt said to her, “Your father will only become more desperate if he cannot speak to you. I know you are averse to seeing him, but the message will forestall any further kidnapping attempts.”

Phoebe’s insides cringed in shame that she had doubted her aunt and become so angry. It shocked her that she’d been so hasty in blaming her and feeling betrayed. How much was the Goldensuit, and how much was the innate ugliness of her own emotions?

Aunt Laura led her farther away from the servant as he shakily rose to his feet, and she said quietly, “Of course, your father assumes that once you are under his roof, he will easily detain you there and can control you. However, we shall plan something to prevent that from happening.”

Phoebe should have known that of course her aunt would predict her father’s actions and plan a countering move.

Aunt Laura began touching Phoebe’s face, her shoulders, her hands, and then back up again. “Are you well?”

“I am uninjured,” she reassured her.

Her aunt nodded in relief. “Everything happened so quickly, I barely had time to be frightened for you before the man was on the ground.”

“I didn’t stop to think.” Mr. Armstrong had explained that he made her repeat the same movements so that she would be able to react with more speed, but she hadn’t thought she would respond to a threat with so little hesitation.

Aya had also exited the coach and stood behind them, but now she delicately cleared her throat. “Miss Phoebe, your pelisse …”

Phoebe then noticed a breeze under her arms that trailed up her shoulder blades. She peered over her shoulder and noticed a gaping hole where the sleeve had ripped away from her pelisse bodice, repeated on the other side. Her walking dress must also be ripped if she could feel the air touching her bare skin. Her clothes weren’t as loose-fitting in the ribcage area as the gown she used for training with the Ramparts instructor. Even those small movements had been too much for the fine fabrics.

Her aunt also noticed the tears. “Oh, dear. Let us head inside quickly.” She took Phoebe’s elbow and guided her up the steps to her townhouse, where her butler, Graham, held the door open.

“I apologize that we did not notice the altercation sooner, my lady.” The butler looked pained. “We would have come to your aid.”

“Well, no one was injured except for those men on the sidewalk. And it is just as well, for we unequivocally conveyed our message to Denholm Sauber.” She sounded quite satisfied as she said it.

Mr. Coulton-Jones also entered the house on the heels of Aya. After Graham shut the door behind him, Mr. Coulton-Jones handed him his hat and gloves, then turned to the ladies. “I hope it was acceptable to leave the three men to Admiral Blore?”

“Oh, dear, did he return to beating them with his cane?”

He smiled. “No, but he does have rather a fierce glare. I am fortunate I never served under him. He said he would send the men packing.”

“The incident appears to have cheered him up immensely. Usually he’s rather gloomy and complains about his aching knees.”

Phoebe did not hear the rest of the conversation because Aya was ushering her up the stairs before Mr. Coulton-Jones noticed her torn gown.

CHAPTER TEN

When Michael saw Miss Sauber being hastily escorted up the stairs of Lady Wynwood’s townhouse, at first he worried that perhaps she had been injured in some way. But then he glanced at her back and saw the flash of cream through rents in both her pelisse and gown. He hastily averted his gaze and tried to forget how soft her skin had looked. The ladies of the ton displayed far more flesh when wearing their low-cut evening gowns, so it was strange that the merest glimpse of Miss Sauber’s shoulder blade had made him self-conscious and embarrassed. But he was beginning to realize that his reactions to Miss Sauber were far from his typical behavior.

When he’d first seen the three men in front of the townhouse, he’d realized they were a threat. Even though he had not smelled the achingly familiar scent of Goldensuit, he had immediately worried that the men were abnormally strong and beyond Miss Sauber’s fighting abilities. He had felt a surge of protectiveness, not simply in his role as Lady Wynwood’s bodyguard, but also because he had wanted to protect Miss Sauber, so that it wouldn’t be necessary for her to battle any of the men.

But when the leading man threw the first punch, he knew immediately that the attackers were not on the Root. He tried to engage two men at once, but even when one of them slipped past him, he realized he was no longer troubled about Miss Sauber facing him. He concentrated in order to hold back his strength just enough that he wouldn’t knock his opponent unconscious, and so it took a few seconds longer before he incapacitated him and he could turn to check on Miss Sauber.

However, he needn’t have been anxious on her behalf, for she had handily taken the man down and even rendered him senseless. He found himself grinning at her like a fool, proud of her competence. She had remained farther back in order to guard Lady Wynwood, trusting Michael and the coachman to protect them rather than stepping forward to fight with them. The way she had smoothly worked with them was likely thanks to her training from Mr. Armstrong at the Ramparts, but since Michael had also sparred with her, it had perhaps helped to improve her reflexes.

He had seen scores of beautiful women in ballrooms across London and the Continent, but he was never so entranced by a woman as he was at the sight of her standing over an attacker she had felled.

Now that he could reflect more calmly upon what had happened, he realized that he might be a bit mentally unsound.

He obediently followed Lady Wynwood upstairs to the bedchamber of the former Lord Wynwood, but the sight that greeted him made him freeze in the doorway. The space was nearly the size of a small ballroom and took up the entire length of the front of the townhouse.

Lady Wynwood happened to notice his confusion and said, “Wynwood originally expanded his bedroom by knocking down the wall to the neighboring guest room, and then I extended the space even further by taking down the wall to his dressing room.”

Her demeanor was so reasonable that he felt he might be the daft one for asking the obvious question, “Why did you feel it necessary to do that?”

In answer, she nodded toward the wall to his far left.

He was greeted with a life-sized portrait of her deceased husband hung close to the floor rather than high up on the wall. At first glance, the paint over portions of his anatomy looked to be smeared, but then he realized that there were numerous knife holes in the canvas. He glanced back at Lady Wynwood, who had moved to the far right of the room next to a table bearing various sharp and pointy implements.

He looked back at the portrait again, then at the table full of knives.

“Ah,” he said, because he honestly couldn’t think of what else to say. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for using her husband as her target for practice, although he also doubted the prideful Lord Wynwood would have allowed a life-sized portrait of any other person to remain in his house, so her options had probably been limited.

Several pieces of furniture had been set up in the room, but the room had a forlorn appearance because some pieces seemed to be missing. A lone side table stood in front of the fire, and farther apart stood a round table with only one chair. The four-poster bed had likely stood near the far wall—where Lord Wynwood’s mangled portrait stood—but now it was angled near the window as several maids searched through the old straw mattress. Another maid carefully dug through the feather tick that had lain atop it. They were attempting not to spread the straw and feathers about, and they worked atop a sheet that had been spread upon the floor.

Michael was relieved at the sight of the industrious servants. “They have already started?”

She nodded. “I sent a note earlier instructing them in what I wished for them to do.”

“I do not mean to be impolite, but I hope to conclude this business as quickly as possible so that you will not remain in your townhouse for long,” he said to her. “If Heddetch goes to Jack to acquire some of the Root to heal himself, he’ll divulge everything he knows about the watch. He would be forced to explain why he suddenly needs the Root elixir when he hasn’t taken it before.”

“Do you think so? Heddetch could simply say he fell, and it wouldn’t be unusual for a man to want to heal from such a debilitating injury.”

“From what I know of Jack, he would notice if Heddetch were vague about what he’d been doing when he fell. Jack is the sort who is likely to withhold the Root until he satisfies his curiosity about what Heddetch has been up to.”

And Jack was so unpredictable, there was no way for any of them to know what he would do next. What he might do to Lady Wynwood.

“Graham …” Lady Wynwood called over the butler. “Do you have the list I sent to you of the pieces I remembered had been in this bedroom? I am afraid I remembered a few more after I dispatched the note.”

“Here, my lady.” Graham handed her a few pieces of foolscap. “For some of the furniture pieces, we could not remember where they had been moved, and it is notated on the sheets. For others, we brought them to the bedroom, but could not recall where they had been situated in the room, so we placed them here.” He gestured to the corner of the room opposite the bed, where several pieces had been set.

“Let us begin with those.” She suddenly shuddered. “I had forgotten how hideous that portrait of his grandmother was …”

“Quite, my lady,” Graham said composedly as he picked it up from where it leaned against the wall.

“Heaven knows why he kept that disapproving face to stare down at him. She looks as though she’d like to tan his hide. It hung to the left of the fireplace, I believe.”

Graham rested it against the wall next to the fireplace while Lady Wynwood directed the movement of the other pieces. At times, a piece would remind her of something else she had not written on the list, and she would send a servant to fetch it once she or the housekeeper, Mrs. Rook, recalled where it had been moved.

In the task of moving the furniture around the room, Michael joined Graham, Mrs. Rook, and another maid named Jane. She was very short, which made her look young at first glance, but Michael was used to Isabella using her diminutive stature to fool people as to her true age. He studied her face, and saw that she appeared to be a little older than Michael, perhaps Richard’s age, if he’d lived. She had brown hair and brown eyes, which radiated calm and maturity. She looked to be head of the upper housemaids.

After moving those furniture pieces, Lady Wynwood consulted the list. “Now for the missing pieces. He had a table on the right side of his bed.” She stared unseeing at the space. “Where was it moved?”

At that moment, Miss Sauber arrived, slightly breathless and dressed in a different gown. “What was moved?” she asked.

“The bedside table.” She pointed, although at the moment the maids were standing there still searching through the mattress.

Miss Sauber closed her eyes, picturing the object. “Isn’t that the table in the library? I believe it is holding a potted plant.”

“Oh, I believe you are correct.”

“I shall fetch it,” Jane said, and left the room.

Lady Wynwood looked at the list. “Wynwood had a carved washstand in the corner.” She looked at the corner, then at the list again. “I only listed the washstand, but now I seem to recall there might have been a painting on the wall above it …”

“Wasn’t it a painting of a horse?” Miss Sauber asked.

“Was it?” Lady Wynwood stared at the corner in question and tapped the paper against her chin. “Yes, it was a painting of his favorite horse. I had it moved to the attic, I think, along with the washstand.”

Miss Sauber said, “I’ll go to the attic. I remember what both of them looked like.”

Lady Wynwood’s brows furrowed. “Both pieces might be too unwieldy for you …”

“I shall go with her,” Michael said.

“Thank you, both of you,” Lady Wynwood said. “Phoebe, if I recall correctly, the painting was of the black gelding. However, the other painting of the brown one was moved from the library to the attic, so be sure to look closely.”

Michael followed Miss Sauber to the attic stairs, and was surprised to find that they were nearly as wide as the stairs to the second floor. There were several doors on the level above, and she opened the farthest from the stairs, which was a storage room. Two lamps sat on the small table near the door, and as she lit them, he said, “This floor looks to have been renovated recently.”

“Yes, a few years ago,” she said. “During my uncle’s lifetime, the attic was one large storage room and two small servants’ bedrooms, but after his death, my aunt expanded the bedrooms.”

It was a consideration for her staff that was unusual among the nobility, but now that he knew Lady Wynwood, Michael was not surprised.

Miss Sauber handed him a lit lamp. “Unfortunately, it made the attic even more cramped, and now it has only one tiny window.”

They entered the dark space, but it was not very crowded and surprisingly easy to maneuver, and the air was not as close and stale as he would have expected.

“I thought it would be stuffed to the gills, as it had been when I was younger,” Miss Sauber said, “but I had forgotten that the servants likely already removed some of the furniture to place back in Uncle Wynwood’s bedchamber.”

“There is remarkably little dust,” he said as they maneuvered between two towers of stacked chairs.

“Mrs. Rook and the maids dust and sweep the attic once a season and check for water damage under the roof.” Miss Sauber gave him a mischievous look as she added, “Once, I threw my bowl of porridge at the nurserymaid in a fit of temper, and as punishment, I had to help them clean. Mrs. Rook is never unkind, but when it comes to diligence in work, she would reduce a slave driver to tears. I made sure to behave myself after that.”

He chuckled. “Quite different from a caning, but possibly more painful.”

“Yes, Aunt Laura has always been quite creative when it came to punishing her nieces’ and nephews’ bad behavior.”

“You say that, but it sounds like you have many happy memories with her, regardless of your brief foray as a maid.”

“Yes.” Miss Sauber checked under a holland cover, but it was merely a plant stand. “In hindsight, I think she saw my father’s disregard for me and wished to cushion the pain of his indifference.”

Michael’s own father had been kind—Richard had been very like him—but he had seen the pain dealt by an indifferent father in Thorne as they were growing up.

He had bent over to peer at a painting when she said to him, “Thank you for protecting us against my father’s servants.”

When he looked up at her, the light from her lamp just barely illuminated the lines of her face.

She turned her head away from him as she added, “I am ashamed that I forced you to become involved in the conflict of my family.”

The servant had insisted that he had been ordered by Mr. Sauber to “escort” his daughter home, and it reminded him of the selfish, often cruel demands of Thorne’s father. He again felt the helplessness he had as a child, knowing he could do nothing to prevent the uncaring whims of a conceited man. “You should not be forced into such a situation in the first place. It is shameful for a man to attempt to kidnap a woman in order to force her to his will and achieve his own ends.”

She gave him a small smile, and he could see that his support had touched her. But it was too much like the sad smile that Thorne had given in response when Michael had wanted to do something to help his friend. “What is the meaning behind his actions? Why would he do this?”

She blinked. “I hadn’t realized until now that aside from my aunt, Uncle Sol, and Keriah, none of the rest of you know the full story about my father.”

“Thorne told me about how he stole your dowry,” Michael admitted.

“That is not the half of it.”

As they continued to search through the attic, peering into dark corners and under holland covers, the darkness and the fact she needn’t see his face seemed to make it easier for her to tell him. She explained about her father’s sudden remarriage and her stepmother’s desire to remove her from her home, that her authority as lady of the manor might be uncontested. Sending Miss Sauber to a relative’s house as an unpaid servant also aligned with her father’s desire to save money for her stepsisters’ eventual debut Seasons in London.

Michael was appalled. Mr. Sauber’s behavior was not as physically violent as Thorne’s father had been, but from what she did not say, he guessed that her father was almost as verbally abusive as Mr. Kane Rosmont. He paused in his search for the painting and washstand and stared at her in frank astonishment. “How could he treat his daughter in such a way? How can he place more importance on his new family over a daughter who has done nothing but support him?”

“He sees it as his right,” she said, although the bitterness colored her voice.

“Your father’s actions, and his wife’s actions, are not the way family members ought to treat each other.” His anger made his voice low and hard. “You are not an item he may dispose of as he wishes.”

In the dimness, her eyes were dark green, nearly black, which made her gaze seem more intent. “Thank you,” she said quietly, but he could tell that behind her quiet facade, a part of her burned with anger at her father.

He did not blame her. He could only imagine the anxiety she must be feeling about her upcoming visit to her father’s home. He wished he could offer to accompany her, but it would be highly inappropriate for him to join in a Sauber family affair when he had no relation to her. He could only hope Lady Wynwood had a plan in mind to protect her when they undertook the visit.

“I wish I could do more for you,” he blurted. “Protecting you from inept servants seems paltry assistance.”

“You should not have needed to protect me from those inept servants in the first place,” she said with some self-acrimony. “I let my guard down. If I had been alone, I would have been utterly surprised because I was only thinking about Jack’s men wanting to harm my aunt.”

“You could not have known your father would resort to such uncouth measures.”

She shook her head, her face tight. “No. In truth, my aunt and I had previously considered that my father might try to kidnap me, although at the time I had been only half-joking. But I had at the very least considered the possibility, and yet I was caught completely unawares.”

Her regret was terribly familiar to him, and he swallowed. “Any other person would have also treated it as a near impossibility.”

“But I do not wish to be merely any other person.” She seemed a bit shy as she said, “I wish to be an agent, as you and Lady Aymer are.”

He had guessed her intentions from the seriousness with which she undertook her training and in practicing with him. She would be—she already was—magnificent.

As if to hide her embarrassment, she continued in a rush, “And is not an agent trained to predict what could happen and plan for any eventuality? Surely you must act independently and trust in your own discretion when in foreign countries.”

He shook his head. “I tried to envision what could happen, but there would always be things that surprised me … and for which I blamed myself later.”

Richard … There had been no surprise with more tragic consequences than that. “But in truth, there does not exist any agent, no matter how intelligent and experienced, who can predict everything. And usually, the worst things that you don’t predict are precisely what occur.”

He looked down briefly, and the muscles tightened in his jaw as he struggled against the guilt, desperately holding in his pain like a man trying to stop a wound that was gushing blood.

Then he felt a warmth against his hand. She had clasped it with hers.

They had left the door open for propriety’s sake, but he became aware that the two of them were quite alone in the attic. She had stepped across the few feet between them and stood very close, as she couldn’t do in a drawing room. He could feel her ungloved hand, her skin soft and a bit dusty from touching holland covers, rough with callouses from her archery. This was not a woman merely of balls and dinner parties, but of action and strength.

“Tell me,” she said in a soft voice. “What was the terrible thing that happened which you could not predict?” Her soothing voice and gentle touch reached out, as if trying to draw the misery out of him so that it wouldn’t bruise his soul any longer.

“My brother’s death,” he said in a raw, strangled voice.

She hesitated, then confessed, “While you were asleep from the sedative, your sister explained about your older brother.”

Isabella hadn’t told him about this. “What did she tell you?”

She gnawed on her lip. “She said that he had been investigating the death of his friend, Mr. Albert Freeland, but Apothecary Jack poisoned him and two Foreign Office agents who had been meeting with Jack in secret. I hope it does not grieve you that we should know of it.”

At first he felt that Isabella had divulged a secret he’d rather have kept close. But then again, Richard was her brother, also, and when she had discovered the truth, she had wanted to do as much as she could to bring the killer to justice. And Apothecary Jack was of concern to all of them. “It does not grieve me,” he said, “but I blame myself for his death.”

“Could you truly have predicted that Jack would poison his entire club?” Miss Sauber asked.

“Richard told me he had been looking into Jack and his group, but I hadn’t taken his concerns seriously enough. I should know what happens when you look into the affairs of a dangerous man—he’s more than likely to turn around and carelessly get rid of any annoyances. Instead, I went off on my next mission and thought I’d look into it later.”

“You just told me that no one can predict everything that could happen,” she reminded him.

“I know that,” he answered tonelessly, “but my brother is still dead. And I still feel … everything I feel.”

She still held his hand, but now she brought her other one to enfold his palm between both of hers. Her thumb smoothed over the old scars on his knuckles. “Did you know that Keriah used to have a twin sister?”

Her question seemed abrupt at first, but then he remembered a sad story his mother had told him once. At a party, in lieu of a dance, he had sat and talked with Miss Gardinier, since her leg disfigurement prevented her from dancing. He had discussed merely fluff and gossip, and Miss Gardinier had debuted only that Season, so she had been shy and quiet (very unlike her normally blunt speech with him now, he reflected wryly). Later, his mother explained that Miss Gardinier’s younger sister had died several years earlier, which was when her leg was injured.

“My mother told me that her sister had died,” he said. “She did not mention it was her twin.”

“I met Keriah in seminary the year after Karina died,” Miss Sauber said, “so I only know what Keriah has told me. She is uncharacteristically reticent about it, and what she told me was no more than what is well-known in her home village. She and her sister were twelve years old when they were attacked by a vagabond in the woods—some think he was an escaped convict, but no one knows who he was. Keriah tried to protect her sister, but he stomped on her leg and crushed it.”

He’d seen Sep’s knee injury, but he had recovered within a few weeks. He couldn’t imagine an injury even worse, that would not heal properly.

“The man threatened Karina with a knife,” Miss Sauber said. “But when he discovered they hadn’t any money, he stabbed her in a fit of rage and ran off. Keriah was too injured to run for help and watched her sister bleed to death.”

He felt sick to his stomach. A twelve year old girl, forced to see something like that …

“Afterwards, Keriah threw herself into helping her surgeon uncle. She has not said so, but I think it was to atone for letting her sister die.”

Miss Sauber squeezed his hand between hers. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, which were full of compassion.

“I can tell that she still hasn’t forgiven herself,” Miss Sauber said, “but I think that Karina would have forgiven her long ago. And I know that you would agree, for the apothecary knowledge that Keriah received from her aunt saved your life.”

He nodded.

“So wouldn’t your brother have forgiven you, especially after you have protected me and my aunt and the others in Mr. Drydale’s team?”

He thought of what Richard would say to him, and he knew it was true. But the knowledge that his brother would only give Michael his kind smile didn’t erase the fact that he would never see it again.

“All the good deeds in the world can’t erase my regret,” he said. “Good deeds cannot erase a sin.”

“Of course not,” she said. “I was not implying such. But we have all done things we are ashamed of. What we forget is that no one sin has greater weight than another. They are all sins in God’s eyes. And those sins, great and small, are all forgivable in Christ.”

Her eyes faltered then, but before she looked away he could see the sharpness of a pang of conscience, followed by the weight of self-recrimination. Although she said nothing, he somehow knew she was thinking about the sins committed by her own father.

But then she looked back up at him. There was turmoil stirring in the depths of her eyes, but he could sense that although she struggled, she knew the direction she was struggling toward. It did not bring her peace and comfort, exactly, but there was something about her resolve that sustained her.

A part of him wanted to fully embrace her words, but when he compared his sins to her father’s, and thought of Richard, he couldn’t. “I don’t know if that is something I can believe,” he said slowly. “Some of the things people do have far more wretched consequences than other things. For example, do you feel your aunt ever forgave her husband?”

As soon as he said the words, he realized how indelicate they sounded. The previous Lord Wynwood had been known for his quick temper, but he had never been violent to his peers, so the rumors of his physical abuse of his wife were simply dark whispers. And most men saw nothing wrong with such “discipline” of his household. But on his missions, Michael had seen other women, bruised and beaten, and had known it was nothing more than cruelty.

Miss Sauber did not take offense at his question, but she did pull her hands away and turn toward a set of feminine bedroom furniture. She remained silent for a time, and when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and trembling. “I remember feeling an uncomfortable dread whenever I spoke to him. When I grew older and understood how terrible he had truly been, I felt anger at him, but seeing his bedroom half-furnished today reminded me of how he frightened me.” She touched a cracked oval mirror, which had only been kept because the frame and the matching dressing table it stood upon had been carved with the Glencowe crest.

She rubbed the dust from her fingers and turned to face him fully. “But I also know my aunt’s kindness, and I think it is entirely possible that she has forgiven him. At the very least, she would try to do so—even though she wouldn’t want to forgive him, even though it might feel like being cut with a thousand pieces of glass.”

Michael could sense that she was speaking of herself as much as Lady Wynwood.

She reached out and grasped his hand again, and he found himself curling his fingers around hers.

“It may not mean much,” she said, “but I forgive you. I accept you despite what you have done or not done.”

His breath caught. He hadn’t realized how those words, spoken aloud to him, would impact him so deeply. She had heard about his guilt over Richard’s death, and yet she accepted him. Not only did she absolve him, but she believed God would forgive him, as well.

He was not certain he could fully believe the truth of that, but it lightened the darkness around his heart that someone had hope for him, even if he did not have that hope for himself. Her words, and her faith, were so much like Isabella’s, and yet when Miss Sauber said them, they were sweeter to his ear.

Michael couldn’t speak. He could only stare at her. He found himself tightening his grip around her hand.

The sound of footsteps outside the attic caused them both to jump back from each other as if they were burned.

“Miss Phoebe?” It was Jane, the housemaid. “Are you in there? I came to help.”

“We are still looking,” Miss Sauber said. Her voice was unruffled, but even in the dimness he could tell that there was a flush to her cheeks.

“Is that the washstand?” Michael pointed several yards further into the room at the vague outline of a thin, narrow table.

Miss Sauber made her way past some other pieces of furniture and bent over to look at it. “Yes, here it is. And the painting is next to it. Jane, we shall be down directly.”

As he picked up the washstand, he reflected that Jane had possibly saved him from a disastrous action. At that moment, he had wanted to draw Miss Sauber into his arms, to crush her to him in relief, in gratitude … in yearning.

But he did not, because he knew that now, even more than before when he first met her, he couldn’t surrender to his attraction for her.

Years ago, after their first and only dance together, he had been fascinated by her and powerfully drawn to her. He had wanted to know her more. But he had deliberately held himself back because of his dangerous, secretive work for the Foreign Office. When he was on a mission, he couldn’t afford to be distracted by thoughts of someone for whom he cared deeply.

And now, he was dying. He would not have the last thing he did for Miss Sauber be to cause her the same sort of pain that he was causing Isabella.

And that was under the assumption that Miss Sauber felt the same way about him. He wasn’t entirely certain about that.

After all, she’d shot him twice. A woman who was partial to him would have at least hesitated or balked.

As he followed Miss Sauber downstairs while carrying the washstand, he reflected that if he had tried to embrace her, she very well might have punched him in the nose.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I believe we are nearly finished,” Laura said to Graham just as Sol strode into Wynwood’s bedroom. She was startled because she hadn’t expected him to arrive at the townhouse, but he also had that thunderously deep crease between his brows that indicated he was in a temper.

“You are leaving here this instant,” he had the gall to order her.

Laura walked up to him, reached up her hand, and pinched his lips together.

Sol froze, his hands waving aimlessly in the air, looking bewildered and affronted at the same time. And perhaps a bit ridiculous with his lips crumpled between her fingers.

She countered his demand with one of her own. “You will listen to me first before speaking again. Do you understand, Sol?”

When he didn’t answer, she tugged at his mouth to force his head up and down in the barest of nods. He glared at her, but still let her play with him like a ragdoll.

“‘Yes,’” she said in a deep voice to imitate his, although she sounded rather more like a ponderous vicar, “‘I understand perfectly, Lady Wynwood. I apologize profusely for my boorish behavior and shall not bark commands in your drawing room again.’”

He fully rolled his eyes at her like a schoolboy, but when she released his mouth, he repeated, “Yes, I understand perfectly, Lady Wynwood. I apologize for barking commands in your drawing room.”

“No,” she said, adopting the tone of one of her seminary teachers, “you are supposed to promise not to do so again.”

“I cannot do that,” he replied, “because we are not in your drawing room.”

“Oh. Yes, I had quite forgotten.”

“And I have the feeling I am very likely to be tempted to bark commands at you again at some point in the future.”

They glared at each other for a few heartbeats before Graham coughed gently. “Sir, did you perhaps have some concerns for my lady’s safety?” the butler prompted Sol.

“Just so,” Sol said, straightening his vest with short, self-conscious tugs. “I’m sure you can imagine how concerned I became when I heard from the agent who drove the carriage that you were attacked outside your home.”

Oh, dear. Sol had probably gotten the worst possible version of the story. “They were not Jack’s men,” Laura said. “They were servants of Denholm Sauber.”

He stared at her as it took him a moment to digest that strange bit of information.

Before he could come to an erroneous conclusion, she added, “They were not there to harm me. They were instructed to abduct Phoebe.” The word “abduct” was rather gothic, but she did not think it overly melodramatic to describe what those men had tried to do. She had been terribly frightened by the violence of the attack on Mr. Coulton-Jones and the coachman, and she’d ducked inside the carriage whilst praying for the safety of her defenders.

As she explained to Sol what had happened, she damped down another surge of anger at Phoebe’s father for his barbarism toward his daughter. He was treating Phoebe as if she were a disobedient dog that he must throw into a kennel to force it to fall in line.

Sol’s anger when he arrived had been sharp and urgent, but as he heard about the attack and its aftermath, he did not grow calm. Rather, the target of his worry had shifted, and a savage look flickered across his face.

“I am disgusted by the man,” he said with uncharacteristic bluntness. “I do not trust him to stop trying to kidnap Phoebe simply because of the promised visit in a few days.”

“Nor do I, but the appointment might make him less desperate or aggressive in his actions.”

Sol nodded as he considered her ploy. “It might also lower his guard. He is so arrogant that he would assume he could keep Phoebe captured once she enters his house again.”

“I am positively brimming with ideas on how to ensure the visit ends with Phoebe leaving the house with me.”

He smiled, flashing that unnecessarily charming dimple on his left cheek. “I almost feel sorry for Sauber to have blundered by making you his enemy.”

“Oh, he and I have never been able to stand each other,” she replied. “Our long-standing feud is almost adorable.”

In another moment, he might start worrying about the danger to herself on that visit, and she was about to try to distract him when Phoebe and Mr. Coulton-Jones arrived with the washstand and painting from the attic. She was glad they had not been there—her servants were skilled at ignoring her when she did something particularly outrageous, but Sol wouldn’t have liked her tussling him with his subordinate agent present.

After greeting Sol, Phoebe and Mr. Coulton-Jones took the washstand and painting to the other end of the room, where the furniture was being set into place. The familiarity of the setup made Laura shiver, but she hid it with a brisk, “We have nearly completely assembled Wynwood’s room again.”

“May I assist in any way?” He was being perhaps a bit too eager, trying to make up for his bad-humored entrance, and Laura ruthlessly put him to work.

To be honest, she had expected more of a fight from Sol when he had tried to convince her not to return to the townhouse. She understood his reasoning perfectly, but she also knew that time was of the essence and these pieces of furniture would be the last place to look for anything else Wynwood might have hidden.

When they were speaking at the hotel, she should have realized that Sol, of all people, would see her pain when it came to Wynwood’s secrets. But she had not expected him to reach out to touch her.

She also hadn’t expected to react so strongly to his touch. For years, they had been good friends, their relationship remaining unchanged. But in the past several weeks, that same familiar relationship had been shifting and adjusting.

As she had grown closer to Sol after Wynwood’s death, she had suspected that secret side of his life. However, she never expected to be thrust so deeply into it at the Meynhill birthday celebration.

Then came the hurtful revelation that he’d been assigned to watch over her and Wynwood—that in the beginning, his duty to the Ramparts had been the basis of their friendship. Piled on top of that had been more revelations about Wynwood’s secret affiliation with the Gentians and about his death—the aspects of his death that Laura hadn’t been aware of, outside of the parts she was keeping from Sol.

She no longer knew how she felt about Sol Drydale. She had never been able to confidently know about how he felt about her, but now she was even less certain. Were they still friends? Were they partners in leading his team of spies? Were they superior officer and his subordinate?

Over the years, Sol had never indicated any type of romantic interest in her—he had been friendly and kind, but he never flirted or flattered in the ways generally accepted in society to indicate a deeper sentiment. It had been easy for her to keep herself at an emotional distance from him, as well, because she knew there was an insurmountable barrier to prevent them from marrying, even if they’d been inclined. She rather thought Sol was already aware of this most agonizing piece of her past, which would explain his circumspect behavior.

But now that they knew so much more about each other and each other’s secrets, now that Phoebe and Keriah were working with him, now that Laura and her servants had aided Sol in his work in numerous ways—rather than feeling that the distance between them was like a sturdy fence, everything had been knocked down. She felt as though they’d been thrown into a raging river and were both desperately trying to stay afloat. Sometimes the water pushed them together, and sometimes it pushed them apart. Nothing was calm, or stable, or clear.

And it was then that Sol had suddenly reached out to touch her. It was like a hand reaching out to save a drowning victim, except that she didn’t know if it was herself or Sol who was drowning.

She would be lying to herself if she said she did not feel affection for him. But she also refused to travel down any paths that would only lead to inevitable heartbreak for herself. It was the reason she had distanced herself from him before, and she would do so again. There were too many things she could never tell him. If he ever found her out, his abhorrent reaction would pierce her like a stave.

Aya approached her, bringing along Jane. “My lady, I have discussed it with Jane, and we believe the room is complete.”

Laura glanced at the now-furnished room, but she trusted the judgment of Aya, who had interacted extensively with Wynwood’s valet, and Jane, who had cleaned Wynwood’s rooms every day when he was alive.

Sol was approaching, and she said to him, “We have assembled all the pieces from Wynwood’s bedroom that are in the house. Would you like to search them?”

He nodded. “Did you already check some of them?”

“The maids checked the mattress and feather tick but found nothing.” She gestured toward where the maids were cleaning up the straw and stray feathers. “Mr. Ackett searched some of the heavier items that we had left in this room—his wardrobe, dressing table, and a trunk that used to hold his odds and ends and childhood objects.” She sighed. “I am afraid I rather ruthlessly tossed most of them.”

“I doubt Wynwood would have hidden anything important in his toy soldiers,” Sol said dryly.

“Sol, I would like to ask my other servants to help you search.” She had already told her servants everything about Wynwood, and they had been helping to move the furniture and search the mattress, so she did not think he would object, but she needed to ask him because he did not trust her servants quite as much as she did. “The only aspect of Wynwood that I could admire was his intelligence, and he would make certain that anything he hid would be difficult to find. If more people help us, someone may notice something the rest of us overlook.”

He stared at the assembled bedroom set as he pondered it. Finally he nodded. “Yes, your suggestion will make the search more thorough.” Then he moved closer to her and asked in a low voice, “Do you trust your servants so much?”

She knew he was not doubting her but simply asking for her reassurance. She glanced at all those assembled here, which excluded only the cook and her assistant. The twins had been hired two years earlier, but all the rest of the servants present had been with her since before Wynwood’s death. She had hand-picked each one of them and knew their individual circumstances, and she had already long released any servants that Wynwood had hired. Her staff had already more than proven their loyalty to her, but she could not explain to Sol how she knew they would not betray them. “I trust them, Sol. I hope you can trust my judgment.”

He hesitated, then surprised her when he said, “I do trust your judgment.”

He could have been simply implying that her ability to spot lies would ferret out any deception among her servants, but she had the feeling that was not what he meant. It felt as though he was conveying his faith in her, and it caused both a warmth and a tightening in her chest. She was so ridiculously pleased perhaps because he was not usually so openhearted with her.

It took less time than she expected to search the remaining furniture, simply because there weren’t many places where a compartment could have been made or an object hidden. Calvin, with his excellent eyesight, spotted a piece of wood that had been cut in one of the bedposts near the top, with the lines of the cut as fine as a hair. However, they eventually discovered it was simply a flaw in the workmanship and a piece of wood had been carved to be shoved into place to hide it.

Laura had been hoping they would find something in the pieces that Wynwood used often—his rather ratty footstool, the sofa to one side of the fireplace where he liked to nap, a small round table where he ate or used his writing box, the long mirror where he had liked to preen when he thought no one was watching. But Wynwood had not entrusted them with any of his secrets, although Clara found a shilling shoved into the crack between the sofa back and the cushion.

Laura thanked the servants for their help and then dismissed them to the kitchen, where she’d instructed the cook to have tea and sandwiches waiting. She had earlier requested that Minnie make Aya’s favorite Amber Pudding, since she knew her lady’s maid was still feeling guilty that she’d inadvertently told Dr. Heddetch about the pocket watch.

Phoebe collapsed into one of the chairs around the table at the other end of the room which usually held Laura’s throwing knives. Laura would have scolded her for her indecorous behavior, but Phoebe had climbed into the attic no less than six times to fetch pieces for Wynwood’s bedroom, since she was one of the few people who would recognize which ones to find. She looked like she would cry with joy when Graham arrived with a tray of tea and some Amber Pudding slices.

After Graham had left the room, closing the door behind him, Laura sat next to her niece and poured the tea while Sol and Mr. Coulton-Jones sat across the table from them. She half-expected Sol to demand she now return to the hotel since they hadn’t found anything, but he asked, “How many furniture pieces did Lord Wynwood take with him?”

“They are marked on the list.” She passed him the piece of paper. “There were seven, but only three were from the master bedroom. Reconstructing his bedroom confirmed I had remembered them all.”

“Would your husband have hidden anything in those other four pieces that weren’t in the master bedroom?” Mr. Coulton-Jones asked.

“I doubt it. He took a ladies’ dressing table and stool from the guest bedroom because they had belonged to some great-grandmother, a very ugly watercolor from the drawing room which had been done by one of his aunts, and a woman’s worktable from the attic which one of his cousins had wanted. My husband hardly spent any time in the guest bedroom, the drawing room, and the attic, and he was too cautious to hide something in an area where he might be interrupted.”

Sol nodded. “From what I remember of him, I agree. Even if he rarely accessed whatever he had secreted away, he would not place it in a common area of the house.”

“What were the three pieces from the bedroom?” Phoebe asked. She had already eaten a slice of pudding and was reaching for another.

Sol peered at the list. “A leather chair, a side table that sat next to it, and a writing box.”

“He purchased the chair around the time he began seeing Mrs. Jadis.” Speaking of his affair with Bianca caused a shadowy feeling to press against Laura’s chest, now that she knew the dangerous group they had belonged to.

“Would he really hide something in a chair?” Phoebe asked. “How would he open and close a hole in the cushions?”

“The chair had thick carved legs that could possibly have held a small hidden compartment,” Laura said.

“It is also possible to set up a means to affix something to the underside of the seat,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

“As for the side table, Wynwood brought it down from the attic at the same time he purchased the chair,” Laura said. “It was an old Glencowe family piece, so I am not certain if he would have made alterations to it to create a hiding space, but the top was heavy and thick, and there is a small drawer beneath it.”

“His writing desk would have been the best place to hold a hidden compartment,” Sol said, tapping the item on the paper.

“It was a very fine box that he bought a few months before he began seeing Mrs. Jadis,” Laura said.

“Are you certain Lord Wynwood took these three pieces to his London townhouse?” Sol asked.

“I am not,” Laura said. “But I believe there is a strong possibility that he did. When he came to select what furniture he wished to take, he mentioned that the principle seat and the other smaller holdings were already fully furnished, and so he had not much need for more, in his words, ‘to clutter them up.’”

“The townhouse of the current Lord Wynwood did not belong to your husband?” Mr. Coulton-Jones asked.

“No, he purchased that house when he was still Mr. Newland Glencowe. I believe it was a year or two before my husband died. They were second cousins, and he had not expected to inherit quite so soon.”

“And his cousin is staying there at the moment?” Sol asked.

“Yes, Mr. Fritz Lingley. We are fortunate that it is his daughter’s second Season, and so they are still quite sociable and are throwing this soiree.”

“Which is tonight.” Sol sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hand. “Your timing is impeccable.”

“It is not my timing—” Laura began to protest, but then her niece interrupted.

“Children,” Phoebe admonished, sounding like her old nurserymaid, with her sea-foam eyes twinkling. Only she could speak to the two of them in this manner, having known them both for so long.

“You are not too old for me to swat your bottom,” Sol said, jabbing a finger at Phoebe.

“But with my new training, Uncle Sol, I might have you facedown on the floor before you could try.” She grinned impudently at him.

He opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again. He finally muttered, “Yes, you possibly might.”

“Does that mean that you approve if I accompany Aunt Laura to the soiree?”

“I think it would be best if Phoebe did accompany me,” Laura said. “The soiree is only for close friends and family, and my husband was Mr. Lingley’s second cousin. Phoebe was included in the invitation because she is my niece and known to be staying with me.”

“So it will not be strange for the two of us to wander the house at will,” Phoebe said. “The servants will be occupied at the party, and we could search the private family rooms, not simply the guest rooms.”

“Will you have enough time to search if it is just the two of you?” Sol asked.

Phoebe took a moment to consider it. “It would depend on how many rooms we must search.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones spoke up with unusual hesitancy. “Your relatives are invited to this party, you said?”

Laura nodded.

“I could possibly pose as one of your family,” he said.

Laura was not of a mind to fully believe him. To imitate someone well enough to fool another?

But Sol said, “He is quite skilled, Laura. I believe he could do it.”

“Have the Lingleys met any of your mother’s family, the Belmoores? Specifically, your male cousins?” Mr. Coulton-Jones asked.

“Yes, he met all the Belmoores once at a large family gathering many years ago. But since then, my cousins Cecil and Charles have died. Only Edward is still living, as well as my first cousin once removed, Sir Cecil.”

“I could imitate Mr. Edward Belmoore,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “I have … met him.”

She could immediately tell he was not being entirely truthful, but she couldn’t discern what exactly he was lying about. However, she noticed that Sol gave him a look that was a tad too quick to be casual, and she wondered if it had to do with their work for the government.

“It may succeed,” she said slowly. “Mr. Lingley only met Edward that one time, and it was over ten years ago. But this seems quite a dangerous risk. There may be guests who are well-acquainted with the Coulson-Joneses.”

“I am quite confident in my abilities, my lady,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “With the aid of cosmetics, I even fooled my sister once.”

“Also, in a crowded drawing room, it may require some cleverness, but it is relatively easy to avoid the notice of specific persons,” Phoebe said. “I have perfected the art over five Seasons, without face paint.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones’s smile at Phoebe had a depth of genuineness that had such attack power that her usually unflappable niece blushed slightly.

To cover her reaction, Phoebe quickly continued, “What will be more difficult will be explaining ourselves should we run into Mrs. Lingley’s lady’s maid or Mr. Lingley’s valet when we search the bedrooms. Both servants will likely be helping with the party, but in the event they have other duties upstairs, they will be in the private family rooms.”

Sol agreed and began muttering suggestions. Laura noticed that Phoebe’s color faded, but the girl still avoided looking in Mr. Coulton-Jones’s direction. Laura would have liked to have the luxury of being amused by the interactions between the two, but Mr. Coulton-Jones’s fate was constantly in her mind and prayers. She could only see heartache in store for Phoebe, and she could do nothing but stand beside her and watch things unfold.

“We should continue this discussion at the hotel, not here,” Sol said.

Laura nodded and they all rose to their feet. But then she said, “I accepted invitations to two other parties tonight. I shall need my servants to send my regrets to them.”

“Perhaps it would be better not to do so,” Sol said.

“I know that others do not bother, but I consider it rather rude,” Laura said.

“We are not certain what Heddetch knows about your schedule,” Sol said. “He had the run of the house and could have perused your invitations.”

“I had not considered that,” Phoebe murmured.

“Is that truly possible?” Laura asked.

“Probably not,” Sol admitted, “but it would ease my concern for you if you did not indicate the places where you will not attend tonight.”

“I would have wished Sep were well enough to climb through windows,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “This type of operation is his specialty.”

“I shall ask Mr. Rosmont to pose as your coachman,” Sol said. “I hope it will not be necessary, but he has more skill in combat than Mr. Havner.”

She nodded, and they left the bedroom to inform her servants that they were leaving. There was still tension about his mouth and eyes, and she knew he was still worried for her safety tonight.

She would be lying if she said she wasn’t afraid to be out in society after being attacked only a few hours ago, but she kept her expression calm, hoping that Sol, at least, would believe she was confident.

It was ridiculous to feel this unease. All she would be doing was wandering Lord Wynwood’s townhouse and looking at furniture. Quite harmless. She was hardly sneaking into an enemy camp. She would be guarded by Phoebe and Mr. Coulton-Jones, and she trusted them completely.

She would be perfectly safe.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When Heddetch awoke, he was immediately assaulted by the smell of moldy cheese.

Despite the cotton wool in his brain and the various aches in his body, he hauled himself to a sitting position as quickly as he could, trying to escape the horrid odor. But as he did, a black and green object fell from where it had been perched atop his prone head.

He stared at the rotting cheese in his lap for a moment before swatting it away.

As the fuzziness of his thoughts clarified, he became aware of a pulsing pain behind his eyes. It was synchronous with the pain in his ankle. He stared blearily at his extended legs, seeing his foot at a strange angle.

The events of the night before returned to him in a rush. He had hobbled on his broken ankle until he was far enough away to spend time to use a wall to shove his dislocated shoulder back into place and bind up the knife wound in the back of his thigh. Then he found a hackney to take him to a specific tavern in the Long Glades.

Once there, he had balked at the stairs up to the room that Jack called his “office,” so he had sat in the tavern’s main room on the ground floor and yelled at the men until one of them finally slouched upstairs to knock on Jack’s door. But the man had come back down to tell Heddetch that there was no answer. Jack wasn’t there.

Then came a hellish journey to Jack’s laboratory, staggering along and propping himself up on building walls until he found a piece of wood to use as a crutch. At the base of the long flights of stairs up to the laboratory, he nearly lost heart, but he knew he had to haul himself up to the top floor, without anyone’s help, because no one was supposed to know Jack was there. Jack would kill him without hesitation, without asking a single question, if he brought anyone even to the outside of the laboratory door.

It was the location where Jack mixed his Root elixir and kept them stored—a place perfectly hidden, where Jack could enter and leave without being noticed, where no one could observe him at his work or find his stock of valued potions. He had invited Heddetch to his lab a few months ago under the condition that he keep it completely secret.

Heddetch had been ecstatic to have wriggled his way into Jack’s trust, and mostly kept mum about it. There had been the one time when Jack had been out of town and Heddetch had dropped a crate of vials and created a mess. Feeling too lazy to clean it himself, he had brought his maid to do it for him. The girl was too afraid of him to ever disobey him, and besides, to whom would she speak about the lab in the first place?

“Awake yet?” The voice was a lazy drawl, but there was a deeper, jagged edge to it that indicated the speaker was not entirely even-tempered.

Heddetch kicked away trash as he struggled to his feet. Last night, after begging Jack for a dose of the Root, he’d collapsed on a dirty pallet in the corner of the large room without even asking for permission to rest there. That may have been why Jack had placed the cheese on his head.

Jack stood in front of a long table covered with a motley variety of equipment, most of which had been shoved to the sides and were covered in a fine layer of dust. The only clear space was in front of him, where he’d placed a small brazier. The wood of the table had darkened beneath the brazier, which was heating a small ceramic pot of something bubbling.

Heddetch had told him numerous times that the heat he used for making the Root was too high, that he should use a lower flame and a thermometer for more control, but Jack sneered at him and ignored his advice when it came to his elixir. Heddetch was fully aware that Jack barely trusted him—he tolerated him only because he needed help making more Root, since Jack hadn’t the time to make enough by himself. Since Jack brought the ingredients to the laboratory in unmarked containers, Heddetch didn’t know the recipe and couldn’t make any of the Root outside this room.

Jack stirred the pot and, without looking at Heddetch, asked disinterestedly, “How do you like the Root?”

Last night, when he’d finally made it up the stairs and begged him for the Root, he had been worried that Jack would ask why he was only now wanting it when he’d refused before. He hoped that the severity of his injury would explain it and that Jack wouldn’t be curious.

He needn’t have been concerned, because last night, Jack had been distracted by whatever he was concocting (it hadn’t smelled like the Root, but something else). He barely glanced at Heddetch before tossing him a vial and returning to his work, sloshing the contents of several containers of liquid onto his already stained and messy worktable.

Heddetch realized that Jack simply didn’t care what he did. Jack paid no more attention to him than to the rats and cockroaches in his laboratory.

Despite the excruciating pain of his ankle, the anger nearly made him toss the vial back and hobble out. But by then he could barely stand, and he was desperate to take something for the pain.

He wouldn’t have had to petition Jack for a dose of the Root when Heddetch had had his own room in the basement of the Kitten Theater and was in charge of distributing it to Jack’s men for him. The ignorant ruffians had been eager to please Heddetch when they wanted the Root. But after Jack moved his “office” from the theater to the tavern, Heddetch no longer had his own room with stores of Root vials. Instead, Jack brought vials from this laboratory when he visited his private room above the tavern. His men now ignored Heddetch unless he had orders for them from Jack, and he disliked being Jack’s pageboy.

But now Heddetch himself had taken the Root. After only one dose, he would die without another one. But unlike Jack’s men, he knew precisely how dangerous it was—he would need to take it more and more often, and no matter how much of the Root he took, no matter how often, eventually he would die. The Root killed everyone it touched.

But he’d had to take it, because of his ankle …

He finally made it to his feet, but he stared at his foot in confusion. It was crooked. Then, like a thunderclap, he realized what he’d done. Last night, he’d been so disoriented that he had forgotten to set the broken bones before taking the Root, so they had healed while still twisted and deformed.

He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hands so hard that the bones of his fingers creaked. He bent over and gave vent to a blood-curdling scream of rage.

He would need to rebreak his ankle, then set it before taking the Root again. And because the Root gave superior strength to both muscle and bones, it was going to take a tremendous amount of force to break the bones again. It would be even more painful than when he’d dropped from Lady Wynwood’s second floor window.

He pounded his fist against his thigh, seething at himself and frenzied against Lady Wynwood. It was her fault! It was all her fault!

It took him long minutes before a cool sliver of reason invaded his tormented thoughts. It was the Root, making him aggressive. He knew it would, but understanding it and experiencing it were vastly different things.

He deplored feeling like this, teetering on the edge of maddened frenzy, his entire body trembling with agitation. It was a completely foreign feeling—Heddetch usually prided himself on his ability to keep himself calm and at peace.

He took several deep breaths. Then he took several more. The shaking never eased, but the hostility slowly seeped away.

He limped toward Jack. He couldn’t walk with a smooth gait, but rather than the stabbing pain of last night, now there was only a muted ache deep in his ankle bones.

Jack smirked at him. “I guess that answers my question.” Today, his makeup was a dizzying mess of pinks and purples, like two flowers mangled together. “I’m surprised it took you so long to take it.”

Heddetch wanted to punch him in the face. He despised Jack, and what was strange was that Jack seemed to pick up on it, but it didn’t bother him.

“I don’t want the Root,” Heddetch growled. “I want the real elixir.”

He knew that Jack and Maxham were taking something different from the Root. Once, he had happened to spy on them before they drank it—a solution that was a brighter red than Jack’s crude potion. From its even color Heddetch could immediately tell that it was more elegantly made than the Root.

He also knew that Jack couldn’t make this other elixir. Dr. Ward had hinted at it in his letters to Heddetch.

What was more, he had promised a reward for him in exchange for keeping an eye on Jack and Maxham here in London while Ward was working at his estate. If Heddetch proved his worth, Dr. Ward would invite him into their inner circle. He had even intimated that he would allow Heddetch to help him in his research.

Jack’s smile widened, but he ignored him and instead asked, “How did you break your ankle?”

Irritated that Jack hadn’t responded to his comment, he said shortly, “I fell.”

But his own words made him remember the fall, made him remember that he hadn’t been able to force Lady Wynwood to give him the pocket watch. He clenched his jaw hard in frustration, feeling the roughness and shards of pain as his teeth ground against each other.

He had to get that watch, now more than ever, before she discovered the meaning of whatever was inside. And he was certain there was something important inside, even if he didn’t know exactly what it was.

Heddetch had been friends of a sort with Bianca, meeting her only a few months before she took up with Wynwood. One day, after she’d been his mistress for several weeks, he complimented her on a pendant she had taken to wearing often.

“The design is unusual,” Heddetch said.

“Oh,” she said carelessly, her delicate fingers stroking the necklace, “it is Wynwood’s coat of arms. Not the current one, but an old one of the Glencowe family.”

He teased her, “You wear it every day like a woman in love.”

That made her laugh, and even that unguarded action had been sensual and exposed the creamy column of her neck. “Wynwood made a matching pocket watch for himself. I do believe he is secretly a romantic. He is quite besotted.”

Heddetch had nearly forgotten that conversation until he’d walked into the kitchen of Lady Wynwood’s house and overheard the servants discussing a pocket watch their mistress had recently discovered. He had never been so thankful that his long-standing relationship had given him free rein to walk in and out, in order to overhear tidbits like this.

There had been no reason for him to think it was the same watch that Bianca had mentioned, but he had asked, regardless. It had been almost too easy to convince Aya, who was obviously sweet on him, to tell him a little more about the watch—and to mention that it bore the old Glencowe coat of arms.

He knew immediately that it must be the matching pocket watch that Bianca had mentioned. A pocket watch would hardly be of interest to him, except for what Bianca had told him about her pendant.

Bianca had glanced down at the pendant, which resembled an oval locket except that there didn’t appear to be an opening mechanism. “They wouldn’t like that I have this, if they knew.”

She never said explicitly whom she meant, but by then Heddetch was aware of the secretive group she belonged to. He had become interested in them—and cozied up to Bianca—because he had pieced together various bits of information.

None of them aged.

Most people didn’t realize this fact. Heddetch alone had discovered this.

Wynwood was looking rather dissolute, so Heddetch didn’t believe he’d yet been completely accepted into the group. Bianca never admitted her age, but from what Heddetch had deduced by chatting with some of the older prostitutes, she had been barely seventeen years old when she first appeared in London, so by the year 1800, she was thirty-one. Yet she looked as fresh-faced as a teenager, and Heddetch could guess a person’s age better than most because he observed the signs of aging up close in his experience as a doctor.

Without asking her to clarify whom she was referring to, Heddetch asked, “Why would they object to such a fine piece of jewelry?”

“It is not the jewelry itself,” Bianca answered with a mysterious smile, “but what is inside.”

Without their powerful group knowing about it, Wynwood had secretly commissioned that pendant for her, and a matching pocket watch for himself. So the watch would have the same contents that Bianca’s group would have objected to.

Heddetch had to know what that was.

Bianca had kept that secret about her pendant from the others in her group, so it must have contained something which might have threatened them. If the watch was the same, Heddetch knew he could use it to force them to accept him into their ranks.

Jack didn’t seem to care that Heddetch had answered him so tersely, and instead gestured toward a pestle and mortar. “Help me with this batch.”

Jack ordered him about like a dog. Heddetch could feel his face tighten into a snarl, and he had to clench his jaw again to keep from baring his teeth like the mongrel Jack thought he was. He couldn’t control his expressions as he used to. It was the Root, stirring up his savagery.

“Of course,” he managed to say through gritted teeth, spittle raining on the dirty workbench.

Jack always brought the dried roots in an old burlap bag, which lay on the table close to where Heddetch stood. He grabbed a handful and began sorting them, dusting off bits of dirt that still clung to the fine fibers. Jack didn’t bother cleaning the roots, but Heddetch couldn’t bring himself to grind them, dirt and all, and then add them to the potion.

The only time Jack had listened to Heddetch had been when he had demanded Heddetch’s suggestion for adding something to the Root recipe to make the user resistant to sedating chemicals. Heddetch later heard about an incident in a stable where some form of medicine had been used to knock out a man who had become a full-blown Berserker. Heddetch had been eager to be of use, doing his best to ignore Jack’s sloppy chemistry. Dr. Ward had instructed Heddetch to keep close to Jack, so he couldn’t say anything to antagonize him and lose his position as Jack’s assistant.

Jack scowled at him. “You’re slower than dropping a log in winter.”

Heddetch didn’t quite understand why logs would be slower in winter, but he stopped his sorting, tossed everything into the stone mortar, and begin grinding.

At first, Jack didn’t need Heddetch’s help unless he happened to be making a large quantity of the Root, but lately, he’d been shunting the task to Heddetch more and more. He didn’t know where Jack went while Heddetch filled vial after vial, but one time, Jack had returned to the laboratory with small pieces of green leaf and fine white pollen on his clothes, so his guess was that Jack spent the time in his greenhouse.

He knew that Jack was simply using him for labor, but as far as he was aware, Heddetch was the first and only person to whom Jack had shown his method for making the Root. Yet it was an empty privilege because no one knew where Jack’s greenhouse was located, nor had anyone seen the plants from which he harvested the dried roots that formed the basis of the elixir. Heddetch had even tried following him a few times, but to no avail.

So although Heddetch knew the steps from start to finish, he could do nothing with the information without access to the plants. And even though Dr. Ward grew Goldensuit plants, Jack had created his own hybrid. Heddetch had sent the steps to Dr. Ward, who tried making Jack’s elixir using Goldensuit roots, but he wrote that the resulting potion was pure poison and caused instant death.

Jack suddenly leaned uncomfortably close to Heddetch and began sniffing like a dog. Heddetch jerked back, but Jack followed him, practically burying his nose in Heddetch’s coat sleeve.

He straightened and gave a slimy smile, his teeth yellow against the pink and purple face paint. “I can smell Aya’s perfume on you.”

Heddetch flinched before he could stop himself.

Luckily, Jack didn’t seem to read anything special in Heddetch’s response and turned back to his boiling potion. “You’re always hanging about Wynwood’s widow’s house. I didn’t think Aya gave you any sugar, proper girl that she is now.”

“Maxham ordered me to do it.” Heddetch ground the roots violently, flinging fine root hairs out of the mortar onto the table. “Back when Wynwood was alive.”

“Ah, yes. Now I remember. He told me he did that.”

It should have been Heddetch to whom Maxham confided. He had been friends with Bianca long before Jack came to town. Heddetch should have been chosen, not this buffoon. His Root formula would have been exquisite, worthy of Dr. Ward’s respect.

Heddetch dumped the ground roots into an empty bowl. He reached into the burlap bag and grabbed another handful of whole roots, surreptitiously shaking them to try to get some of the dirt off of them, and then dumped them into the mortar to grind more. “I don’t know how Wynwood was able to stand those insane servants,” he grumbled. “It explains why he spent so much time with Bianca.” Heddetch had never called her by her first name when she was alive, but since Ward and Maxham always referred to her as such, he felt a tiny bit of superiority in using it now, after she was dead.

“I don’t want to hear about Bianca,” Jack said irritably. He then almost absently called her a few choice names.

Heddetch had had a vague sense that Jack disliked Bianca, but he had never seen Jack so irritable just at the mention of her name.

Bianca had been quite easy for him to butter up, but he hadn’t been all that upset when she died. Even though Heddetch had suspicions that Maxham had been involved in her death, he had been hopeful that he’d be chosen to take her place in the Citadel. He had not yet known about Dr. Ward at that time, but he had been known to Maxham, and Heddetch had some experience in botany, although he had not been as skilled as Bianca. He had even assisted Bianca a bit in her chemistry and knew himself to be more knowledgable, so he had thought that would be a point in his favor.

If only he had searched Bianca’s townhouse sooner. He’d found her body within only a few hours of her death, by his reckoning, and he’d torn through her rooms, looking for anything related to her work. However, he’d been too late—by the time Heddetch had arrived at her home, Bianca’s sister had already run away. There had been evidence that someone else had gone through Bianca’s things before him, and he deduced that Zephyra took Bianca’s botany notes with her.

If he’d had those notes, the Citadel would have been forced to let him into their ranks. Instead, he was nothing but a servant to Jack, who was a thousand times more difficult to deal with than Bianca had been.

Perhaps it was the increased belligerence boiling in his insides because of the Root. Perhaps it was the dull ache that had grown in his ankle from standing on it for so long. Perhaps it was the opportunity to taunt Jack about an obviously sensitive topic.

Heddetch had a faint smile on his face as he said, “I had no idea you felt so strongly about Bianca. Professional rivalry, perhaps?”

“She was nothing compared to me,” Jack snapped.

“Oh? So were you acquainted with her?”

Jack surprised and annoyed Heddetch by smiling at him. “Years ago. Long before you met her.”

That would have been over ten years ago, and Heddetch nearly retorted that Jack would have been barely a stripling whose voice hadn’t yet changed. But he remembered that Jack had been taking Dr. Ward’s special elixir since Bianca’s death, so his apparent age was deceptive.

“So then were you attracted to her instead?” he needled Jack.

He was rewarded with a flash of disgust that crossed the pink and purple features.

“I see, you wanted her for yourself,” Heddetch said, deliberately misunderstanding. “Was that the reason you killed Wynwood?”

He was delighted when Jack paused in stirring his boiling pot and frowned deeply at Heddetch.

“Are you surprised?” Heddetch crowed. “I thought you already knew that when I was summoned to the house the night Wynwood died, Mr. Maxham had asked me to empty the brandy decanter in the library.”

He had hoped to get a rise out of him, but instead Jack turned back to stirring his pot. “Maxham shouldn’t have acted like a meddling old woman,” he muttered in a low voice. “I would have gotten around to emptying the decanter eventually. I’m nothing if not thorough. Maxham had no right to interfere.”

Heddetch wouldn’t have even heard Jack’s words if his hearing hadn’t been enhanced by the Root. Jack wasn’t even talking to him.

Because he was being ignored again, he said querulously, “I heard it was Mr. Maxham who gave you Mr. Jadis’s old gardening notes.”

Surprisingly, the old gardening notes of Bianca’s husband, Mr. Jadis, had been in Maxham’s possession rather than Bianca’s, and after her death, he gave them to Jack. Not to Heddetch, even though he’d been the one in Bianca’s confidence since before Jack arrived.

Jack dropped the stirring stick into the pot, and because it was too short, it disappeared over the edge of the lip. Then he rushed at Heddetch, grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt and bringing that pink and purple face right up to his. “Don’t speak his name to me,” Jack hissed, and bits of rotting treacle buns flew into Heddetch’s face. “You aren’t worthy to speak his name.”

Heddetch so was startled, it took him a few heartbeats before he thought to be alarmed by Jack’s reaction. Had Jack known Bianca’s husband before he died? Or did he simply revere the man because he had read Mr. Jadis’s gardening notes? Even Dr. Ward had—rather grudgingly—admitted that Mr. Jadis had been incredibly gifted as a botanist, achieving things even Dr. Ward himself couldn’t do with the Goldensuit plants.

From things Bianca had let slip, Heddetch suspected she killed her husband. If Jack had respected Mr. Jadis, was that the reason he disliked it when Heddetch mentioned her?

“Did you kill Bianca, too?” Heddetch whispered.

If he had met Dr. Ward back then, then the Citadel might have chosen him instead of Jack for help to get rid of Bianca. But he’d likely been passed over because he had been friendly with her.

This close to Jack, he realized his eyes were a watery blue. Because of all the face paint, he had assumed they were brown or gray. They quivered as they stared into Heddetch’s eyes.

With his voice very deep and speaking so slowly that he seemed to slur his words, Jack asked, “Did you love her?”

“Bian—Mrs. Jadis? Uh … no. Only a passing acquaintance.”

Jack abruptly released his grip on Heddetch’s shirt. He turned back to his boiling pot on the worktable, but Heddetch could see that his hands were shaking. His voice, too, was trembling, and it was so low-pitched that Heddetch wasn’t certain he heard him correctly when he said, “I wish she could have suffered more before she died.”

Heddetch was shocked at the depth of Jack’s hatred. He hadn’t even been certain Jack had met Bianca, since the poisoner hadn’t been accepted into the Citadel’s inner circle until after she was dead. Jack had only appeared in London just before Wynwood died—or rather, when Jack poisoned him, probably by Maxham’s orders.

“How well did you know Bianca?” Heddetch asked. He was ashamed of the frightened, breathy tone of his voice.

Jack gave him a toothy smile. “Only a passing acquaintance.”

At his mocking tone, Heddetch turned back to grinding the roots. But as he worked in silence, he regained some measure of equanimity and reflected that he’d learned something useful—Jack had known Bianca and her husband far better than he’d suspected.

But how had he met them? When had he interacted with them? Or was Jack’s opinion on the two merely based on hearsay and rumors he’d heard, or tales Maxham and Dr. Ward had told to him?

They worked in silence for another hour until the bag of roots had been used up. Heddetch was finally able to sit down and massage his aching foot. Jack, on the other hand, rinsed out his pot and began making something different—the powder he ground in the mortar had a pungent, moldy scent that Heddetch could smell even from where he sat, several yards away.

He heard the footsteps on the stairs long before the visitor arrived at the door to the laboratory, and Heddetch realized his hearing had drastically improved.

Maxham entered the room without knocking, and his pale eyes immediately fell upon Heddetch’s hands rubbing his ankle. “What happened?” he asked.

It was Jack who answered. “He broke his foot and finally took the Root.”

The pale eyes seemed to fill Heddetch’s vision as Maxham drew closer. “How did you break your foot?”

He gave the same answer he gave to Jack, but something about Maxham’s gaze made him stutter nervously. “I f-fell.”

Maxham grew very, very still, his eyes still on Heddetch’s face. He tried not to look away from those pale eyes, but his stomach was inexplicably cramping with dread.

Then Maxham gave him a gentle smile and reached out to touch his cheek, like a mother to her son.

Heddetch hadn’t noticed when Maxham had removed his glove, but his rough fingertips drew a scratchy line down his face. He felt a dull pain in the center of his forehead, like the feeling that remained after being smacked there by an open palm, and his ears filled with a faint buzzing like flies.

But Maxham’s face crumpled into intense pain, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared. “A dark bedroom …” he whispered hoarsely. “Who …? Oh.” The word was almost a groan. “You fool!”

What was he talking about? The buzzing in his ears grew louder.

“Then a knock at the door …” Maxham suddenly gasped in surprise. “Her. I don’t believe it. She completely fooled me with that tumbler of brandy. What a gem she is.” He smirked at Heddetch. “Especially because she gave you your bastings, didn’t she?”

Heddetch jerked his head away from Maxham’s hand, his jaw clenching. How had he known? Just from a touch? He wiped his hands across his chest, down his pants, suddenly feeling soiled and grimy.

Maxham straightened and sauntered toward Jack. “He attacked Lady Wynwood.”

Jack dropped the bowl of dried herbs in his hand, and it clattered onto the work table. “What?!” He leaned sideways to stare around Maxham’s body at Heddetch. “Are you mad?”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Maxham said calmly.

“Maybe.” Jack shrugged, not offended. “Why did he attack her?”

“He wanted a pocket watch. I hadn’t known Wynwood made a matching piece to Bianca’s pendant.”

Jack sniffed and went back to grinding herbs in the mortar, not interested in hearing about Bianca.

Heddetch shuddered. Maxham’s knowledge frightened him, making him feel as though he stood out in the cold on a winter’s day.

“But why?” Maxham asked Heddetch. “Twelve years spent in the confidence of that household, and you threw it away for a bauble?”

Heddetch sullenly angled his body away from Maxham’s pale, probing eyes and didn’t answer. It had been a gamble, but he’d been certain the pocket watch held the key to his invitation into Dr. Ward’s group.

“Now, now,” Jack said to Maxham, “we mustn’t judge him. I’ve killed for less. Why did you have our dear doctor remain close to milady for so long?”

Maxham shrugged as he turned his back on Heddetch and walked toward the work table. “It probably wasn’t necessary.”

Even without the Root running through his veins, Heddetch would have felt the rage making his muscles scream as if they were burning with acid. He had spent so much time ensuring he remained close to Lady Wynwood’s household, even though he had thought it seemed like a useless job, far beneath his worth and dignity. He couldn’t understand why he’d been tasked with continuing the deception since Lord Wynwood was dead and Lady Wynwood hadn’t been involved with the Citadel.

And he shouldn’t have bothered. It was all for nothing.

“So that girl was milady’s niece,” Maxham mused. “How delightful. I have not been deceived like that in many years.”

Heddetch didn’t know what he was talking about. But he recalled Phoebe’s attack to protect her aunt. He had known her since she was a child, and she had always seemed docile and proper and bland, certainly not the violent assailant who had dislocated his shoulder. Where had she learned to fight like that?

He already knew that several of Lady Wynwood’s servants had unusual backgrounds, so he might have expected Aya, who had grown up in Southwark somewhere, to fight like a wildcat when the situation called for it. Mrs. Rook apparently knew how to use a blade, thanks to her deceased husband.

But he hadn’t expected Phoebe would be a strange one, as well. Now that the sting of embarrassment and frustration had eased somewhat, he realized how peculiar it was that she’d used those fighting moves that he’d never seen before, despite having bet on many a bout of fisticuffs.

He needed to write to Dr. Ward immediately and explain what happened, especially before Maxham sent his own letter to tell Dr. Ward of these events.

But Maxham’s comments indicated that he hadn’t suspected Phoebe, either, which meant he’d overlooked both Lady Wynwood and her niece. Heddetch would be certain to tell Dr. Ward about that, as well.

“That social fluff is surprisingly tougher than she appears,” Maxham said.

“Who, milady?” Jack was distracted as he added powder to the contents of his pot, which was steaming.

Maxham sighed. “We should have killed her when we killed her husband.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jack asked.

“Ward thought it would attract too much attention,” Maxham said. “We were already planning to kill Bianca and milord, but someone would have taken notice if Wynwood, his mistress, and his wife were to die so soon after each other. Although you did jump the gun a bit when you poisoned milord’s decanter.”

“Hrgh …!” Jack made an inarticulate sound of frustration and shook his hands so much that powder flew in all directions. “I didn’t jump the gun! You told me to get a poison ready for him. How was I supposed to know you intended for me to wait a few weeks before killing him?” Just as suddenly as he erupted into his tantrum, he calmed. With a deep sniff, he went back to scooping powder into the pot, but not before casting a significant glance at Heddetch. “Now the cat’s out of the bag, I suppose we have to kill her.”

“No,” Maxham said thoughtfully, “it actually presents an excellent opportunity.”

Both Heddetch and Jack were surprised by his answer, but it was Jack who asked, “Why is this an opportunity?”

Maxham gave a wide smile that made his plain, unnoticeable face suddenly blossom into handsome good looks. “Because the men behind her—and she most certainly has men behind her—will be coming to us.”

Something about the way he said it made Heddetch cringe.

Maxham shivered in delight. “How wonderful. I shall have to prepare.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Michael prepared himself to become another man.

He had finished applying a subtle layer of face paint over the plaster pieces he used to change the shape of his nose and the droop of his eyelids. The wig was in place, as well as padding under his clothes.

He stood in front of the mirror in his rooms at the Albany and stared at himself. Then he closed his eyes and pictured the man he needed to become.

He had observed Mr. Edward Belmoore this past Christmastide, when his cousin Gerard had asked him to sneak into a houseparty to help him apprehend an unknown assailant. Mr. Belmoore looked a bit like his nephew, Sir Cecil Belmoore, with a rather large nose, but without Sir Cecil’s tendency to tilt his head so that he could look down upon others. His eyes were darker than Michael’s, but not much, and he didn’t think anyone would notice the difference in shade.

He was slightly shorter than Michael, but it had been their closeness in height that made him suggest he imitate Mr. Edward Belmoore as opposed to anyone else who had attended at the gathering. Sir Cecil’s mannerisms were far easier to copy than Mr. Belmoore, but Sir Cecil was a full six inches shorter than Michael.

Mr. Belmoore’s shoulders were slightly rounded, his spine slightly stooped. His jaw was going a bit soft and he had a stiffness in his movements that suggested he might have aching joints, but there was evidence he had been a fit, athletic man in his prime. Michael remembered all his movements, his gait, the way his face moved as he made various expressions.

And when he opened his eyes, Edward Belmoore stared at him from the mirror. Michael had always had exceptional control over the muscles in his face—he could even wiggle his ears—and he had molded them into what he had observed in Mr. Belmoore’s face. Mr. Belmoore had a slight underbite, and a tendency for his jaw to go slack, so he pulled his jaw down the same way. Mr. Belmoore also had a slight tic of flattening his mouth when he was surprised by something, so Michael tried it, and saw he could reproduce it exactly as he remembered. Mr. Belmoore’s eyes had heavy lids but were wider than Michael’s, so he had to keep his open a bit more than normal. He also pulled his cheek muscles slightly lower to imitate the long shape of Mr. Belmoore’s face.

He was ready for the play to begin.

He listened at the door to his rooms to ensure the hallway was empty before leaving, and then he exited the Albany. With so many residents, none noticed the stranger as he left and found a hackney.

His first test was Mr. Swan, the agent guarding the hallway of Lady Wynwood’s room at the hotel. He had seen Michael a few times before, but one look at him now made Mr. Swan move to block him. “You’re not permitted to enter this wing, sir,” he said.

“I am Mr. Edward Belmoore,” Michael said, testing the sound of his voice against his memories of Mr. Belmoore. He was not as skilled as Isabella at imitating voices—she had an astoundingly deep vocal range—but Mr. Belmoore’s speaking voice was only slightly deeper and more raspy than Michael’s father and uncles, and he could match the timbre and cadence quite closely. “The lady is expecting me.”

There was a second agent guarding the servants’ stairwell on the other end of the hallway. Michael thought his name might be Mr. Flemming. Mr. Swan called to him, “Knock on the door and ask if Mr. Edward Belmoore is allowed entry.”

When the door was opened, Michael didn’t hear Mr. Flemming’s conversation with the person within, but the agent soon beckoned to allow Michael to pass. He nodded at the agents, then entered Lady Wynwood’s suite.

He was rather proud of the gasp he elicited from the women within. Aya’s mouth hung open as she stared at him, while Lady Wynwood’s eyes were as round as saucers.

But then Michael was utterly nonplussed when Miss Sauber rushed at him and began poking at his face. “Amazing! I thought it was all cosmetics, but it is not. How did you change the shape of your face?”

She smelled … wonderful. Her unique scent surrounded him, making him think of wildflowers bobbing their heads under a summer sun. Her face was close enough that he could see a faint streak of gold in her sea-foam green eyes, and her closeness reminded him of the time at the gambling hell, when she had clung rather indecently to him in her role as his paramour. At that time, she had been scandalously sensual in the way she touched his shoulders, his back, his chest. But now, with her fingers on his face and her body directly in front of him, it seemed much more intimate, and he was having a difficult time remaining in character.

In the past several years, when he saw her fashionably dressed at society events, it was as the proper Miss Sauber, who wasn’t a very close acquaintance. But now, their relationship was different, and it brought him into situations like this, when she forgot herself and her behavior toward him was much more casual, much like Isabella treated him.

Except that Miss Sauber was not Isabella, and he did not react to his sister in the same way he did to the sight of her face only inches away from him. He had stiffened as he imagined the real Mr. Edward Belmoore would react, but Mr. Coulton-Jones would rather place his hands on her waist and draw her up against him.

However, after only a dozen shocked seconds, Aya clicked her tongue and dragged Miss Sauber away with the familiarity of a long-time retainer. “Miss Phoebe! Please desist such shameless behavior! He is not a doll you can play with.”

“I do beg your pardon,” she said, sounding as though she did not mean it at all. Her eyes were still avidly looking over his transformed face and body.

“I am astounded, Mr. Coulton-Jones,” Lady Wynwood said. “When you first walked into the room, I panicked for a moment because I feared the real Edward had happened to visit, until I remembered that he would not know where I was staying. You are truly gifted in this aspect of your work—you have captured Edward’s mannerisms, the set of his shoulders, even the way he walks.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Michael said hesitantly in Mr. Edward Belmoore’s voice. He was uncomfortable with the praise, but didn’t know how else to reply.

Lady Wynwood gave another gasp. “Even your voice is quite similar to Edward’s. His is only a trifle lower and more gravelly. And you said you only met him once?”

In response to her comment, Michael adjusted his voice when he answered, “I did, but several times, I had opportunity to observe him unnoticed.” He felt a bit guilty that he couldn’t tell her that he had observed all her relations this past Christmas. It had been his cousin Gerard who had asked him to don a disguise and help him in response to a threat to Gerard’s life, and Michael had not been as closely acquainted with Lady Wynwood then, but he wasn’t certain how she would respond if she knew he had been there among them without her knowledge.

“How did you accomplish this?” Miss Sauber asked.

“I have more control over the muscles in my face than most,” he said, still in Mr. Belmoore’s voice.

“Your facial muscles are so malleable. Is it something that I could learn?”

“I am not certain,” he admitted. “Isabella is even better than I am, but our brother Richard had been more accomplished than either of us. Neither of us could match his skill, no matter how we practiced.” He realized that he didn’t feel the usual pang when he happened to mention his brother. “And yet Richard was the only one of us who disliked adventure and danger, whereas I and Isabella seem to thrive upon it.”

When she smiled at him, her eyes seemed to glow. “Perhaps that is for the best. I believe everyone needs someone in their lives who is an anchor.” She glanced at her aunt as she said the word.

“I find it curious that you respond in Edward’s voice, even though it is only us here,” Lady Wynwood said.

Michael gave a short bow in apology. “I am afraid I must keep my role like a set of clothes I have donned. Once I discard it, it would take too long for me to put it into place again.”

“Of course.” Miss Sauber looked as though she completely understood, and perhaps she did, since her acting was quite good.

“Should we be going?” Lady Wynwood asked.

However, Michael shook her head. “Let us wait a few minutes. If we arrive fashionably late to the soiree, the receiving line will be gone and I needn’t interact with many people whilst in disguise.”

“That is an excellent idea. Won’t you have a seat?” Lady Wynwood indicated the sofas before the fireplace, and they all were seated.

“Mr. Lingley is expecting me?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” Lady Wynwood said, “I sent a note to request that I might bring my cousin, Mr. Edward Belmoore, who has just arrived in town this evening and is staying with me for a few days. He replied that he was looking forward to meeting you again.”

Michael winced. “I studied Mr. Belmoore enough to mimic him outwardly, but as to conversation …”

“Then it is fortunate that I had already said I would not attend the small private dinner served before the party,” Lady Wynwood said.

“I cannot imagine how you would eat whilst in your role,” Miss Sauber said.

“I have done so in the past, but it was quite difficult.” He had actually observed Mr. Belmoore at table, but thought it best not to mention it since he had not been an invited guest at that particular dinner party.

The rest of the time was dominated by Miss Sauber questioning him about donning a disguise, although once or twice, Lady Wynwood tried to tactfully shift the conversation to more innocuous subjects before finally giving up.

At last, they had waited long enough, so Lady Wynwood asked the agents in the hallway to fetch the carriage. She explained to Michael that Mr. Drydale had previously arranged for a Ramparts agent and carriage to be waiting in the hotel stables to take them to the party.

Once they were inside the carriage and on their way, Miss Sauber looked out the window. “We are moving so slowly. There is a great deal of traffic on the streets.”

“It is the height of the Season, so it is to be expected,” Lady Wynwood said. “There are two very large balls being thrown tonight. If the Lingleys’ party had been a ball, it might have been quite difficult for Mr. Coulton-Jones.”

“I am a very good dancer, my lady,” Michael said.

“Yes, but Edward is not.”

Miss Sauber gave a soft gasp. “Aunt Laura! Poor Cousin Edward.” But even in the darkness, her eyes glittered with laughter.

Lady Wynwood cleared her throat and addressed Michael. “Is Lady Aymer a good dancer?”

“Yes, although I have not danced with her often. It was usually Richard who partnered her.”

As with earlier when he’d mentioned Richard’s ability to imitate faces, once again he realized that it didn’t pain him as much as he would have expected to speak of his brother. When Miss Sauber had shared about Miss Gardinier being able to do nothing but watch her sister die, it had surprised him when she talked about Keriah’s sister forgiving her. And it had touched him that despite his guilt, Miss Sauber had accepted him. She had said he was forgivable by God.

She had sounded … like Richard.

Richard’s faith had only been lukewarm, much like Michael’s, up until the year Isabella married Sir Walter Aymer. At the time, Richard had been courting a young woman. Michael had left for a mission in France, and when he returned, he discovered that the woman had instead married a wealthier man.

Isabella spent more time than normal with Richard in the aftermath of the failed courtship, and she wrote updates to Michael. After a few weeks of moodiness and bitterness, Richard had begun speaking more with their parish curate, and Isabella wrote that he seemed lighter and brighter.

Since then, Richard’s faith had been deep and strong, up until the last time Michael spoke to him. The memory brought up the usual sadness and regret, but they did not cut as sharply as they did before.

When speaking about forgiveness, he had noticed that Miss Sauber had seemed conflicted. He somehow knew she had been thinking about her anger at her father. And yet she did not appear to be simply indulging in her hatred—she seemed to be genuinely struggling with it inside. And again, it reminded him of Richard.

Miss Sauber was chatting with her aunt, and he had leisure to notice the ribbons that had been woven into her dark hair, although it was too dark in the carriage for him to see their color. Most of the time, her face was in shadow, but occasionally a street lamp would flash through the windows and make her earrings sparkle.

When he’d first entered Lady Wynwood’s rooms, Miss Sauber had come up to him so suddenly that he hadn’t noticed anything more than her face inches away from his. But when they sat on the sofas, he’d been able to see that her gown was dark gold, contrasting with her cream-colored skin.

He realized that he had lost his chance to tell her how nice she looked. (He could have told her how nice she had smelled, but that would probably earn him a slap.)

It was probably for the best that he had failed to compliment her. He had already decided to keep his emotions distant from her in order to protect her.

But he was aware that he was trying to protect himself, also.

They soon arrived at Lord Wynwood’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square. It was not as large as some of the other residences in the square, but it had an elegant fanlight above the front door. Lady Wynwood had mentioned that the current Lord Wynwood had bought the house before he inherited the title from a cousin on his mother’s side who had had gambling debts. The house had been in disrepair and he’d done extensive renovations both inside and out.

The butler at the door accepted their invitation and their cloaks, and they sailed past the lavish buffet spread in the dining room on the ground floor to climb the stairs to the drawing room on the first floor. Their host, Mr. Lingley, was near the doorway and immediately greeted Lady Wynwood with a warm welcome.

Mr. Lingley was a few years older than his cousin, Lord Wynwood, with a round face and jiggling double chin. He had the same gray eyes as Lady Wynwood’s deceased husband, but Mr. Lingley’s eyes twinkled with good humor. His curiously brown-black curls at his crown faded to silver along the sides of his head, and the corners of his mouth always curled upwards as though he were about to smile at any moment. Which he did fairly often.

“How lovely to see you, my dear lady,” he said effusively as he took her hand and bowed over it.

“I apologize for our tardiness,” Lady Wynwood said, covering his hand with her own.

“Think nothing of it.” His bright eyes moved to Miss Sauber. “And it is wonderful to see you again, Phoebe. Please do say hello to Donelle, she is wandering about somewhere.“ He waved vaguely toward the room, filled with guests.

“And you remember my cousin, Mr. Belmoore?” Lady Wynwood presented Michael.

Michael bowed. “Thank you for allowing me to join the ladies tonight.”

“It has been too many years since we last met. You are looking well, old chap.”

Michael repeated two phrases he had heard the real Mr. Belmoore say at the house party this past Christmas. “Country life suits me quite well, but it is pleasant to come to town every so often.”

“Just so, just so. Please enjoy yourselves.”

As they moved deeper into the crowded room, Michael kept the mask of Edward Belmoore firmly upon his face and trusted Lady Wynwood to steer them clear of anyone well-acquainted with her real cousin. She did just that when she spotted Mrs. Lingley, smoothly changing direction to avoid her.

“Mrs. Lingley’s active nature will move her to introduce us to others,” Lady Wynwood whispered to him. “However, we must greet Miss Lingley. There she is, in the far corner.”

Miss Lingley had her father’s round face and gray eyes, but combined with her reddish-brown hair, she looked sweet and girlish. She was engaged in a lively conversation with a group of both young women and young men, but she broke off and gave a wide smile upon seeing Lady Wynwood and Miss Sauber. “How lovely to see you both! Phoebe, I have not seen you since last year.”

“How are you enjoying the Season?” Miss Sauber asked.

“I like it much better than last year,” Miss Lingley replied with a touch of relief in her tone. “I have already run the gauntlet of my first Season and presentation to the Queen, so I feel I have nothing more to fear.”

Miss Sauber laughed, making her eyes sparkle like emeralds sprinkled with seawater. Michael was so entranced he nearly missed Miss Sauber’s introduction. “Donelle, this is my first cousin once removed, Mr. Belmoore.”

Miss Lingley curtseyed very properly to Michael. “How do you do, sir?”

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Edward is staying with me for a few days,” Lady Wynwood said. “I am quite indebted to your father for allowing him to join us at the last minute.”

“Papa likes nothing more than more guests,” Miss Lingley said. She added with an impish smile, “Be sure to eat the lobster patties. He will complain if there are any left, but he will also complain if there are none left for him to snack upon after everyone leaves, so you might as well enjoy them.”

After leaving Miss Lingley, they made their way toward where the doors to the library had been thrown open. Several card tables had been set up, and they wandered among the guests, with Lady Wynwood stopping briefly to chat at one or two tables and introduce Michael. But she seemed to be choosing tables that would enable her to make her way to the door that led from the library into the outer hallway, and once there, they slipped out.

“I thought the chair might be in the library, but I did not see it,” Lady Wynwood said as they closed the door behind them. “Did you see any of the furniture pieces, Phoebe?”

She shook her head. “The bedrooms, then?”

“There are two on this floor. I believe one is being used as a cloakroom, while the other is the ladies’ withdrawing room.”

“I know which one I shall search,” Michael said, and headed toward the door Lady Wynwood indicated.

The guest bedroom was decorated in neutral shades of moss-green and beige, and he could see that any of the furniture pieces Lady Wynwood had described would not fit with the decor. The room was unnaturally dominated by two large wardrobes in light-colored wood, which seemed to indicate that the servants had moved the wardrobes from other rooms in the house.

He exited and waited only a few minutes before the two ladies appeared from the other bedroom. Miss Sauber shook her head at his questioning glance.

“We shall have to search the master bedroom,” Lady Wynwood said.

The floor above was markedly quiet, but Michael stopped them at the head of the stairs and strained his sensitive hearing for sounds of servants walking about. “I only hear movement in the front bedroom,” he said.

“That is the master bedroom,” Lady Wynwood said. “It is likely Mr. Lingley’s valet.”

“How shall we draw him from the room?” Miss Sauber asked.

“I will do it,” Michael said. “You must move somewhere out of sight.”

“We shall search the other bedrooms on this floor,” Miss Sauber said, and led her aunt to a door down the hallway.

Michael entered the master bedroom and immediately spied the chair that they wanted to inspect. There was no sign of the valet, but he entered the adjoining dressing room and saw the man brushing out one of his master’s coats.

“I do beg your pardon,” Michael said, “but I have need of your assistance.”

“Of course, sir.” The valet immediately set down the coat.

“A button came loose from my cloak when I arrived, and I was hoping you might sew it back on.”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.” The valet retrieved a small leather sewing box. “Your cloak is in the cloakroom downstairs?”

“Yes.” Michael led the way back down the stairs and retrieved his cloak from one of the wardrobes, surreptitiously tearing off the top button. He reached into his coat pocket as though retrieving the button from within, then handed both button and cloak to the valet. “I leave this in your care.”

“Of course, sir. I shall return the cloak to the same wardrobe when I have repaired the button.”

When he returned to the master bedroom, the door was ajar and the two ladies were searching the writing desk and side table within. “All three pieces are here,” Miss Sauber said by way of greeting, and pointed to the chair near the fireplace.

He ran his hands down the thick wooden legs, whose curving lines widened at the bases. The wood was smoothly sanded and varnished, with no hidden drawers or empty pockets cut out of the solid pieces. The seat, back and armrests were all made of luxurious, soft leather, and he felt their edges but did not discover any slits to access the stuffing within. He lastly ducked down to feel underneath the seat, but there was nothing but the ropes and thick canvas fabric covering the bottom of the cushion.

As he was rising to his feet, there was a sudden cry from Miss Sauber, who was searching the drawer of the side table. “I have found a false bottom, but I am having difficulty opening it.”

Michael moved to her side and saw that she had cracked it open. He was about to suggest how to open it further when he suddenly heard a footstep on the stairs.

“Someone is coming!” he whispered.

The two women reacted as they had already discussed in the carriage, should they be interrupted—Lady Wynwood immediately sank to the leather seat and buried her face in her handkerchief. Miss Sauber hovered over her, a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Michael straightened and stood nearby.

Miss Sauber was making consoling noises to her aunt as Mr. Lingley entered the room. He started in surprise, and Miss Sauber looked up as though just noticing him.

She was not in the least nonplussed by this development, and instead smoothly said, “I do beg your pardon for invading your rooms, Mr. Lingley. As you can see, my aunt …”

Mr. Lingley reacted as most men to the sight of a woman’s tears—with panic. “Er … what is the matter, my dear girl?”

“My aunt was wandering the house to look at the fine vases she remembered were on the hallway tables. The bedroom door was ajar and she spied Uncle Wynwood’s old chair. I am afraid she has been completely overcome with emotion.”

Lady Wynwood wasn’t making a sound, but the sight of her face buried in her handkerchief and her form hunched in the chair gave the impression of deep grief. Miss Sauber had suggested her aunt resort to the handkerchief if anyone found them. It was an effective way for her to hide her face and allow her niece to spin yarns, since Lady Wynwood wasn’t very good at fabricating.

“Ah … far be it from me to intrude upon your aunt’s distress, but a guest spilled wine …” He gestured toward his front, and Michael now saw the damp stain that encompassed both his white shirt and his embroidered waistcoat.

The situation could not grow any worse. Even if they withdrew, the valet would return soon and they would not be able to re-enter the bedroom with a plausible excuse.

However, Miss Sauber’s expression was only full of concern for her aunt and remorse toward Mr. Lingley. “I apologize most profusely for inconveniencing you,” she said. “We shall help my aunt back downstairs.”

“Don’t do that, my dear,” Mr. Lingley said, his gray eyes also troubled by Lady Wynwood’s apparent sorrow. “Please use my wife’s bedroom next door. My wife’s maid is in the ladies’ withdrawing room downstairs, and if you send for her, she will assist your aunt.”

“I thank you ever so much,” Miss Sauber said, and she even sounded as though she meant it when Michael knew she must be frantically trying to think of a solution to their problem.

She cast a brief glance at Michael, and her gaze flitted to the side table. Then she was all solicitations toward her aunt.

Michael surreptitiously looked at the side table. Miss Sauber had pushed shut the drawer when they had first begun their enactment, but he remembered that she had not had time to close the hidden compartment. If Mr. Lingley or his valet happened to open the drawer, they would immediately see the false bottom partially open.

He dropped to one knee before Lady Wynwood in a caring gesture, but under his breath, he murmured, “Make a commotion.”

Lady Wynwood released a low (and rather fake) moan.

“Oh, Aunt Laura!” Miss Sauber began fussing over her with inarticulate sounds of comfort.

Michael indicated the decanter of spirits that sat upon the side table Miss Sauber had been searching and asked Mr. Lingley, “May I, sir?”

“Of course, of course.”

With his body blocking the view of the table, he eased open the drawer and saw the dark crack of the opened hidden compartment. He hurriedly reached in and maneuvered it closed again and then used his hip to shut the drawer as he poured a tiny amount of whiskey into a glass. He handed the glass to Lady Wynwood, who kept her lacy handkerchief obscuring her face as she sipped.

They had not been able to search the false bottom, but at the very least they now knew where to look. He was not as skilled as Sep, but he could possibly break into the house at night and, perhaps aided by some of Miss Gardinier’s sedative powder to ensure Mr. Lingley and his valet slept deeply, empty the hidden drawer.

Mr. Lingley had moved toward the dressing room in search of the valet, and Michael said, “I am afraid I asked your valet to repair a button on my cloak. Shall I fetch him for you?”

“Thank you, sir, I would most appreciate it.”

When Mr. Lingley disappeared within the dressing room, Miss Sauber helped Lady Wynwood to her feet so that they could exit the room before anyone noticed that the lady was not crying in the least.

Michael left ahead of them back to the cloakroom downstairs, telling the valet that Mr. Lingley had need of him in the bedroom. The servant was nearly finished sewing the button and hurriedly snipped the thread so that he could go to his master.

Michael watched him climb the stairs with a sigh just as Miss Sauber and Lady Wynwood descended.

“I told Mr. Lingley that we shall leave the party,” Miss Sauber told him, so Michael again went ahead of them, this time to the ground floor to ask for the carriage to be called for. He waited with Lady Wynwood in the entrance hall while Miss Sauber went back to the drawing room to say their goodbyes to Mrs. Lingley.

However, as she was descending the stairs, a voice called to her from the landing above. “Miss Sauber! I am so glad to see you here.”

Miss Sauber turned and greeted a young woman who walked down toward her. She was very short and slim, with pale skin and reddish-brown hair that gleamed with gold in the light from the chandelier in the entry hall.

Michael recognized her as Miss Tolberton. He recalled dancing with her on occasion over the past several years, and thought she must be nearly the same age as Miss Sauber, but her small stature made her look much younger. He remembered that Miss Sauber had asked Miss Tolberton about the bakery that sold treacle buns, and with that information, he and Miss Sauber had managed to find Jack’s greenhouse.

“I am happy to see you, as well, Miss Tolberton,” Miss Sauber said. “I didn’t realize your family was close with the Lingleys.”

“I admit, it is a recent acquaintance, for I met Miss Lingley in a bookstore this past week. We rapidly became bosom bows and I was invited to their soiree. Are you here with your aunt?”

“Yes, but I am afraid we are waiting for our carriage. Aunt Laura is feeling tired.”

Miss Sauber introduced Miss Tolberton to “Mr. Belmoore,” but as the woman met his eyes, there was a strange stillness behind her smile, as if she had frozen for a brief moment. She curtseyed politely, but her sky-blue eyes returned to his face, and he had the uncomfortable sensation of being studied a bit too intently.

However, Miss Sauber asked her how she was enjoying the party, which drew her attention away. He reflexively swallowed, relieved to no longer be under scrutiny, but his shoulders were still tense with caution.

“I must admit, I had been hoping to see you here, Miss Sauber,” Miss Tolberton said. “It has been over two weeks since we last had a comfortable coze.”

“I apologize that I was not at home when you called upon us yesterday,” Miss Sauber said. “My aunt kept me quite busy today, but I was planning to return your call tomorrow, if that is agreeable.”

Michael realized with surprise that Heddetch had attacked Lady Wynwood only last night. She had been quite busy, indeed.

“Of course,” Miss Tolberton said, then leaned a little closer, her face now serious and strangely empathetic. “How have you been since, er … that event on Friday?”

Michael didn’t know what she was referring to, but Miss Sauber stiffened slightly. However, Miss Tolberton was obviously troubled for Miss Sauber’s sake as opposed to fishing for gossip, and she replied in a warm voice, “I thank you for your concern, but I am well.”

Miss Tolberton laid a gentle hand upon Miss Sauber’s arm. “I flatter myself that I understand somewhat how you must be feeling,” she said softly.

“It does not pain me,” she said, although Michael saw a brief tightening of her eyes that indicated she was not being truthful. “The matter has nothing to do with me anymore. I am thankful to my aunt for taking me in and sheltering me from such unpleasantness, even if it has resulted in a small bit of scandal.”

“That shall die down soon, I am certain,” Miss Tolberton said.

Whatever had happened on Friday, it obviously distressed her, and Michael found himself frustrated that he did not know what it was or if there was aught he could do to help her.

However, his attention was caught when Mr. Lingley himself appeared, attired in a fresh shirt and waistcoat. At the foot of the staircase, he turned toward the buffet in the dining room, and from the guilty glance he gave them, it seemed likely he was sneaking a few bites of those lobster patties Miss Lingley had mentioned.

Michael had an idea. He leaned closer to Lady Wynwood. “Give me your handkerchief,” he whispered.

It was still crumpled in her hand, and she slid it into his with the barest of movements.

“Sir,” Michael hailed Mr. Lingley just as he had been hoping to escape to the dining room unnoticed.

To his credit, Mr. Lingley gave a warm smile to Michael despite the awkwardness in his bedroom and being caught out in front of the buffet room. “Yes?”

Michael lowered his voice. “I deeply apologize, but Lady Wynwood has misplaced her handkerchief. She was last in the master bedroom …”

“Of course. Please go and search for it.” He gave Michael a wink. “It won’t do for Mrs. Lingley to discover another woman’s handkerchief in my room.”

“Just so, sir. I thank you.”

Standing behind Miss Tolberton, Michael gave Miss Sauber a meaningful look. She flicked her glance in his direction but didn’t otherwise acknowledge him. However, he knew she had caught his meaning because she asked another question of Miss Tolberton, leading off into another conversational tangent.

Even though he had been given permission to enter the room, Michael walked in with soft footsteps since he could hear the valet bustling about in the dressing room. He swiftly made his way to the side table and slid open the drawer.

Over the course of his years as a spy, he had been told by officers in the Foreign Office about the general types of hidden compartments, and he had encountered a great many more on missions in France and Spain. Thanks to Miss Sauber’s discovery, he had already seen that this was the type where the entire bottom of the drawer lifted out, but this particular compartment was well-concealed. There were no obvious signs that the bottom panel was removable, such as handles or knobs glued to the surface to allow easy gripping and lifting, nor were there hinges at the back of the drawer to indicate the bottom could be lifted like the cover of a chest.

He was baffled how Miss Sauber had managed to open it a crack, but then he saw the tiny grove along the lower right side, where the bottom panel met the straight right side. It looked at first like a flaw in the workmanship, or as if a sliver of wood had broken off from the bottom panel, leaving a narrow, one-inch slit just wide enough to shove a guinea piece inside. Michael had a ha’penny in his pocket and slid it into the slit, then twisted to leverage the bottom panel upward.

The drawer had only been full of light objects like paper scraps, forgotten tradesman’s bills, and odd buttons, so the bottom slid upward easily, although he moved slowly so as not to make noise. There were no hinges and the entire bottom of the drawer could be removed, but he only angled it up partway.

The space underneath was barely an inch tall, and the entire space had been padded with a thick layer of felted wool, which kept the contents from moving about and making any betraying noise.

The first thing he spotted was a cloth pouch. When he grabbed it, the contents gave a faint clink, so he transferred it silently into his coat pocket. Underneath the pouch was an envelope, which he also added into his pocket. He peeked under the wooden panel, but he hadn’t missed anything else in the compartment. He pushed the panel closed and made sure it settled flat and snuggly against the sides of the drawer.

He was about to leave when he heard the creak of a footstep on a wooden floorboard. The sound came from the dressing room.

Michael dove toward the chair where Lady Wynwood had been sitting and was on his hands and knees when the valet entered the bedroom.

He was about to rise with her handkerchief in his hand when his vision suddenly darkened and his heart fluttered. He heard the phantom screams again.

No, why now of all times? But like last time, he remembered Lady Wynwood’s words to him, and he did what he had done then—he prayed.

God help me. Please save me.

He did not experience instant relief, but he was able to school his face into a mask and force his breathing to become even.

He rose from his crouch, waving Lady Wynwood’s lace-edged handkerchief, and pretended to be surprised by the sight of the servant.

“Mr. Lingley gave me permission to enter his rooms to retrieve this,” he explained, which softened the faint lines of suspicion on the valet’s face. “I thank you for replacing the button on my cloak earlier. I find I have need of it sooner than expected.”

“You are quite welcome, sir.”

Michael left quickly. Miss Tolberton was still speaking with Miss Sauber in the entrance hall with her back to the stairs, so he descended the steps quietly, so as not to alert Miss Tolberton to the fact he had left and returned.

Miss Sauber spotted him, however, and said to her friend, “I do beg your pardon, but I am afraid we must depart. I have been very inconsiderate of my aunt and we have kept the carriage waiting.”

“Oh! Of course. I do apologize for letting my tongue run away,” Miss Tolberton said.

“No such thing,” Miss Sauber assured her. “I hope to visit you soon so we may have another long visit.”

The butler had been patiently standing to one side with their outerwear, and they quickly donned them and left the house. Once they were back in the carriage and rattling down the street, Michael handed Lady Wynwood’s handkerchief back to her. “Thank you, my lady.”

“That was quick thinking,” Miss Sauber said. “Did you find anything?”

“Yes, although I simply put everything in my pocket and did not look closely at any of it.”

“If I were a gambler, I would wager that at this moment, Sol is pacing so intently that his foot went through that half-rotted floor at Stapytton House. He will be pleased, I think.” Lady Wynwood gave a sigh. “I am thankful it was not a fruitless endeavor.”

“Miss Sauber,” Michael said slowly, “I believe I was told that Miss Tolberton was at Brannon Church when you and Miss Gardinier and Thorne found Sep?”

“Yes,” she said. “For years now, she has been a member of a charity group that meets at the church. It was for them that she had bought the treacle buns.”

“Do you suspect something about her?” Lady Wynwood asked him.

He hesitated, then answered, “Not precisely.” He asked Miss Sauber, “Can you tell me what you know of her? I had not realized that you were such close friends.”

“We were not, before this year,” Miss Sauber admitted. “She was only an indifferent archer and did not always attend the archery parties that I frequent. However, recently I discovered that Miss Tolberton shares a love of gardening. She grows many varieties of poppies.”

“You have visited each other several times in the past few weeks,” Lady Wynwood said.

“Yes. She seems to be making an effort to visit me every week or so since I have not been attending archery parties.” Her lips pressed together, and although she did not say it, Michael suspected her thoughts. She had not been attending archery parties because after her estrangement from her father, she was no longer invited to them.

“You are certainly busy without those tame competitions,” Lady Wynwood said bracingly. “Miss Tolberton visited my home twice and both times you were at Stapytton House.”

“So have you not spoken to her recently?” Michael asked.

“I usually return her calls within a day or two, but she called upon me yesterday, and last night …”

Last night, Heddetch had attacked Lady Wynwood.

He tried to remember what he’d heard of her father. “From what I remember, Mr. Tolberton is active in political circles.”

“Mm …” Lady Wynwood made a rather indifferent noise. “To be perfectly frank, from what I have gathered, he is more interested in throwing dinner parties for his cronies and calling them ‘political discussions’ than he is interested in law and reform.”

“Miss Tolberton seems very supportive of her father and acts as his hostess for those dinners,” Miss Sauber said.

“I cannot imagine that she enjoys them, being surrounded by her father’s friends,” Lady Wynwood said. “Unless she hopes for marriage with someone from his political circles?”

“She has mentioned that she has no interest in marriage. In fact, she has turned down several offers for her hand.” Miss Sauber hesitated, and there was a rough catch to her voice as she said, “She had believed that, in being indispensable to her father, he would continue to be satisfied with her presence in his home. But recently she has mentioned that her father is beginning to pressure her to marry.”

“Mr. Coulton-Jones, may I ask why you are interested in Miss Tolberton?” Lady Wynwood asked. She had very deliberately spoken his name, and he belatedly realized it was rather impolite to ask one young lady about another of he acquaintance.

He did not usually drop his disguise until he had removed his face paint and wig, but in this instance, he immediately relaxed his facial muscles, stretching out his jaw and blinking his eyes. As himself, not as Edward Belmoore, he answered, “I beg your pardon for my rudeness. I was curious because from what you have described, Miss Tolberton is avidly pursuing her acquaintance with Miss Sauber. To most people that would not appear out of place. But you must forgive me, for I am too accustomed to thinking like a spy. Because I have been trained to be suspicious at all times, when you describe Miss Tolberton, it seems almost as though she has been sent to grow close to you.”

“Sent by the Gentians?” Miss Sauber asked.

“As Sol had been sent by the Ramparts to grow close to my husband and I?” Lady Wynwood asked in a frosty voice.

“I admit our more intimate relationship has been quite recent,” Miss Sauber said, “but she and I were introduced in the year we both debuted. I find it difficult to believe she has been in league with the Gentians since then.”

“It seems improbable, but not impossible,” Michael said. “And her connection to them might also be recent.”

“Do you think perhaps she poses some sort of threat to Phoebe?” Lady Wynwood asked.

“Not a threat. Not exactly …” It was difficult for him to put into words what he was feeling. He remembered Miss Tolberton’s searching gaze, and inside of him there had been the faintest ping, like a lone harp string that had been plucked, of a sense of wrongness, or possibly danger. “When you introduced me—or rather, Edward Belmoore, to Miss Tolberton, she seemed interested in me, but not as a social acquaintance. She appeared very observant of a stranger she had just met.”

“It was not simply because you were someone close to Phoebe?” Lady Wynwood asked. “I am always curious about the people introduced to me by my close friends.”

Miss Sauber gasped. “Could she have met Mr. Belmoore before?”

“Unlikely,” Lady Wynwood said quickly. “Edward has not been in town for many years, and he would not know anyone in Mr. Tolberton’s social circle.”

“She did not look at me as though trying to recollect when she had met me before,” Michael said. “And it was different from the interest she might feel toward someone known by her close friend. The way she looked at me made me … uneasy.” He had to admit he had been rather disturbed by how her gaze had seemed to crawl under the skin of his arms and shoulders.

“Why were you uneasy?” Miss Sauber asked encouragingly, as though she realized that his confusing thoughts were ephemeral and difficult to grasp.

He took a deep breath and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped loosely. “When Miss Tolberton was introduced to Mr. Belmoore, she appeared to grow very still for the briefest of moments. And then …” He remembered the entrance hall, the sounds of the party filtering down the wide staircase. “The entrance hall had been rather dim, but it was as though Miss Tolberton somehow knew I was wearing face paint.”

Miss Sauber herself grew very still at his words.

“She stared at me,” Michael said, “as though she were trying to figure out who I really was.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Thanks to the full moon and a temporarily cloudless patch of sky, the street between the two rows of multiple-story buildings was dark gray, and when he looked down, Sep could see the outline of his cracked and dirtied leather boots. There were mostly boarding houses on this stretch of road, so it had become quiet hours earlier as residents went to bed so as not to waste candles for lighting darkened rooms. However, even at this late hour, the muffled sounds of joviality made their way from one or two streets over, where there were taverns and a brothel or two.

Sep stood in between two buildings in a crack that barely qualified as an alley. In fact, farther into the darkness, the crooked buildings leaned closer together until the walls touched, creating a dead end that could trap a person in the wedge between.

He sensed rather than saw movement to the side of him. He feigned casualness in his glance, but relaxed in truth when he recognized Thorne’s moonlit bulk leaning against the wall of the building on Sep’s right.

“Anything?” Thorne asked. He was looking idly down the street, but he was referring to the house several yards diagonal from where they lounged.

“Nothing,” Sep answered.

They had been watching Dr. Heddetch’s house since late afternoon, when they had taken over from Lady Wynwood’s twin servants. The children had been dressed in ragged clothes like any other urchin on the street, and Thorne, in his role as a lazy drunk, had shouted at them irritably to indicate they could return home. They had teased and laughed at him, with colorful language like a sailor’s bratty children, then run away.

This was the first time Sep and Thorne had stood next to each other since they took up their vigil. Throughout the afternoon and early evening they had stood in separate places along the street, sometimes on the same side, sometimes across the street from each other, so that any residents or passersby would not realize they knew each other. They weren’t the only ones loitering in this area, so they did not stand out.

Earlier that afternoon, two men had knocked loudly on Heddetch’s front door. The cook took her time answering, then yelled at them to go away since the doctor wasn’t there.

Sep had been farther away from Heddetch’s house than Thorne, crouching down against the wall several buildings down. Miss Gardinier had told him to move gently on his knee, but watching Heddetch’s place had necessitated long hours of standing. So when his knee grew stiff, he would sit or squat. His posture matched his disguise as a dirty vagabond, and it gave the added benefit of being able to partially hide himself behind a few piles of trash on the street.

As the two men turned away from Heddetch’s house, Sep had glanced up and caught Thorne’s eye. He jerked his chin slightly to indicate Sep should follow the men.

That small motion showed Thorne’s trust in him to do his job rather than thinking of Sep as an injured liability, and it pleased Sep in a strange way. The feeling was unfamiliar but also like the solid pressure of a hand on his back, a reminder that he was now working with a team rather than alone, as he usually did for his missions in France for the Foreign Office.

It had been laughably easy to follow the two men, who argued with each other as they walked and groused at pedestrians who didn’t get out of their way quick enough. However, they made their way directly to the river and paid a man with a rowboat to ferry them across, so Sep returned to Heddetch’s house.

On the way back, he spotted a young prostitute—she couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen—loitering at a street corner, and he overpaid in exchange for her thin scarf, growling at her to buy something thicker to wear. She was surprised, but cowed by his voice or perhaps by the way others had treated her in the past, she nodded and scurried away like a frightened rat.

Sep dirtied the thin scrap of material, hiding the tiny flower print, and wrapped it around his head before returning to the street. It would change his appearance enough that most wouldn’t realize he had left and returned.

He took up a stance at a different area than he had been before, carefully not looking at Thorne. His teammate would understand by his actions what had happened (or rather, what had not happened) with the two men he followed.

Barely five minutes later, another man arrived and banged on Heddetch’s front door, going so far as to rattle the knob and shouting Heddetch’s name. The cook was faster to answer the door but even louder in telling him to go away. The man was surprisingly cowed by her anger and slinked away.

This time, it was Thorne who followed the man.

Sep had remained waiting and watching Heddetch’s house as the cook at last left the kitchen. A light shone briefly in the attic room and then blew out. After a few minutes, even from where he stood, Sep could hear her snoring.

But now, Thorne had finally returned after being away for more than two hours.

Sep thought that since Thorne was bothering to stand next to him, he might have something important to relate, but Thorne muttered, “He entered an alehouse and started drinking with his friends. I watched for a while but they began getting drunk, so I left.”

Sep nodded in acknowledgment, although he doubted Thorne could see the gesture.

Thorne suddenly inhaled deeply. “You smell like a lady’s perfume,” he growled.

Sep sniffed his clothes, but only caught a whiff of whatever nasty muck he’d slathered on them. He hadn’t even smelled perfume on the young prostitute when he took her scarf, probably because she was too poor to afford it. “I don’t smell it,” Sep said.

Thorne sighed and rubbed a dirty hand over his face. Since he had been woken in the early hours to search Heddetch’s house, and because he knew he’d need to be in disguise, he hadn’t shaved. He had a surprisingly dark growth of whiskers on his jaw, which was darkened further by the grime on his cheeks. “My sense of smell has been sensitive since I breathed the pollen,” he muttered.

He meant the pollen from the Goldensuit hybrid plants that the team had taken from the French agents. It had put him into an aggressive state at the time, but since then, Miss Gardinier had been monitoring him for ill effects.

“Are you certain you smell perfume?” Sep asked.

Thorne nodded. “But it’s expensive, delicate perfume, not something a Cyprian would wear.”

Sep was about to say that he hadn’t been near a woman all day, but then remembered Octavia. “I talked with my sister this morning,” he admitted, “but she didn’t so much as touch me. However, I had to return home this afternoon to collect a pair of boots, and I saw her again.”

“A pair of boots?” Thorne asked. “I thought you had stored all your disguise accoutrements in that rented room.”

When Sep first started working for Mr. Drydale here in London, he had arranged for a room in a tiny boarding house on the border of the Long Glades and used it as a dressing-room when he needed to go out in disguise. He had chosen the house specifically because it had both a front and a back entrance, so he could enter as a neatly dressed young man from the front and exit as a poorly dressed working-man from the back. In his room, he kept the minimal cosmetics he knew how to use as well as several sets of clothing, including comfortable, dark-colored clothes for his occasional missions as a burglar.

“The boots I use when posing as a beggar cause my feet to slip inside,” Sep told him. “I needed to fetch a better-fitting pair at home.” After recently regaining his mobility, he discovered that his knee protested the unstable footing. He was not of a temperament to be so obedient of doctors’ orders, but he was willing to do anything to avoid another few weeks of hobbling around like an invalid if he injured himself again. So he had decided to use boots that, although less bedraggled, would enable him to walk with more assurance.

He had entered his home without being seen by anyone except a few servants. He found his boots and had almost managed to leave unnoticed when Octavia’s head popped out of a doorway. “Sep! You must come at once!”

She grabbed his elbow in a grip tighter than his nanny’s on his ear when he’d been naughty. He allowed himself to be dragged into her bedroom.

Octavia gestured dramatically to the bed. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Which gown should I wear tonight?”

He stared at the two laid out on the bedclothes. “Er …”

“Here, perhaps this will help.” She held up one gown in front of her, then the other.

He noticed that she seemed to smooth her fingers over the delicate fabric of the one that was mostly blue with just a faint blush of pink, and she held it up a few seconds longer than the other one, which was a summery yellow. It had also been the one she’d grabbed first, even though the yellow one had been closer to her.

He pointed to the blue one, since it seemed she liked that one the best.

Beaming at him, she grabbed his shoulders, going up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “You’re the best brother ever.”

Sep felt a bit guilty to be given such high praise when he’d only been pointing out her personal preferences, but he wasn’t averse to appearing smarter than he really was. “Of course.”

He explained to Thorne what had transpired at his house. “Octavia favors violet perfume. Is that what you smell?”

“That sounds about right.”

Sep reached down and grabbed a scoop of something slimy from the ground, trying not to think about what it was, and smeared it on the cheek she’d kissed. He glanced at Thorne.

Thorne grimaced and coughed. “I certainly don’t smell perfume any longer.” He hesitated, then asked, “How did you know which dress she liked best?”

Sep stared hard at him.

Thorne glanced away. “Isabella asked me once and I somehow answered wrongly because she threw a hairbrush at my head and accused me of saying she looked fat.”

Sep continued staring.

“Yes, I have no idea what I did, either.”

Sep turned his attention back to Heddetch’s darkened house. “Octavia held the blue dress longer, and she looked at it with a more excited expression.”

“You know your sister very well.”

“We are closest out of all our siblings.” It seemed strange to be sharing such things while maintaining surveillance of the house across the street, but then again, he’d rarely had company when doing such things on missions. “Have you any siblings?”

“No, although Michael and Isabella are close enough to be like siblings to me.”

Privately, Sep thought that Thorne treated Lady Aymer a bit more tenderly than a sister, but he said nothing. He knew from the gossip he’d heard from his mother that Thorne was still married, although he had been estranged from his wife for many years. Many of their peers would consider such a fact merely trivial and pursue pleasures outside of marriage, but he felt that Thorne was too honorable to do as such.

“Did you work with Michael before this?” Thorne asked.

“Yes, several times in France.”

“I never did. I was sent to the Peninsula.”

That must be the reason why Sep had never worked with Thorne, even though both of them had been agents for the Foreign Office.

“When did you return home?” Sep asked.

“A year ago, when my father died.” Thorne’s voice had a biting quality, and Sep remembered hearing that Mr. Kane Rosmont had been a nasty character. “You?”

“A year and a half ago, when my older brother was ill.” Sep’s father had ordered him to return when Curtis, who had never fully recovered from his carriage racing accident, had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.

“Didn’t he recover?” Thorne asked.

“He did, but …”

“Ah.” Thorne grunted. “I heard both your older brothers are scapegraces.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Sep was the third-born son, but considering his elder brothers’ reckless behavior, his parents had forced him to quit the army entirely.

Thorne didn’t move or change posture, didn’t even tense, but he whispered, “Someone’s coming.”

It took Sep a few more seconds before he picked up a figure walking down the street from the south end, his gait slightly uneven. The man went directly up to Heddetch’s front door, the head swiveling to look up and down the street. Sep was well-hidden in the narrow alley, and Thorne was hunched in the shadow of a doorway only a few feet away, so it was unlikely anyone could see them.

Then the man inserted a key into the lock and let himself into the house.

Sep didn’t know what the man looked like, but could that truly be Heddetch? This figure limped, but more like a man with an old leg injury.

However, the figure had had the key to the front door. It could only be the doctor.

“He’s on the Root,” Thorne growled softly. “I could smell it from here.”

“There are two of us,” Sep said. “We could capture him.”

“We—” Thorne abruptly cut off, and Sep could hear his breathing grow quick and tight. “I smell more of it.”

Sep almost asked what “it” was, but then saw movement from the south side of the street. At the same time, a lamp was lit in the front room of Heddetch’s house, illuminating two hulking figures outside the window.

One of the two men knocked on the glass pane. “Heddetch!” he groused. “Hurry up. Haven’t got all day.” The two stood waiting, looking bored and impatient.

Sep had seen many men who were strong and tough, but these men carried themselves in a way that was subtly different. They threw their shoulders back just a bit more, and they were more careless about watching their surroundings, with a touch of disdain at anything that might try to threaten them.

Yes, these men were on the Root. They wore their confidence not like a cloak, but like armor, knowing nothing could best them.

If it had been only Heddetch, Sep and Thorne could have taken him. Heddetch might have been stronger, but Sep had seen several times that agents trained in fighting, with hours of practice, had the advantage over men who only had their unnatural strength to aid them.

But Heddetch and his two bodyguards were too much for Sep and Thorne to handle.

Heddetch had not had guards or escorts before, which made Sep think that his patrons, Jack or that pale-eyed man, had wanted to ensure that their doctor would be protected. It also meant that the Gentians had considered the possibility that someone might try to capture or attack Heddetch.

Had they already made the connection that Sep and Michael, two men who the Gentians knew had been investigating them, were connected with Lady Wynwood? Or was this simply a precaution since they would assume Lady Wynwood had alerted the authorities?

The Gentians had sent Heddetch to watch over the Wynwood household, but they had not had her killed at the same time as her husband, so they had not deemed her to be a threat to them. Would they do so now?

Sep and Thorne would need to tell Mr. Drydale about this when they returned, but he felt Lady Wynwood was as safe as she could be.

For now, since they couldn’t capture him, they could do nothing except follow Heddetch, and Sep and Thorne couldn’t remain together if they did that. Sep glanced at Thorne to make sure he caught the man’s attention, and Thorne nodded slightly.

Sep slipped out of the narrow alley and circled around the block, reappearing at the end of a street on the opposite side of Heddetch’s house from where Thorne hid in the shadows. He peered around the corner of a building and saw the men still in front of Heddetch’s house. Hopefully they would not be expecting to be followed by someone from this direction, if they bothered to check at all. The men were so assured of their own superior power that they barely bothered to watch for other people on the street.

Heddetch suddenly exited the house, carrying a valise, and locked the door behind him. He apparently had been so quiet that he hadn’t awoken the cook, asleep in her room on the top floor. The three men hurried down the street, although the two “bodyguards” did a poor job, letting Heddetch walk ahead of them rather than trying to protect him.

Sep crept from shadow to shadow as he followed them several yards behind, glad that the lack of streetlamps and only feeble light leaking from buildings aided him in remaining unseen. He only caught glimpses of movement across the street, but knew Thorne was also there.

Sep hadn’t been entirely certain the figure was Heddetch, but Thorne had mentioned smelling the Root, so at the very least, they were following men who belonged to Jack. Sep hoped they might lead them to the new location where Jack conducted business.

The men walked a couple more blocks before turning down a narrow lane, lined with what Sep suspected were flash-houses. The problem was that the street was better lit than others, not because of street lamps, of which there were exactly none, but because of the light coming from open doors and windows of the flash-houses. More pedestrians wandered the road, but Sep in his beggar’s disguise would be too out of place among them—the rags worn by some of the men and boys were not quite as disgustingly dirty as Sep had made himself.

Sep had to remain further back. He caught Thorne’s attention and subtly jerked his head toward the head of the lane, indicating he should follow the three men. Thorne’s workingman clothing fit better with some of the men skulking outside some of the houses.

Thorne promptly moved toward the lane. He didn’t need to ask what Sep would do, since they had both been trained in trailing a target with multiple people.

Sep followed on a parallel road, occasionally cutting through alleys to peek at the men and make sure he was still behind them, as they meandered closer to the river.

They turned into another street that twisted unevenly, with the odd building that would jut out into the road rather than line up neatly on the side. Sometimes the upper stories of buildings across the street from each other would reach out and connect, forming a rough arch over the cobblestones. Other times, the road narrowed until there was barely enough space for two men to walk abreast, then widen again. Sep was able to follow behind them now, hidden by the motley houses.

Thorne suddenly drew even with him. Sep was surprised that he would break formation this way, but then Thorne grabbed his arm.

“I smell something strange. Floral and blood.”

Sep slowed. He didn’t smell what Thorne did, but he didn’t doubt the man’s senses.

But it was at that moment that the three men ahead of them suddenly vanished.

Sep blinked, thinking he’d momentarily lost sight of them, but the street ahead was empty. Thorne tensed as he lost sight of them also.

“Let’s keep going.” Thorne took the lead.

The houses were interspersed by warehouses and the occasional factory, empty in the cold of evening. Only the lone public house or brothel shed light onto the rough stone street from behind ill-fitting window shutters and doors. Sep could smell the fishy rot of the Thames.

Then Thorne stopped at the corner of a warehouse and peered around the edge. There was a narrow lane between this and the next building, pitch black like a mine tunnel. “I can smell them,” Thorne whispered. “They turned down this way.”

On the one hand, the act of entering that dark corridor made his brain shout at him, That’ll be the last mistake you sapsculls will ever make. But on the other hand, there was no use trying to circle around when they’d already lost sight of the men.

“I think I could determine where they went.” Thorne moved forward.

The warehouse was larger than Sep had expected, as tall as a two-story building. The far end was next to a small empty plot with waist-high grasses poking out from the charred frame of a burned building, which might have once been a stable or a workshop. The building walls might have also had blackened fire damage, but it was difficult to tell in the dim light.

The other side of the open plot held a slightly smaller building, looking like it was hunching next to its larger neighbors. However, it became clear that an extension had been built on the end, extending partway into the empty lot. The two-story add-on did not have a door on the ground floor, but it did have a set of stairs running up the outside of the extension to the first floor. The ground floor was dark, but as they approached, light suddenly shone between the cracks of the closed shutters on the first floor.

They continued past the extension, and then Thorne pulled Sep into the doorway of the building across the street. He nodded toward the extension. “The floral and blood smell ends there. I think they’re on the top floor.”

“It’s been built on the end of that building. Do you think there’s an entrance from that side?”

“It would be easier to spy upon them from that direction rather than trying to climb that outer staircase.”

Sep found a window that had been left open and shimmied inside, opening a side door for Thorne. The building turned out to be an ink factory, smelling of a melange of various chemicals. However, the main floor had wide areas that were strangely empty, and on the opposite end of the building from the extension, securely locked double doors guarded a large storage room. Sep guessed that more than simply ink was produced here, but it wasn’t clear whether the illicit work had already been done for the night or if people would arrive soon to start on the factory’s “secondary product.”

Sep was about to head toward the end of the building where the extension had been built when Thorne grabbed his arm. “These floors are too hollow. Take off your shoes.”

The sound of their footsteps must be loud to Thorne’s slightly heightened hearing, which would mean that the men in the extension would hear them coming. The two men yanked off their decrepit boots and held them as they slid quietly across the factory floor. The ceiling high above, nearly the height of a second story, was hidden by darkness, cut by small windows showing the indigo-gray sky.

The far side was a solid wall, the original end of the building, with a set of double doors that had been exits to the outside. However, the doors had been removed from their hinges and now there stood an open doorway into the ground floor room of the extension.

They crept inside, but the room was unexpectedly empty of furniture or equipment. Sep had smelled mold from outside the room, but the smell slammed into him when he entered. The factory was near the river, so perhaps mold and rot damage had taken hold of the walls of the extension, which would explain why there was nothing being stored in the room. The ground floor had a low ceiling and roughly built stairs that angled up from the inside wall—the factory’s original outer wall—to the upper floor.

They climbed the stairs slowly, testing each step lest they creak under their weight. It took an agonizingly long time, but they finally emerged into a narrow, short hallway with an open window at the far end. Moonlight shone through the small square, and there was also lamplight faintly glowing from under a door near the end of the hallway.

The wood that comprised the wall of the factory was rough and old, splintering and warped from years absorbing the moist air near the river. In contrast, the wood of the hallway floor and walls was newer and heavier, as would be expected of an extension built more recently. But perhaps because of the open window, there seemed to be damage from the elements—the scent of mold filled the air and there were the barest shapes of discoloration on the walls and floor.

The door seemed very solidly built, with only a narrow crack under the bottom for the light to escape and with a feel of heaviness from thick planks of wood. There was also only one door, which suggested that a single large room took up the entire top floor.

As Sep and Thorne crept even more slowly toward the end of the hallway and the open window, they heard muffled voices from the room beyond. The door and walls were thick enough that Sep had a hard time distinguishing the voices of the different men, much less their words.

Just outside the door, Sep realized that there was a large triangle painted on the middle of the door, looking black in the dimness. But then from the building across the way, a shutter rattled open, followed by the slightly inebriated tones of a man. Because of the opened window shutter, more indirect light came through the window at the end of the hallway, illuminating the door, and Sep could see that the triangle was painted a vivid blue. Then the shutter was closed again, and the triangle faded back to black.

He had suspected it because of the holes in his woolen socks, but as Sep laid a hand down on the floor, he felt the thick coating of dust and dirt. No one had used this hallway or this door in a long time.

The lack of use made him wonder why such a securely built door had been needed on the inside of the building. From what he’d seen of the outside door, it had been badly fitted and looked far more flimsy than this one.

A sudden flurry of raised voices filtered through the walls. A harsh, grating voice shouted, “Watch yourself, Heddetch! You don’t order us around. Only Jack does that.”

Sep moved closer to the door and slid his hands over the knob. Next to it, set into the wood, was a keyhole covered by a metal escutcheon. He bit back a sigh of frustration. It looked like the door was bolted by a mortice lock, and while he probably could pick it, the men inside would most certainly hear. He gave a discreet tug on the knob, but the door was locked shut.

The journey back down the stairs was again slow, but at last they were hurrying across the floor of the factory as softly as they could. Neither man replaced their boots, because they both knew their next destination—the outer staircase.

Outside the extension, Sep and Thorne pressed themselves against the wall and paused at the bottom of the stairs. Sep was about to head up when Thorne suddenly grabbed his arm and held him back.

A moment later, he heard the soft thud of a boot against the floor of the room above, then the shutter of the window directly above their heads slammed open.

Sep and Thorne froze. The sounds of a card game now filtered out from the open window, but the man said nothing. He only needed to glance down to see their shapes gilded by the light from the room.

The man suddenly exhaled, and then the long, low sounds of flatulence wavered into the night.

The men inside roared in disgust and approval.

“Your round mouth hollered a long one!”

“Fwah! What did you eat?”

The man at the window chuckled, and then the shutter closed.

Sep wasn’t quite sure if he was alarmed, relieved, or amused.

Thorne suddenly clasped a hand over his mouth and nose. Sep felt rather sorry for him. With his heightened sensitivity to smell, the man’s cheeser was probably doubly revolting.

Sep looked above him to the windows on the first floor. Once they started climbing the stairs, if one of the men suddenly opened the shutters again or the door, there would be no way for them to escape notice. He would keep his ears open, but he also hoped Thorne’s sensitive hearing would warn them so they could jump down the stairs and run away.

As they did with the interior staircase, they paused at each step to ensure the wood didn’t creak. At last they crouched in front of the door at the top of the stairs.

This door was not as solidly built as the interior back door, which was strange since it faced the outside. The feel of the planks also indicated it was made of a different wood and possibly newer make than the rest of the extension, but it was difficult to be certain since it was already several years old.

It had another mortice lock, but although this lock was newer than the other door, it was also of inferior, flimsy construction. As Sep ran his hands over the outer edges, he could tell that the wood of the building near the hinges had been damaged at some point. It was probably why the door had been replaced.

There were three shuttered windows. Since there had been only one door at the back and one at the front, and there was light leaking from the door and all the windows, Sep guessed it was one large room taking up the entire upper story.

There was no way for them to peek inside, but … He glanced up at the roof, where a dim glow reflected in the wisps of fog starting to gather in the air. There was a glass skylight. He turned to Thorne and pointed to himself, then the roof. Thorne nodded.

It was easier to hear the voices through this thinner door, and Sep wasn’t familiar with the card game they were playing. He knelt down, waiting.

As was common with games of chance, at one point there was a loud cacophony of voices, some triumphant and some frustrated or objecting. At that loud roar, Sep leaped up and grabbed the edge of the roof.

His legs were weaker than he had expected them to be, and he panicked for a brief moment that he wouldn’t be able to make it on top of the roof before the noises died down. But then he felt strong hands under his stockinged feet as Thorne shoved him higher. Sep rolled atop the shallow pitched roof, covered in light slate, and paused, listening. The sounds of the game did not die down for several heartbeats, and he knew he hadn’t been detected.

There was indeed a skylight built into the roof—in fact, there were three. They were each covered by small square panes of glass in a lattice, to allow in light but keep the cost lower than a large window.

He crept across the roof to the nearest skylight and peered down, but only saw the surface of a dusty worktable, dotted with a few equally dusty instruments. However, there was a small space near the center on one side that had been cleared for use.

Then the top of Heddetch’s head appeared as he stepped up to the bench. He began laying out a mortar and pestle and a handful of dried herbs, but he paused to yell at the men, “Keep it down!”

The men didn’t bother to answer him, just continuing their game.

Sep crept silently toward the second skylight, but on the way an awkward motion made his knee twinge. He paused, waiting for the pain to die down to a dull throb, then kept going.

This skylight was slightly dirtier than the other, coated with more soot, but Sep could see the blurry figures of four men sitting around a small table. They were indeed playing cards, but their postures were relaxed and lazy. If they were guarding Heddetch, they weren’t bothering to remain alert.

Two of them began mocking each other, and then one threw the empty hull of some type of nut he had been snacking on at the other. His fellow grabbed a handful of those nuts and hulls and tossed it at his face, and a brief scuffle occurred, nuts and shells flying everywhere.

One of the pieces must have reached Heddetch, because he shouted, “I’m trying to get some work done, you lazy louts!”

A large card player stood, his posture threatening as he faced the doctor. “We won’t take those kinds of insults anymore.”

Heddetch didn’t answer, but Sep couldn’t see his face to know what he thought of that statement.

The man continued, “It was different when you were the main person to give us our vials of Root, but now only Mr. Dix does that. We had had to scrape and bow to your majesty, but not anymore.” He held still for a full minute, simply staring at Heddetch.

Sep didn’t hear if Heddetch replied, but the man finally turned back to the card game.

So these men were here to guard Heddetch? To guard the room? But they were not very loyal to the doctor. It sounded like Heddetch hadn’t treated them very well when he’d been in a position of power over them, dispensing Jack’s Root elixir to the men.

Suddenly one man at the card table sniffed loudly. “Do you smell violets?”

Sep froze. He thought he’d covered up any lingering traces of his sister’s perfume with the muck he’d smeared on his face, but these men, having taken fresh doses of the Root, had stronger senses than Thorne. He shouldn’t have trusted so blindly in the fact that Thorne couldn’t smell the perfume any longer.

He steadied his heartbeat. This wasn’t any different from other situations he’d been in where he might have been caught. He simply had to be a bit more careful, since any one of these men could literally break his skull open.

The other men began mocking the one who mentioned violets, and under cover of their raucous laughter, Sep slowly and quietly made his way back across the roof toward the top landing of the stairs. If he hadn’t suffered through weeks of inactivity due to his knee injury, and if that same injury hadn’t been giving him problems just a few minutes ago, he might have simply made his way to the edge and dropped down to the ground.

But as he dragged himself along, the strain of holding his body above the tiles and moving at a slow crawl began to take its toll. And of course, it was his knee that gave out first.

It started with trembling of the muscles above the knee. Then the dull pain sharpened until it was like a stick poking into the center of his joint.

He paused, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to ride out the wave of agony. Only a few more yards. Then he’d pile on any smelly, nasty poultices Miss Gardinier and Dr. Shokes gave to him. Just a few yards.

He took a few hard breaths, then continued on. But his weak leg took a step too short and his foot slipped.

His hands flattened to get more purchase on the roof, and he bunched the muscles in his stable knee. But the sliding foot knocked a roof slate loose. It clattered as it slid off and fell, hitting the ground below with a dull cracking sound.

The men’s voices abruptly died.

Sep remained absolutely still, his heart hammering. The men would likely investigate. They’d open a shutter window or the front door and peer upward. They might even climb onto the roof themselves.

Either way, Thorne would be seen unless he ran away, and they might see his fleeing figure. And Sep was vulnerable, laid out on the roof with nowhere for him to escape.

No, there was always a means of escape. He had been in tighter situations than this. So he did what he had done then.

Lord God, please help me.

He nearly jumped at the sound of an object hitting the shutter, which was almost directly beneath him. It hadn’t been a rock, it sounded softer than that, somehow. It was followed by another object crashing into the wood and making the shutter rattle.

“Adriaaaaaaaane!” shouted a drunken male voice from far below.

It took Sep a moment to realize it was Thorne, and what was more, he was on the ground underneath the window rather than on the landing at the door.

“Adriane!” Thorne shouted again, the vowels and consonants slurred like a man at least five bottles into his night.

Sep felt as much as heard the heavy footsteps of a man who stomped to the window directly beneath Sep and flung the shutters open. “Oy! Go take your rumpus elsewhere!”

“Adriane, I know you’re in there!” Thorne shouted.

“No wench named Adriane’s in here, you rum cull.”

“Where’s my boot?” Thorne moaned in that wandering attention of all drunks, then renewed his howling, “Adria—” He cut off with a gurgle from his throat, and then there was the sounds of a man vomiting.

“Augh! Don’t do that there! Be off with you!” The man slammed the shutters closed.

After finishing his retching, Thorne sobbed another long “Adriaaaaaaane …” but the men in the room didn’t open the window again. Sep heard the voice of the man who had yelled at Thorne as he recounted the incident to his fellows, and there was a round of laughter.

Under cover of their noise, Sep made his way to the area of the roof edge directly above the top landing of the stairs and nimbly dropped down. His boots were gone, but he saw Thorne wordlessly gesturing for him to hurry back down to the ground.

Thorne hobbled underneath the shutter and retrieved his own boots. Sep realized that those were what he’d thrown at the window, although the position of one boot indicated he’d thrown it when he was still on the staircase. He must have thrown the boot, then hurried down to the ground to throw the second one. He had used the sounds of the boots against the shutters to distract the men from the slate dropping from the roof as well as to explain why he was in his stocking feet.

Sep found his own boots at the base of the stairs where Thorne had likely thrown them, but he didn’t bother to put them on. In contrast, Thorne stamped his feet into his boots and loudly stumbled away, in case the men were still listening for him. Sep followed quietly, hampered by pain in his knee that caused him to limp slightly.

They continued until they were far past where the men in the room—enhanced by the Root—could have overheard them. They ducked into an especially deep doorway, and Sep felt as if he could finally take a breath. He began tugging on his boots.

“Your knee is well?” Thorne asked gruffly.

Sep didn’t answer immediately, but then said reluctantly, “Climbing that roof was specifically what Miss Gardinier told me not to do.”

“I won’t say anything,” Thorne said.

“Thank you.”

“Because otherwise she’ll chew me up and spit me out simply for allowing you to climb onto the roof anyway.”

Sep couldn’t stop the snort of laughter, which was answered by Thorne’s low chuckle.

He told Thorne what he’d seen through the skylights, as well as what he’d overheard. “The men could have been guarding the doctor, or they could have been his jailers,” Sep said.

“It won’t be easy to capture Heddetch while he’s in that building,” Thorne said.

“The men looked bored more than anything.”

“Even if they were bored, four men on the Root might still be too many for our team to handle, even with Michael.”

Sep could only agree silently.

“Let’s go.” Thorne began walking, although he kept his pace a bit slower out of consideration for Sep’s injury.

The slow pace also enabled them to check behind to ensure they weren’t being followed.

They traveled by foot until they reached a busy enough street to hail a hackney, directing it to Sep’s rented room on the border of the Long Glades. There, they would both be able to change out of their disguises. Sep also wanted to clean the dirt from his face, which had started to itch.

“I don’t like it,” Sep said to Thorne as he stared out the window of the hackney at the dark streets.

“You mean the laboratory?”

“Yes. I don’t like it because of what’s missing.”

“What do you mean?”

“The room was clearly a laboratory. Heddetch was there. The men guarding him were likely Jack’s men. But there was still one thing missing …” Sep swallowed and looked at Thorne. “Where was Apothecary Jack?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sol stared at the seal in his hand, and reflected that it was quite uncomfortable for him to be unmanned by a dead woman.

He had been shocked and ashamed that he had not known about Bianca’s possible closer association with the Gentians. But there had only been suspicions—they were not certain if Bianca’s missing pendant held the same symbol inside of it as Wynwood’s pocket watch.

But now, this heavy piece of molded silver in his hand was definitive proof that not only had Bianca belonged to the secret group, she had been one of their leaders.

Despite the late hour, the butler’s pantry in Stapytton House was brightly lit with several candles. Laura, Phoebe, and Mr. Coulton-Jones had arrived only a few minutes ago, having come directly from the Lingleys’ soiree in Mayfair all the way out to the lonely estate on the outskirts of London. It had been Sol who had insisted upon the trek, because he didn’t want Laura to entertain too many visitors at the hotel, where she was supposed to be staying in secret.

Mr. Coulton-Jones had produced what they’d found, a pouch and envelope. Sol had immediately opened the pouch and the first thing to fall out had been this seal stamp.

It was simple, with the intricate seal image carved into the silver, and the metal portion glued to a wooden handle. But the symbol of gentian flowers was undeniably the same as the one that had been in the letter to Napoleon’s aide, and which Mr. Coulton-Jones’s brother had found at the Smoke Domino Club. The Gentians, they called them, since they didn’t know what the mysterious members called themselves.

The silver still had bits of red wax stuck to the edges, and the wooden handle had the faint smell of French perfume lingering even after ten years, perhaps because it had been stored in a cloth pouch in an enclosed compartment.

It was the perfume that did it. He abruptly felt the weight of failure as an agent. She had used this stamp, this symbol that only the inner circle of that group could use. And Sol had considered her simply another in a long line of bits o’muslin hanging on Wynwood’s arm.

It had been ten years ago, but he hadn’t been an inexperienced green’un. He should have known better. Could he really say he was any wiser now?

Laura somehow knew what he was thinking and tried to bolster his mood. “We already suspected she was involved. This is only confirmation of what we already deduced.”

Sol nodded, but still stared at the seal. “In our line of work, women are too often overlooked,” he said softly. “We know this, which is why we employ women ourselves when we can.” He gave Phoebe a bitter smile, but repeated, “We know this … and yet we never seem to learn.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself, Uncle Sol,” Phoebe said. “This was very well hidden.”

Yes, he needed to rein in his emotions, focus once again on their objectives. He shook out the other object in the pouch, which was a set of keys on a simple ring. The keys were of various sizes and had been painted various colors.

“I have no idea what those could unlock,” Laura answered before he could even ask the question.

“She couldn’t do anything as convenient as label these with a street name?” Sol grumbled.

“We also found this.” Mr. Coulton-Jones passed to him a piece of paper. While Sol was looking in the pouch, he had opened a paper envelope and removed a sheet of paper from within. He had read it with Phoebe also peeking at it, but now he slid it across the table.

Sol again caught the whiff of that same French perfume. The writing was in a feminine hand and the ink had faded from age, but he could read three lines of text:

The New Gardener’s Dictionary; or Whole Art of Gardening by John Dicks, printed for G. Keith, J. Johnson; J. Almon; and Blyth and Beevor, London, 1771

Letters on the Elements of Botany, addressed to A Lady by J. J. Rousseau, translated into English by Thomas Martyn, 5th edition, printed for B. and J. White, London, 1796

A Journal of Natural Philosophy, Chemistry and the Arts, volume 1 by William Nicholson, printed for G. G. and J. Robinson, London, 1797

Sol gave the others a wordless, baffled expression, but even Phoebe shook her head in confusion.

“Where did you find these things?” Sol asked.

“It was in a side table that always sat next to Wynwood’s leather chair in front of the fireplace,” Laura said. “In the false bottom of one of the drawers.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones opened his mouth to speak, but Sol decided at the last moment to raise his hand to forestall him. His earlier comment about women reminded him that he had an obligation to train the agents he took under him. He had already chosen to trust in Phoebe and her friend, Miss Gardinier, with the Root and Goldensuit plants. He had already arranged for them to receive training in fighting so they could protect themselves. He could not hold back on other things he would train an agent to do.

“Phoebe,” he said in slightly clipped tones, “report.”

Laura frowned slightly, but Phoebe merely blinked at his brevity, then nodded. She explained everything that had happened once they arrived at the Lingleys’ party.

Sol prompted her whenever she ought to give more detail, or when she needed to be more concise. But on a whole, she conveyed events in a competent manner, speaking in a dispassionate voice.

Which only made what she was describing seem more alarming. Sol found himself holding his breath when she described how they had nearly been discovered by Mr. Lingley, who otherwise wouldn’t have been within ten yards of his bedroom during his own party.

He forced himself to breathe and slow his heartbeat. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that he’d been terribly nervous the entire time they were gone. He had spent hours pacing the hallways and rooms of Stapytton House, second-guessing his decision to allow Laura to attend the party, trying to convince himself that this had been the best way for them to search Wynwood’s furniture pieces.

(During his pacing, he had also accidentally put his foot through one of the floorboards, but he covered it up by sliding a broken chair over the hole. He somehow knew he shouldn’t tell Laura about that little tidbit.)

He had been trained to take advantage of foreigners with whom he formed contacts, most of them civilians, so this was not the first time he had arranged for—or forced—a civilian to do clandestine work. However, the difference this time was that it was Laura who was putting herself in danger, and that had made his worry stab at his gut like red-hot knives.

In vain, Sol had tried to remain logical and ease his concern with the thought that Mr. Coulton-Jones was with her. Although it was thanks to the Root, he was still the strongest and fastest agent in the entire Ramparts—no, in the entire Home Office.

Additionally, he fully trusted in Phoebe’s surprisingly convincing acting abilities, and thanks to her training recently, anyone who tried to harm Laura would be caught unawares when her niece stepped up to defend them.

But it had been too lonely by himself at Stapytton House, and his mind went in circles from regret to guilt to worry to only fleeting moments of calm. It was taking too long … No, he must remember that Mr. Coulton-Jones was supposed to dismiss the Ramparts-assigned coachman and drive the women here—traveling out of London on the lonely country roads would be the easiest way for him to employ various means to ensure they weren’t followed. It would take time for them to make their way to Stapytton House.

As he caught himself checking the front driveway for the hundredth time, he was made uncomfortably aware of how Laura must have felt in waiting for Phoebe—indeed, in waiting for all of the team to return from any particularly dangerous bit of work. He had not lit many candles so that any neighbors would not happen to see that Stapytton House was occupied this late at night, but the eerie corridors made him decide to hole up in the butler’s pantry and light a few more tapers. He was just at the point of missing the tea and biscuits that Phoebe or Laura would always bring, and berating himself for growing accustomed to such trivial comforts, when the women and Mr. Coulton-Jones had arrived.

Phoebe finished describing what had happened, but it was Laura to whom Sol spoke. “How did you feel throughout all that?”

“I admit I was very nervous,” she said slowly, “but I also knew it was necessary for me to be there. Since the furniture pieces were in the master bedroom, as we had thought they might be, it would have been difficult to have one of your other agents sneak into the townhouse to search.”

“The valet was a diligent sort,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “Even if the master were out of the house at some evening entertainment, the valet would have been doing his duty in the dressing room. Someone sent to search the room wouldn’t have been able to do so without being discovered.”

Sol turned to Phoebe. “And you?”

“I tried to do as you taught me and remain calm,” she said. “I felt I was not doing a very good job of it, but no one seemed to notice.”

“She did quite well,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, “both when Mr. Lingley interrupted us, and when distracting Miss Tolberton.”

“You also gave a fine report,” Sol told her.

Phoebe’s cheeks turned a sweet shade of rose. “I am rather glad you instructed us to meet you here, Uncle Sol. It was easier to remember everything that happened, and I have been anxious to discuss what you would like us to do next.”

Sol was about to reply when Mr. Coulton-Jones suddenly stiffened, eyes searching the far corner of the ceiling. Everyone fell silent, and Sol strained his ears to hear what had alerted the young man.

“A carriage,” Mr. Coulton-Jones finally said. “No, just a single horse, so perhaps a cart. Approaching the house from the drive.”

“Are you certain you weren’t followed?” As soon as he asked the question, Sol realized it sounded like he didn’t trust in the ability of his agent.

However, Mr. Coulton-Jones was not offended. “Yes. I kept looking behind us as I drove. It’s nearly a full moon tonight, so I would have seen if anyone followed us, especially on long stretches of road.”

Sol had brought his dueling pistols and now went to where the wooden case lay on an empty rack in the corner of the room. He handed a pistol to Mr. Coulton-Jones. “Follow me. Phoebe, Laura, please remain here.”

Sol had only lit candles in the butler’s pantry, so the rest of Stapytton House was still dark. He and Mr. Coulton-Jones crept into the front room and stationed themselves alongside grimy glass windows to peer around threadbare curtains.

He could hear the sounds of the horse’s hooves, now. Yes, Mr. Coulton-Jones had been correct, it was only a single horse, which likely pulled a small cart. However, the vehicle had no lantern as it slowly picked its way up the drive in the dark. Sol couldn’t think of anything good that came of a visitor who approached without light, but whoever it was hadn’t bothered to muffle the sound of the horse or the creaking and rattling of the cart.

Trees and bushes encroached on the once-immaculate lawn of the dilapidated house, so the track around the side of the manor to the stables at the back was cast in shadow and not easily visible from the front, even with the moonlight. However, the vehicle unerringly swerved to the right and disappeared around the side of the house.

Sol and Michael hurried to the kitchen at the back of the house. The shutters were closed and the back door was a simple, sturdy plank affair, so there was no way to peer out at the back yard. Also, this door was not the only entrance into the house. For anyone looking to sneak up on the occupants, the more likely mode of entry would be …

Sol caught Mr. Coulton-Jones’s eye and wordlessly pointed toward the other back corner of the house, where Phoebe was using the conservatory for growing the Goldensuit plants. Near where the glass walls met the wall of the main building stood a single wooden door with six glass panes. It was likely locked, but a sharp blow would break the glass panel next to the handle. The sound of glass falling on the quarry tile floor of the conservatory would not be quiet, but Sol wasn’t certain they would be able to hear it all the way from the kitchen.

Mr. Coulton-Jones soundlessly disappeared from the kitchen and Sol hid himself in the shadow of a heavy wooden dresser that leaned to the side, warped by water damage. He held the pistol at the ready, but didn’t like his chances of hitting anything in the darkness. There might be a moment when the intruder opened the back door and was framed by the starlight outside, but Sol didn’t want to indiscriminately shoot someone before figuring out who was invading their ramshackle center of operations.

The door creaked slightly as it opened, and Sol tensed. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought the shadowy forms in the doorway indicated two figures rather than just one. He was proved right when the one in back seemed to stop the one who had opened the door, and they stilled.

Then a rough voice sounded, “It’s Thorne and Sep.”

Sol released his breath and closed his eyes briefly, feeling the throb of a coming headache. “Light a candle, would you?” he growled.

There was the sound of fumbling near the door. Then a candle illuminated Septimus’s pale face and a taller figure behind him that was surely Mr. Rosmont.

“I nearly shot you,” Sol snapped, although he probably wouldn’t have. “You shouldn’t drive without a lantern.”

“We extinguished the lamp while still driving the lane so the neighbors wouldn’t know we were headed here,” Septimus said in his usual calm, almost expressionless voice.

“Yes, that makes perfect sense, but we weren’t expecting you.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones entered the kitchen, likely due to his superior hearing distinguishing the individual voices even from the conservatory. “We’re in the butler’s pantry,” was all he said, and then he headed toward the stairs down to the cellar.

Sol followed, and heard him tell Laura and Phoebe that the visitors were Septimus and Mr. Rosmont, so that they would have no need to worry.

When the two men entered the room, Mr. Coulton-Jones said to them, “I thought Isabella and I were scheduled to relieve you later tonight.”

“Heddetch returned home,” Mr. Rosmont said.

When he described Heddetch leaving his house, Sol asked, “You’re certain he carried a valise? Not a doctor’s bag with medical implements?”

“It looked like a valise to me,” Mr. Rosmont said. Septimus nodded agreement.

“Is he trying to flee England?” Laura asked.

“Perhaps,” Septimus said, “but at the laboratory, he didn’t act as though he were preparing to travel anywhere.”

“What laboratory?” Sol asked, and Mr. Rosmont explained how they’d followed Heddetch and the two men on the Root to the second-story workroom.

“Four guards …” Sol frowned in thought.

“And Heddetch is probably on the Root,” Septimus said. “He walked with only a slight limp.”

“If Jack assigned his men to guard Dr. Heddetch,” Laura said, “it must mean that they know he might be attacked.”

“Or captured,” Phoebe said.

“But even if Dr. Heddetch told Jack that he had attacked me,” Laura said, “how would they have discovered the connection between me and …” Her forefinger circled in the air, indicating Sol and the rest.

“They may not have discovered anything,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “The guards could simply be a precaution.”

“After all, Jack and the pale-eyed man have only clearly seen Mr. Coulton-Jones and Septimus,” Sol said, “not Phoebe or your servants.”

“But this may bring their attention back onto Aunt Laura,” Phoebe said, her voice tight. “When Uncle Wynwood died, they left her alone, probably because they didn’t consider her a threat. But Heddetch’s attack may make them wonder if she knows something.”

“Or someone,” Mr. Rosmont added.

There was a moment of silence, thick with anxiety, but Sol spoke as confidently as he could, to alleviate Laura’s fears. “Your hotel is the safest place for you outside of the Ramparts building itself. But Phoebe, I am trusting you to be alert.”

She nodded, holding his gaze and telling Sol that she understood how important her role was, even with two Ramparts agents guarding her aunt’s rooms at all times.

“Tell me everything you can remember about the laboratory,” Sol said to Septimus, and he described the building and what he’d seen when he’d climbed on top of the roof.

Sol regretted sending Miss Gardinier home from Stapytton House earlier that afternoon, because she might have had insights into the laboratory. It had been difficult to pull her away from her experiments and force her into Laura’s carriage to take her back to her sister’s house, but her usual excuse for where she spent her days was that she was with Phoebe, properly chaperoned by Laura. If her sister, Lady Stoude, happened to hear that Phoebe and Laura had been at the Lingleys’ party, she would have wondered where Miss Gardinier had been during that time. It was best to send her home.

“If Heddetch is intending to flee England,” Sol said, “we must capture him before he can do so.”

“Four guards on the Root will be difficult,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“We could perhaps distract the guards, sedate Heddetch, and retreat,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, although the distaste on his face showed his true feelings about the suggestion.

“The four guards may not be there solely for Heddetch’s protection,” Sol said. “They may also be there to guard the laboratory. It might be where Jack makes the Root, or it might contain clues about the Gentians. Because of that possibility, it would be worth the effort to also search the room, rather than simply snatching Heddetch and escaping.”

“It would have been nice if there were evidence that Jack had been using the lab.” Mr. Rosmont looked at Septimus.

The other man simply shook his head. “The guards mentioned Jack by name, but I only saw Heddetch using the workbench.”

“We’d also need to be careful in the event Jack shows up when we do,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

Even with all of the team members, Sol wasn’t certain if they would be able to best Jack, who seemed to be stronger than his men on the Root. “Our only chance against four guards on the Root—five if you count Heddetch—is to sneak up on them,” Sol said. “That way, we can pick a time when Jack is absent.”

“That may not be as difficult as it would be otherwise,” Septimus said. “The guards were obviously bored and not alert.”

“Perhaps a powdered sedative?” Mr. Rosmont suggested.

But Phoebe shook her head. “You mentioned the room had three shuttered windows. The guards need only open the shutters and air out the sedative.”

“Also,” Laura said, “Keriah mentioned that the powdered sedative can never be as strong as the sedative paste.”

“And the closed shutters means I couldn’t shoot them with sedative arrows,” Phoebe added.

“We could stage a distraction,” Septimus suggested. “Then raid the room and surprise the guards.”

“The front door was newer construction,” Mr. Rosmont said thoughtfully, “but the wall along the hinges showed damage and cracking. It looked like the original front door was broken at some point and replaced, but only minor repair was done on the wall around it. It might be weak enough to break.”

“They still might hear anyone approaching the building,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

“The back door didn’t appear to have been used at all,” Septimus said. “And the guards weren’t positioned anywhere near it.”

“It was older than the front door,” Mr. Rosmont said, “but thicker and more solid. Even I was able to sneak up close to it without being heard.”

“But,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said ruefully, “as you said, it’s thicker and more solid. How would we get in?”

“Describe the door,” Sol said.

“Plank construction,” Septimus said. “Thick wood. So were the boards that made up the back wall of the room. The door had a mortice lock, but with a door that heavy, the bolt will be thick. Even a man not on the Root would hear if we picked it.”

“Unless the distraction is loud and unpleasant,” Phoebe said. “Keriah might have ideas about that.”

“Hinges?” Sol asked.

“On the inside,” Septimus replied. He hesitated, then added, “There was a blue triangle painted on the door.”

Sol froze, then suddenly pawed at the items on the table. He grabbed the key ring and found one of the two larger iron keys, holding it in front of Sep. “Like this?”

He held up a key, where a flat plate on the handle had been carefully painted with a blue triangle.

***

“The raid will be tonight,” Sol said to Sir Derrick, who was the superior agent of rank at the Ramparts and the man to whom he reported.

“Do you need more men than those on your team? I could send … How delightful to see you, Lady Adderly. How is your charming son?”

The setting was perhaps not as appropriate for the conversation between the two men as Sol could have wished. Hyde Park was not as full of people as it would be on a Sunday afternoon, but there were a fair number of the nobility enjoying the rare glimpse of sunlight through the clouds.

Sol was only here to be seen. He’d been spending much of his time at Stapytton House as a guard for the two women working there, and so he had not been attending as many gatherings as he normally would during the Season.

He smiled politely at Lady Adderly as she chatted with Sir Derrick, who was affable to everyone. After they had extricated themselves from the older woman, Sol muttered, “I don’t know how you manage to be adored by everyone you meet.”

“I didn’t, when I was your age,” Sir Derrick replied, even as he smiled and tipped his hat to a slowly moving carriage containing a fashionable matron and her daughter. “If you ever get promoted to my position, you’ll need to learn. The key with Lady Adderly is to take advantage of her blind affection for her son, who is one of the worst bullies I’ve ever met. She will wax poetic for hours about virtues he absolutely does not possess.”

“And if you encounter the son?” Sol asked.

“I have a strange tendency to stalk the young man at evening parties,” Sir Derrick said cheerfully. “It quite ruins his opportunities to corner and molest the maids. He avoids me like the plague, thankfully.”

Sol laughed. “Is that the trick, then? Interfering with the criminal activities of young noblemen?”

Sir Derrick exchanged polite greetings with a gentleman walking with a woman young enough to be his daughter but dressed in bright colors and extravagant fabrics that most definitely were not appropriate on a young woman. The gentleman did not bother to introduce his ladybird, and the two men continued on.

“Did you run into any difficulties while I was out of town?” Sir Derrick asked.

“Mr. Uppleby balked at the expense of the hotel rooms for Lady Wynwood,” Sol admitted reluctantly, feeling as though he were tattling on a schoolfellow. “But Mr. Antingham interrupted us because he needed to discuss some paperwork irregularities with Uppleby, so Antingham signed off on the hotel and sent me on my way.”

Sir Derrick gave a smile much brighter than the false ones he’d been doling out since they met at the park. “That is why I like leaving them in charge together—they balance each other quite well. The Ramparts would fall if they ever agreed on anything. And Lady Wynwood? She was satisfied with a hotel that did not usually cater to the nobility?”

“Of course,” Sol reassured him. “She is not so fussy.”

“It was a deuced inconvenient time for me to need to go to Bath,” Sir Derrick grumbled.

“Is your mother-in-law well?” Sol asked.

“Broke her wrist when she fell down the stairs. Lady Bayberry needed to go to help her and arrange for a nurse, but she also insisted on taking our daughter with her, so of course I was required to accompany them.”

“Your daughter is close to her grandmother?” Sol had been under the impression Sir Derrick’s daughter was like many young girls of fifteen, with her head full of the fashion and entertainments of London over stuffy Bath.

Sir Derrick barked out a laugh, then stifled it when he drew surprised looks from those nearby. He raised a hand in apology to them as he schooled his expression, then answered, “She’s prettily behaved with the cantankerous old woman, but despises Bath.” He turned down a path that led to the outskirts of the park, with fewer pedestrians. “No, the reason we dragged her away from Town was to remove her from the clutches of a fortune hunter who’s been sniffing around her lately.”

“Ah.” Sir Derrick’s daughter was not yet “out,” but her impatience to be presented sometimes made her a bit reckless in her socializing, trying to be the adult she was not yet. “When did you return to Town?”

“An hour ago.”

“Sir?!” Sol protested.

Sir Derrick waved a hand. “Got your note, and decided it would be better to meet with you before I had to deal with whatever’s accumulated on my desk.”

“We could have met at your club,” Sol said. “It would have been a sight more comfortable for you than the promenade at Hyde Park.”

Sir Derrick gave him a steady, serious look. “Because of the nature of that … potion, I decided it would be best to meet where your superior officers would not happen upon us.”

Sol understood. While Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham were gentlemen, they were unlikely to promenade at the park of an afternoon. Mr. Uppleby avoided spending any time with his wife or his young children, preferring his male cronies, while Mr. Antingham was widowed and disdainful of the social world. Their social set was not as exalted as Sol and Sir Derrick, but they were members of Sir Derrick’s club.

“Are they unaware of my team’s mission?” Sol asked. Antingham and Uppleby were superior in position to Sol within the Ramparts, and they were given access to his reports, but that did not mean they took the effort or time to read them.

Sir Derrick hesitated. “If you asked a week ago, I would have said no. But lately … well, Jack’s men haven’t exactly been discreet.”

Sol thought of the risks his own team had taken, and wisely said nothing. “Jack caught the attention of Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby?”

“Not at all,” Sir Derrick said curtly. “A minor criminal lord is beneath their notice. But Jack’s potion … There’s too many rumors floating around the Long Glades about it for Antingham and Uppleby to dismiss as fantasy. So they came to me, and I told them I’d already assigned someone to it.”

“I would think they would be too busy with their own responsibilities to pay attention to another team’s investigation.”

“I thought so as well, but I heard that they went out of their way to ask one or two of the younger men about a mysterious tincture among the gangs.” Sir Derrick faced Sol. “That is why, officially, I shall be in charge of your raid tonight.”

Sol blinked. “Sir?”

“You will have my full authority. No other superior officer can barge in giving conflicting orders. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” This was highly irregular, but Sol began to understand why Sir Derrick had decided to handle this mission in this way.

Sir Derrick sighed. “I doubt anything like that will happen, but I’ve survived by being paranoid and prepared for every eventuality. You …” He jabbed a finger at Sol. “… try not to do anything spectacular.”

“This isn’t spectacular, but …” Sol handed a piece of paper to Sir Derrick. “A copy of what we found in Heddetch’s bedroom.”

Sir Derrick skimmed the note, then nodded approvingly. “Good, good. Glad you found something new.”

His superior’s trust in him made Sol feel confident again, after he’d been taken aback by the truth of Bianca’s association with the Gentians. He was well-pleased that he had the news about Heddetch’s secret laboratory to present to him. “We’ll look into Seyward and Ward, and their connection to Heddetch.”

“That reminds me, you didn’t answer my question. Need more men to raid Heddetch’s laboratory?”

Sol hesitated, then said, “According to Mr. Rosmont and Mr. Ackett’s assessment of the building and the guards, my small team should be able to subdue everyone.”

“More men would be only to the better, surely?”

“I’d like to attack the laboratory quickly,” Sol said. “Heddetch had a valise last night and we don’t know if he’ll attempt to flee the country.” Inwardly, Sol was reluctant to bring in strangers because of how Mr. Rosmont had reacted to the pollen from Jack’s Goldensuit plants. The raid could be even more dangerous for anyone not fully aware of—or not fully believing in—the strange ability of the Goldensuit to affect people. It would be too difficult to handle the possibly volatile reactions of agents unknown to him.

“You said there are four of Jack’s guards?” Sir Derrick asked, a sharp look in his eye. He meant that they were not merely guards, but men on the Root.

“For now, Mr. Coulton-Jones, already one of the department’s best-trained men, is healthy and … strong,” he said, emphasizing the word, “which makes for a deadly combination.”

Sir Derrick nodded, understanding Sol’s reply that Michael had also had his abilities enhanced by the Root elixir.

“Have you told anyone else about him?” Sol asked carefully.

“I wasn’t certain how Antingham and Uppleby would react if they knew,” Sir Derrick said. “I struck it from your report. No one else knows that he was dosed and lived.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sol said softly.

“See that you capture Heddetch,” Sir Derrick said gruffly as he tucked the copy of Heddetch’s letter into his coat pocket. “Allow no harm to come to him. We must squeeze more answers from him. And see what’s in that laboratory that might point to more information about these … what did you call them? Daisies?”

“Gentians, sir.”

“I wonder what they call themselves,” Sir Derrick frowned speculatively. “Likely something dramatic and awe-inspiring.”

“Or seditious and understated,” Sol said. “They did remain hidden for decades.”

“Until Jack started spreading around his poison,” Sir Derrick said. “Why now? Were they waiting for the right time?”

“Or perhaps it simply took this long to develop it,” Sol said. Miss Gardinier had postulated that Jack probably took a longer time to come up with a viable version of the Root since he didn’t have a chemistry or apothecary background.

“Well, I shall be at the chess club tonight,” Sir Derrick said. “If you need me, send a message. I shall arrange to have a few men there doing ‘training,’ so that they will be available if something comes up.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’m certain the help will not be needed.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Septimus was sneaking into the same ink factory for the second time in less than a full day. Before, he had been dressed in rags, and the smears of black he had acquired had melted into the motley colors already staining the clothes. This time, his attire was all black, including specially made breeches with wide panels that made it easier to glide softly over the dusty wooden floors.

He heard the soft thump of Thorne’s felt-muffled boots, but he barely heard the footsteps of Lady Aymer next to him, and Lady Wynwood’s twin servants were mere shadows on the edges of his vision. The men had the more difficult task because they each carried a satchel slung across their shoulder with a large cylindrical shape sticking out from the top of the bag.

They had just entered the ink factory on the far side, and should have been too far away for anyone in the laboratory on the other end of the building to hear them, but they still moved like thieves pilfering a nobleman’s bedchamber with the nobleman still asleep in the bed. They didn’t know how sensitive the guards’ hearing was, but before entering the factory, Thorne had said that he could hear the voices of the men in the laboratory, even from that distance, although he couldn’t make out their words. If Thorne’s elevated sense of hearing could hear voices, then the guards would surely be able to hear much better.

They made it to the far wall, but paused at the doorway that would lead to the extension. Instead, Lady Aymer moved ahead, holding a small shielded lantern, her tiny figure dressed as a street urchin. Sep and Thorne waited, with the twins crouched nearby. Sep could tell the children were nervous, so he laid a light hand on Calvin’s shoulder, clad in the dark rags he’d been wearing more often these days than his Wynwood household livery. The boy stilled and seemed to calm. In the narrow beams of moonlight that filtered through some of the tiny windows high above, he saw Thorne do the same with Clara, who was next to him.

It seemed to take too long. Lady Aymer’s job was to sneak up to the back door first and ensure that the key worked and try to determine if the door was barred from the inside. She herself admitted that she could not fight well, but they had needed someone who could move quietly, and Lady Aymer was even better than Sep at doing just that. She would not directly participate in the fighting, but would remain outside the back door to guard it while the rest of them stormed inside.

No, not quite the rest of them. While Miss Gardinier and Miss Sauber had undergone more fight training than Lady Aymer, Mr. Drydale hadn’t allowed either of them to join the raiding party because Heddetch might recognize them, even though they wore masks. Mr. Drydale admitted he wasn’t entirely certain if the Gentians had, through Heddetch’s information, made the connection between Lady Wynwood and Mr. Coulton-Jones or Sep, the only two of their team whom he had clearly seen. He refused Miss Sauber’s desire to join the team because he hadn’t wanted to make that connection obvious.

Sep had fought men on the Root, and he had sparred with the two women. He knew that although the women were skilled, they would be outclassed. He was relieved they were not here with him—he already worried about the presence of Lady Aymer and the twins, but they needed their help against the guards.

Miss Sauber and Miss Gardinier were with Mr. Drydale keeping watch over the laboratory from a nearby perch. If their plan worked, Miss Sauber’s arrows would be useful and Miss Gardinier needn’t use her healing skills on anyone.

Calvin was crouched down near the edge of the doorway into the extension, looking up into the darkness toward the top of the long, narrow staircase to the upper story. He must have seen Lady Aymer’s signal with the shielded lantern at last, because he tugged at Sep’s sleeve.

The group snuck up the stairs, one by one, and gathered around the back door to the laboratory.

Sep heard the men’s voices from within the room. He couldn’t hear their words but knew from their tones that they were again in the midst of a card game. Lady Aymer knelt at the door with her ear pressed to it, and she shook her head at them. No one was approaching the door, no one was next to it.

They stood in the dark and waited. Sep had given Mr. Drydale his estimate of how long it would take for them to get into position outside this door. Sep had been generous with the estimate, and Mr. Drydale had tacked on more time on top of that.

Even Sep heard the footsteps thumping up the stairs, but not to the back door. The steps were Michael’s as he drew the guards’ attention to the front door. The card game ceased, wood scraping against the floor as they stood up from their chairs.

Michael didn’t waste time—a series of blows could be heard as Michael kicked in the weakened wood around the front door to form a hole large enough for the diversion Miss Gardinier had (rather gleefully) prepared. The men began shouting.

Under cover of Michael’s wild kicking and the guard’s voices, Lady Aymer turned the key, which had already been inserted into the lock. The sound of the bolt seemed loud to Sep’s ears, but none of the guards approached the back door.

As soon as the kicking stopped, Sep heard the sound of breaking glass as Michael threw into the room the chemicals Miss Gardinier had mixed into stoppered flasks. Michael’s footsteps thundered back down the stairs as he ran away.

It started with a couple small coughs, but then suddenly the men inside were hacking and gasping as if they would vomit their lungs out. It took a few seconds, but Sep saw Thorne abruptly turn his head away from the back door. The faint smell of the chemicals must have seeped out from the crack under the back door, wreaking havoc on his sensitive nose.

Thorne immediately attached the black mask that Lady Wynwood had made for all of them, designed so that it would not dislodge during a fight. Sep found it difficult to breathe when he fought, but he would rather obscure his face.

Except it wouldn’t make a difference if Jack were there, or the pale-eyed man. Sep had a feeling they would pick him out even if every piece of his skin were covered. Jack had tortured Sep mercilessly, and even now the memory threatened to resurface, destroying his sense of readiness.

Sep was no longer in the stable. Jack was not within—Michael had drawn close earlier this evening and had said he couldn’t smell Jack’s strange blood-and-flower scent. Sep was like an arrow, about to be released from a bow upon an unsuspecting target.

Sep unslung the satchel and took out the heavy cylindrical object.

Mr. Drydale had checked out two small battering rams from the armory at the Ramparts, one for Sep and one for Thorne. Made of heavy steel with handles welded into it, the ram weighed down his arms, forcing him to grip it tightly.

Sep and Thorne positioned themselves opposite the door. Lady Aymer gave a nod, then flung open the door.

Sep rushed into the laboratory behind Thorne. The chemicals in the flasks had turned into a noxious gas that stung Sep’s eyes, but the mask protected his mouth and nose. The guards on the Root, vulnerable to Miss Gardinier’s concoction, had thrown open the shutters to the three windows and stood in front of them, still coughing violently with tears and mucus running down their red faces. The men whirled in surprise as the back door slammed open, caught completely unawares.

By arrangement, Thorne went barreling for the man standing before the window to the far right. Sep headed toward the man farthest left, sending the battering ram straight into his torso.

Sep heard the fading shout of the man Thorne had aimed for as he fell from the upper story to the ground below. The fall would only cause minor injuries to a man on the Root, but it momentarily took him out of the fight.

However, the man Sep attacked was quick enough to grab at the window frame. His feet came off the floor, but he balanced on the window ledge.

Sep quickly dropped the battering ram with a thump, then he hooked the man’s legs and flung them out the window. But the guard’s superior strength enabled him to keep a firm grip on the window frame, and he dangled outside the building, holding on with just one hand in an awkward grip.

A sharp cry came from one of the two men who had been standing in front of the middle window. Sep and Thorne had left the twins’ throwing lines clear, and one man was pawing at a throwing knife sticking out of his shoulder and another from his thigh. The shout had come from the other man, doubled over in pain from an arrow completely piercing his shoulder.

The man hanging from the window had apparently seen Miss Sauber’s sniping shot from the building across from the laboratory, and he twisted wildly. The arrow that would have hit him instead buried itself in the wood of the wall.

Sep regretted the missed shot—it was a waste of Miss Gardinier’s new sedative smeared on the arrowhead. She had tried to make enough of the sedative paste, but simply hadn’t had enough time, so only the arrows had the new preparation. The twins’ throwing knives and the agents’ fighting knives bore only the less effective sedative paste.

He drew his knife now, which had a thick layer of sedative smeared on it. Miss Gardinier had applied more than she thought they’d need, in the event Jack had adjusted his Root recipe to counteract the older sedative.

Sep slashed at the hand of the man dangling from the window, and he released it to fall to the ground. Miss Sauber’s arrows rained down on the men on the ground, to slow them so that they couldn’t return to the laboratory. However, due to the darkness and the men’s increased speed, they avoided some of the shots and ran around the side of the ink factory, out of range.

Sep was suddenly grabbed from behind. The attacker was stronger, but Sep could tell that his movements were clumsy, his grip loose. Sep easily broke free, whirling to face his opponent.

It was the man who’d been hit with Miss Sauber’s arrow. He’d removed it somehow and his shoulder moved stiffly, but it was as if he barely felt the injury.

However, as Sep had noticed before, Jack’s men were untrained, so the agents were better fighters despite the strength disadvantage. He read the man’s movements and was able to dodge a lightning fast punch, although the speed of the blow grazed the side of his head and caused ringing in his ear.

The man didn’t bother to dodge Sep’s blow to his torso, since the Root made him barely feel the attack. Sep instead aimed for sensitive places like his solar plexus and knee, although he winced as he landed the sharp blow. The man stumbled, but remained standing.

The guard led with a left jab. Too late, Sep realized it was a feint.

He barely felt the blow to his face. He suddenly had the strange sensation of knowing he was falling but not feeling it. His vision began clouding.

But then a blurry figure leaped in and dealt the man a hard blow to the jaw, making him stagger back.

It was Michael. After delivering Miss Gardinier’s chemical flasks, he’d run around the ink factory and entered the laboratory from the back door.

Sep shook the fuzziness from his head. He tried to struggle to his feet as fast as he could, but it felt like moving through treacle.

Michael was grappling with the guard several feet away, but his sharp fighting technique contrasted with the guard’s sloppy movements. Since they were almost equal in strength, Sep turned away from the pair and looked for Thorne.

The other guard had pulled out a long, wicked blade, and Thorne had his knife out as well. However, despite the fact the man had been hit with the twins’ throwing knives and doses of the old sedative, his movements were still quick and light. Sep could tell at a glance that this guard was a better fighter than the other.

Even at two against one, it would take some time for them to defeat him. But they had a shortcut.

Sep engaged the man with his own blade on one side while Thorne harried him on the other. The two agents had trained together for the past few weeks to be able to coordinate in attacking a single man on the Root, so their jabs and feints and swings were like a choreographed dance. The idea had actually come from Miss Sauber and Miss Gardinier, who had been trained by their gypsy friend to attack a man together, to make up for a lack of strength and mobility.

But rather than trying to defeat him powerfully or quickly, the two agents harassed the guard while slowly giving ground. The man, sensing their hesitation, pressed forward eagerly.

Right into their trap. The man had barely stepped in front of the open window when an arrow came whistling in from the darkness without.

An ordinary man would have been skewered in the arm or shoulder, but this man’s reflexes were heightened enough to cause him to jerk out of the way, causing only a streak of blood across his shoulder. The guard retreated behind the wall of the building, eyeing Sep and Thorne but no longer being baited into range of their hidden shooter.

While they faced each other, Sep could see over his shoulder at how the other fight was going. He noted that although Michael had managed to push the man into view of the other window, their jerking movements caused Miss Sauber’s arrow to only score across the guard’s back rather than embedding into his body.

At the same moment, however, a blade thrown by one of the twins popped him right in the buttocks. He yelped in pain.

However, his movements were only marginally slower than the man Sep and Thorne were fighting, despite the fact that the new sedative had been delivered directly into his shoulder with that first arrow strike.

The new sedative recipe wasn’t working.

Sep happened to be facing the right direction, so he was warned just before Lady Aymer darted inside the room and slammed the backdoor shut with a deafening bang!

Michael’s opponent happened to have his back to the door, so the sound startled him as well as affected his sensitive hearing. The man fighting Thorne and Sep also jumped at the sound and winced.

The three agents took advantage and pressed the attack. Sep slashed with his knife but followed with a quick left jab to the man’s exposed armpit, making him grunt. Thorne led with a wide roundhouse punch from his left hand, but his knife plunged into the man’s thigh even as the man bent backward away from the fist. Thorne had put all his strength into the attack, burying the knife to the hilt, and the guard gave a low, anguished cry of pain.

Behind him, Michael had unleashed a flurry of quick blows, but it was a final solid cross shot to the man’s jaw that laid him flat.

Michael didn’t wait for the guard he was fighting to hit the floor. He jumped at the back of the one Sep and Thorne were fighting, and a whaling thump to the back of the man’s head made him stumble woozily. Sep and Thorne immediately shoved him toward the window, presenting his back, and an arrow buried itself in his upper quadrant.

They released the guard, who dropped to his hands and knees, more from Michael’s abnormally hard hit to the head than the sedative arrows, but with time, that might tip his consciousness over the edge to oblivion. In the meantime, they had a short reprieve.

Only now did Sep become aware of thumps to the back door. Lady Aymer stood with her back pressed against the door, as if her tiny form could hold it shut against the heavy forces outside.

“Those hulkeys’re the ones you tossed out the window.” Clara’s head popped out from behind a tower composed of two of the guard’s chairs from the card game. “They ran around outside to try to surprise us from the back door, so Prince shut the door in their faces.”

While the back door was a solid piece of construction, it wouldn’t last long beneath the blows of two of Jack’s men. But they’d specifically aimed to throw two of them out of the room as quickly as possible, to divide them and make them easier to defeat.

“Ready?” Michael rolled his shoulders as he faced the door.

Calvin and Clara had been racing around, pulling throwing knives from the two men on the floor and discarding any that couldn’t be used anymore. They retreated behind their chosen positions, Clara behind the tower of chairs while Calvin had pushed the card table onto its side and angled it to give him wider throwing lines. “Ready,” the two of them said at the same time.

“Thorne.” Sep jerked his head toward the back door even as he swiftly crossed the room to position himself against the wall on one side of it. Thorne caught his meaning and stood against the wall on the other side.

“Here.” Lady Aymer handed Sep a knife, slightly smaller than his own but smeared with fresh sedative. It was the old sedative recipe, but better than Sep’s knife, which had lost most of the paste from the blade. She’d likely given it to Sep instead of Thorne because it was considerably smaller than Thorne’s knife, which was almost the size of a small sword.

Michael nodded to his sister, who unlocked and flung open the back door almost at the same time.

One man stumbled a step inside the room, his back bent and head forward. Slightly behind him, Sep lashed out with a vicious heel to the base of his ear. It made the man stagger a couple steps further into the room, where Michael followed with an uppercut to the face, but the movement also cleared the way for the man behind him.

The second man came in with a punch aimed at Sep’s head, if it had been there. Sep had immediately ducked and slashed at the man’s thigh with his knife while Thorne surprised him with a slash against his exposed back ribs.

The man had a deep gash in his arm that looked like it had been made by Miss Sauber’s arrow. She must not have been able to land a good shot in the dark. The injury had not delivered enough sedative, for the man’s movements were still faster than Sep’s.

But Sep’s fighting movements and instincts were better honed, and he managed to mostly dodge the man’s fists. He and Thorne successfully kept the man too occupied to bring out his knife, which was apparently in his boot—he kept dipping his hand down toward his footwear, but they pressed the attack each time he did so.

But then the man kicked at Thorne and connected with his thigh, making him stumble backward. Sep darted in to cut his torso, but the man managed to grab his knife from his boot. In the same movement, he swung the blade toward Sep.

However, Thorne had regained his footing and moved in to jab his blade at him, slicing the man’s arm and altering the path of the knife so that it missed Sep’s throat.

The fight continued with more close calls, and Sep began collecting long cuts on his arms and legs, and a few on his torso. But the fight was going on for too long, plus they had already had to fight one man on the Root. His breathing had become fire in his lungs, and his arms began to feel heavier and slower.

They had administered far more sedative paste than they’d ever used on Jack’s men, and at first the man seemed to hardly be feeling the effects of it. After a few minutes, his movements slowed somewhat, but all that meant was that Sep managed to avoid getting his nob cocked by the man’s meaty fists.

But maybe the sedative was also slowing the man’s thinking, because Sep suddenly saw an opening. He deliberately closed in on him, just barely dodging the man’s overhand thrust with his knife. It cut into Sep’s shoulder but didn’t cut deeply.

Ignoring the stinging pain, Sep pulled the man close in an immobilizing clinching move even as he circled around so that the man’s back was facing the window. They were fighting near the back of the room, which was why the man had foolishly forgotten about the archer in the darkness.

An arrow sailed through the window and hit the man low in the back.

The man gave a strangled gasp and suddenly his legs collapsed under him. Sep fought to keep from being dragged to the ground with him.

Looking down, he saw the shaft of the arrow protruding from directly in the man’s spine. Sep had seen spine injuries on the battlefield, had known how they could paralyze a man, if he survived. Sep didn’t think Miss Sauber had been aiming for such a debilitating shot, and he guessed she would be shocked and appalled.

But the man was more than an ordinary man. He reached behind him and yanked out the arrow. Blood and fluid spilled out from the wound, but no sound of agony. The man hadn’t felt it.

The man looked confused, as if he had expected the wound to immediately close and his legs to regain their function. Instead, he lay there, helpless.

At the same time, Michael yelled, “Need a hand, here!”

Michael had managed to get behind the guard and lock the man’s arms, but he was twisting and kicking to get out of the hold.

“Duck,” was all Sep said as he strode toward Michael and the guard, smoothly scooping up a broken stool on the way. He got a solid grip on the stool legs, then swung it at the man’s head.

As the seat of the stool connected with the man’s temple, the impact of the blow through the wood stabbed a sharp burn in Sep’s shoulder from the knife wound he’d forgotten about. He grunted.

Michael had kept a tight hold of his captive’s arms even as he ducked to put himself well out of the way of Sep’s roundhouse stool attack. But now he released his hold and the unconscious body slid to the floor.

“Huh.” Sep stared down at the man. “I didn’t think that would work.”

Michael also stared down at him. “I didn’t either.”

Lady Aymer had hidden herself behind the table barricade with Calvin, but now she moved forward to check the downed man. “I am loathe to ruin your moment of pugilistic superiority,” she said, “but I believe these are what finally did him in.” She pointed to two bloody piercing wounds, one in his shoulder and another to his side, which had come from Miss Sauber’s arrows. Either the injury or the sedative had finally taken its toll.

Michael looked around the room. “Is that all of them? Is anyone seriously injured?”

Sep shook his head until Thorne gave him a rough jab to his bloodied shoulder. Sep winced and hissed.

“You were saying?” Thorne asked him.

“Anyone else?” Michael asked.

When the pain had dulled to a throb, Sep finally got his first good look around the room. Furniture had been shoved aside and broken during the fight, but the men had mostly avoided the other end of the room with the large table covered with various implements. Some of those tools were broken, but it was unclear whether they’d already been that way or damaged by the rumpus.

As he glanced at the men, he saw one of them blinking. He rushed forward and stepped on the man’s hand, where it had been trying to slide toward a discarded throwing knife. The guard was still dazed from the sedative—or the blow that had knocked him unconscious—but he had regained his senses much sooner than he should have.

They had no choice but to prop him up in full view of the window. The man struggled feebly, but he was no match against Michael and the sedative already in his body. Miss Sauber took a bit longer than usual to aim, but soon an arrow lodged in his shoulder, and the man howled.

Michael held the man down on the ground until the sedative could take effect while the rest of them checked the other men. They were all still unconscious, but for how long?

“I’ll run to tell him they may wake up soon,” Lady Aymer said.

Sep nodded. Mr. Drydale would need to know right away. But something bothered him. “Wait.” Sep glanced around at the bodies on the floor. He counted twice.

“What is it?” she asked.

“In the fight, I never realized that he’s missing.” Sep swept his gaze around the room, then back to his teammates. “Heddetch isn’t here.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Keriah had a clear view of the windows of the laboratory from her perch on the roof of the building directly across the small empty lot from the ink factory. Phoebe stood on the flat central valley gutter of the double-pile roof so that she’d have stable footing to aim her arrows, while Keriah and Mr. Drydale perched on the sharply pitched roofs on either side.

So Keriah had been able to clearly see the man’s knife slice into Mr. Ackett, but Phoebe didn’t hesitate and shot him quickly. Keriah also saw the arrow hit the man directly in the spine.

Phoebe gasped and her grip on her bow loosened, causing it to drop with a clatter. Mr. Drydale hissed at the sound and grabbed at the fallen bow.

Keriah immediately knew the shot had severed his spinal cord, as also evidenced by how he suddenly collapsed. She couldn’t see beyond the bottom of the window sill, but he would have lost sensation in his legs. From what she’d heard about the Root, it did not regrow organs or repair extensive wounds. The man wouldn’t walk again.

Keriah didn’t know what to say. She still held the next arrow for Phoebe to shoot, which was the last one coated with the new sedative.

“Get control of yourself,” Mr. Drydale said in a low, but urgent voice.

His voice seemed to jolt Phoebe’s mind back to the task at hand. She retrieved the bow from Mr. Drydale and reached for another arrow. Keriah handed it to her.

Only a few minutes later, Mr. Coulton-Jones held another man up to the window. Phoebe took a few hard breaths, then fired with unerring accuracy.

Keriah didn’t think she could have done that.

“It looks as though the fight is over,” Mr. Drydale said.

Several figures stood in view of the window, talking to one another, and her heart rate finally began to slow. “It was obvious that the old sedative wasn’t as effective as before. I wish I’d had time to make more of the new sedative.”

“How much have you left?” Mr. Drydale asked.

“That arrow was the last of it.” The team had managed to overpower everyone inside the laboratory just in time.

“I had been aiming for his shoulder.” Phoebe’s hand rose to her mouth, and it was shaking.

Mr. Drydale noticed. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You saved the lives of your teammates,” he said softly.

Phoebe nodded, but it seemed like an automatic reaction.

“We do this to protect people,” Mr. Drydale said. “This is what it means to be an agent. Do you understand?”

She was silent for a long time. Then her hand dropped from her mouth and she straightened her back. She nodded. “I understand.”

“Good girl.”

Keriah’s hands also shook. Weeks ago, when rushing into the stable to rescue Mr. Ackett, she’d been nervous but determined. But now, in waiting and watching, she had felt more agitated and tense.

Phoebe, in contrast, had remained calm and cool-headed, except for that one moment of shock. Keriah couldn’t remember seeing her friend seem so … impressive. Powerful.

Keriah had long known she could never be like Phoebe, but she was glad to be beside her now, to be contributing to Mr. Drydale’s team. She couldn’t fire a bow or fight as effectively, but she could support each of these people in the best way she knew how.

“I will need to see to their injuries,” Keriah said. Before the raid, she had worried about Mr. Ackett’s knee, but she hadn’t wanted to fuss over him, especially in front of everyone else. And now he had that knife wound …

Sound behind them on the roof made all three of them whirl around. Mr. Drydale had said that he’d chosen this rooftop not only because of the good view, but also because it was difficult for anyone to sneak up on them from behind.

A small figure appeared, only a shape in the darkness, but something about the way it moved told Keriah it was Isabella, and she relaxed.

So did Mr. Drydale. “What is it?”

“Heddetch was not there,” Isabella said. “We have four prisoners, but we have a problem.” She gave Keriah a regretful look. “The new sedative isn’t working as well as we hoped.”

Her chest tightened. What had she done wrong with the recipe?

Only a moment ago, she’d been so happy to be contributing to the team, but in truth, her contribution had failed.

“Are the men still awake?” Mr. Drydale’s voice was sharp.

“Not precisely,” Isabella said. “They are not unconscious, but they are sleepy and confused. They look as though they’re deeply in their cups.”

“Including the man shot twice?” Keriah asked. Phoebe had gotten a solid hit on one of the men who had fallen out the window while the other had only been grazed, but she’d gotten another definite hit on the same man when he reentered the laboratory from the back door to fight the team.

Isabella nodded.

“Have you been able to restrain them?” Mr. Drydale asked.

“For now, they only struggle feebly against the rope. They are not wakeful enough to fully unleash their strength.”

Mr. Drydale turned to Keriah. “How long will they remain like that?”

She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know what changes Jack might have made to the Root to make the men so resistant to the sedative. It could be minutes. It could be hours.”

Mr. Drydale frowned, rubbing his jaw with his hand as he thought. “There’s too much uncertainty. We could try to move them to the secure prison I arranged for, but it is outside of London. They may shake off the effects before we arrive there.”

“The old sedative only weakly acts upon them, so we wouldn’t be able to restrain them if they awoke,” Isabella said bluntly. “All we could do is hurt their feelings with choice insults.”

“Perhaps we could take them to a different prison location?” Keriah asked.

Mr. Drydale shook his head. “These men would break out of any ordinary prison. It must be this one.”

“How did you intend to transport them?” Phoebe asked.

“I arranged for an enclosed cart and heavy chains, more than sturdy enough for a normal man—but I had been counting on the guards being unconscious.”

“It will likely be adequate for the prisoners now,” Isabella said. “They are all weak and dizzy. But by the time they arrive …”

“If they are conscious,” Mr. Drydale said, “we would need more men to wrestle them from the cart into the prison.”

“They would not fight at full strength,” Isabella said.

“They would not fight at their full strength,” Keriah said. “Which means they would still be stronger than a normal man.” There were only four full-grown men on the team. The rest were women and children, who had been good support in the fight, but inadequate in terms of brute strength.

“We could possibly handle four of the guards …” Phoebe said, although she didn’t sound certain.

“But only if they were mostly still incapacitated by the sedative,” Keriah said, a touch of bitterness in her voice. If only her new sedative paste had worked as expected.

Mr. Drydale stood with his hands on his hips, pondering the situation. Finally he sighed. “There is too great a risk that one or more would escape. If that happened and any remained as prisoners, we would need to move them immediately, but there is no other place that would secure them.”

“What will you do?” Isabella asked.

Mr. Drydale sighed again, this time heavily. “I will ask for help. There are men at the … club, even at this hour of night, who will come to help transport the men.”

Keriah looked in surprise at him, then at the other two. Phoebe seemed as shocked as Keriah, but Isabella had a grim cast to her face, even under the grime of her disguise as a street urchin.

“Must you?” Isabella asked Mr. Drydale in a soft voice.

He frowned but nodded. “This is a course I would much rather have avoided.” He looked at Keriah and Phoebe. “The two of you must leave.”

“What?” Keriah said at the same time Phoebe interjected, “But—”

Mr. Drydale held up a hand to forestall their protests. “Your mistress did not wish for any of the members of my club to know that the two of you were working alongside me.” He always avoided speaking names aloud when they were out in the open like this, but it was easy enough to understand his meaning. “She would most certainly not want any of the young men to even catch a glimpse of your faces.”

“We have been working with a trainer for weeks,” Phoebe said. “The club members surely know of us by now.”

“It was specifically arranged that your training take place in a building distant from the central chambers in order to safeguard your privacy,” Mr. Drydale said. “None but your trainer and my overseer know your identities.”

“May I look at the laboratory before we leave?” Keriah asked. If Ramparts agents were arriving to help with the prisoners, they might rummage around and dislodge, break, or pocket items that could lead to clues about the Gentians.

“I shall arrange for you to thoroughly examine it at a later time,” Mr. Drydale promised. “At the moment, I must respect your mistress’s wishes.”

“I agree,” Isabella said. “It would not be wise to introduce the two of you to the men from the club so suddenly tonight, in this harum-scarum manner. Far better to arrange a more … well-managed introduction.”

“I am unaware of who exactly will be arriving, and it may be best to keep your identities a secret from some of them,” Mr. Drydale said.

“Are they dangerous?” Phoebe asked in confusion.

“Not a danger to you,” he said, “but some of them may make assumptions about what manner of women the two of you are.”

Keriah reflected that being taken for a lightskirt would be rather unpleasant. Most men treated low classes of women with careless disrespect, at best. “What of injuries?” she asked.

“None are seriously hurt,” Isabella said. “One has a knife wound, but I looked at it myself and it isn’t deep.”

“The men who arrive will bring a sawbones to patch up cuts and scrapes,” Mr. Drydale said.

Since the original plan had been for the men to accompany the captives to the prison, Mr. Drydale had requested that Lady Wynwood’s coachman, Mr. Havner, drive the women and children to the area and then wait at an inn that he trusted where he could stable the horses without fear of horse-thieves. The twins were sent to fetch him, and soon Keriah and Phoebe were ensconced within the shabby, unmarked carriage and heading back toward Mayfair. The twins sat across from them and had fallen into an exhausted slumber.

Keriah’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap. She didn’t notice she had cut off circulation in her fingers until Phoebe’s hand covered hers, forcing her fingers open.

“I was useless,” Keriah whispered.

“You know you are not,” Phoebe answered firmly, but in a low tone so as not to wake the children.

“I know nothing of the sort,” she shot back in too loud a voice. She glanced at the twins, then muttered, “I couldn’t fight—I couldn’t even sneak around like Isabella because of my limp. I couldn’t shoot arrows like you, no one needed medical assistance, and my sedative barely worked at all.”

“So this sedative recipe failed,” Phoebe said with equanimity. “Your last one saved Mr. Coulton-Jones’s life. Your next one may save someone else.”

“My next one may mean someone dies rather than simply suffering a shallow knife wound.”

“It will save someone,” Phoebe repeated. “I believe in you.”

“I do not believe in myself.”

Phoebe’s thumb rubbed the back of Keriah’s knuckles. “I know you no longer believe in God’s provision, but I believe He shall provide wisdom to you for your experiments.”

“God does not do that for people who refuse to believe in Him any longer.”

“God most certainly does that for people who don’t believe in him,” Phoebe countered. “Especially if it will cause them to turn to Him. Remember that old Bible story about Balaam and the donkey?”

Keriah was utterly confused. “The talking donkey story? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Balaam was a pagan who didn’t believe in God, and yet God gave him powerful words of prophecy to bless His people Israel. God is powerful enough that He has no need or desire to only work through saints.”

Phoebe’s words gave her pause. Keriah’s anger and frustration at herself was nothing new. She couldn’t seem to do the things she set out to do, whether because she wasn’t smart enough or her body failed her. Her interest in medicine and chemistry were all she had, and everything that defined her identity was shaped around it, because she couldn’t become what her mother wished her to be.

But she remembered Mr. Ackett praying. He was no stranger to frustration, and it was obvious that his injury had been a blow to everything he used to be capable of doing. Yet he still turned to God for comfort rather than blaming Him.

He wasn’t angry and bitter like Keriah.

And it wasn’t only Mr. Ackett who had such faith. She knew Phoebe was still fighting her bitterness at her father, but she hadn’t abandoned her faith. She was struggling with her emotions, and struggling with God, and yet she was still trying not to be burned by the fires of her wrath. She was not perfectly at peace, but she was not wallowing in bile, either.

Instead, Phoebe set aside her emotions and performed the tasks given to her, no matter how difficult. And she still had time to try to encourage Keriah. She still believed in Keriah, overlooking her failures.

Perhaps that truly was God giving Phoebe spiritual strength beyond her means, similar to the way the Root gave men physical strength beyond themselves. Earlier that evening, when she had looked at Phoebe and seen how magnificent she was, perhaps that was due not only to her mental fortitude, but also to the supernatural power feeding confidence and equanimity into her stalwart soul.

Keriah suddenly felt alone in a way she hadn’t in a long time, not since her sister died. Mr. Ackett and Phoebe had their strong faith to bolster them, whereas Keriah was enraged at God for allowing the attack to her sister to occur. Her resentment and desolation were causing a thunderstorm inside of her, wind and rain warring with each other.

She felt unsettled. She didn’t like It, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

She again felt that sense of uselessness, except that now it seemed deeper and more hollow.

Keriah’s thoughts were interrupted when Phoebe’s shoulder jostled her. “No, you mustn’t go down that train of thought,” Phoebe said.

“What train of thought?”

“Feeling sad and insecure.”

Keriah wanted to tell her that she was wrong, but she wasn’t far off. “I shall be fine as fivepence,” she said.

Phoebe didn’t answer at first, simply peered at her friend’s face. Finally she said, “I’ll always be here for you when you need me.”

Phoebe’s words comforted Keriah, but at the same time there was still a place deep inside herself that felt barren. She began to suspect that perhaps it was that empty spot that was the root of all her problems.

As they drove on through the darkened London streets, Keriah resolved that the next time she had a chance, she would speak privately to Mr. Ackett. Somehow, it would be easier to speak to him about spiritual matters than with Phoebe or Lady Wynwood. She wanted the advice and opinion of someone who didn’t know the full story about her injury and her sister, and she somehow knew that he would be frank as well as kind.

She might even tell him that they met long ago when they were children, although he obviously didn’t remember her. Even Phoebe didn’t know about that time.

It was the moment she’d first fallen in love with him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Maxham had been lying on his back on top of the roof. He didn’t need to sleep as much as he did before he started taking the Blood Nectar, but his uneventful vigil bored him, making him tired. His consciousness wasn’t quite asleep, but it suddenly shifted to full wakefulness as he heard a noise below him.

It shocked him that the intruders had managed to get so close before he sensed them, even if he’d been half-asleep. They were so light on their feet that he couldn’t tell how many there were, excepting one large man who was louder than the others.

Maxham silently rolled onto his stomach, which put his face directly over one of the glass skylights in the ceiling. Below, the useless guards were playing a card game. It had been partly due to the noise they made that Maxham hadn’t been able to hear the people sneaking up on the back door, but he suspected that even if the guards had been quiet, the people would still have been able to reach the laboratory without alerting him.

He’d been right to suspect a sneaking attack. Yesterday, he had strangely smelled violets outside the laboratory, tracing the barely noticeable scent to the back door and also the rooftop.

He had suspected that if they sent Heddetch back to his house, these mysterious people would take the bait. And so they had.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on his enhanced hearing, sorting through each individual sound, straining to hear things normal men could not. He couldn’t identify the intruders by footstep, so he focused, listening harder, picking out heartbeats.

Two men. One woman. One—no, two children. Four of the five were well-versed in stealthy movements, and so they probably wouldn’t be very strong in a fight.

Then he frowned, remembering what Jack had told him about Silas and Nick in the church, and about the people who had invaded the stables to rescue that man. Jack’s men were chosen for their strength and brutality, not their intelligence or diligence, so on a whole, they were a stupid, lazy bunch. Two well-trained men might be able to defeat the four distracted louts in the laboratory. It was perhaps fortunate he had decided to stay and watch.

He waited and was rewarded by a single man at the front door. Obviously a diversion, but Maxham’s interest was caught because the man had the distinct scent of the Root—no, not the Root elixir, but Jack’s hybrid Goldensuit plants. How curious.

The guards were alarmed by the diversion, but Maxham waited to see what the silent group of people directly beneath him would do. They were huddled around the back door, which had been locked since the days when the lab had been Bianca’s. She’d had both the back door and the original front door made strong enough to withstand a Biblical end of the world. Ten years ago, he and Jack had a terrible time trying to break in to gain access to the laboratory, and they’d only succeeded once they completely destroyed the original front door. Did this small group believe they could break down the back door, or would they try to pick the lock?

Maxham stiffened when he heard the metallic scraping sound of a key, then the soft thunk of the bolt unlocking. They had a key! What was more, the sound was the smoothness of a key made for the lock, not a skeleton key. Which meant they had Bianca’s key!

Where did they find it? He and Jack and even Ward had searched the two properties they knew she had owned, Jadis’s townhouse and the small country cottage where she’d built an enormous greenhouse on the extensive lands. They had found nothing, which prompted Ward into another one of his tantrums.

By now, the diversionary man managed to kick a hole in the wall and throw something inside the room. Maxham had to clap his hand over his mouth and nose when the acrid, biting smell rose from the cracks in the skylight. Even as he tried to silence his coughs, he marveled at their cleverness—they had not only discovered the sensitivity granted by the Root, but also devised something to specifically counter it.

He was only dimly aware that the small attacking group had entered the laboratory, as he curled up and muffled the hacking of his lungs. Maxham was in agony—this was even worse than the one time he’d accidentally inhaled some gunpowder.

By the time he turned his attention (and his watering eyes) back to the fight, two of the guards had been ejected from the room through the open windows.

But then Maxham inhaled sharply upon seeing him rush into the room.

He entered from the back door to belatedly join the others. Even with his mask on, Maxham recognized him.

Unfortunately, Maxham’s gasp of surprise only made him have to cover his mouth again to stifle the coughing that rose from the lingering fumes of whatever chemical they had released in the room.

The man was alive. And he was awake. Maxham had suspected this man’s friends had managed to knock him out when he had turned into a Berserker. After all, he couldn’t imagine that, after going through all that trouble to save him, that his friends would allow him to die.

But Maxham hadn’t expected him to be awake, active, and still in his right mind. Nick had been barely a meat shell when he’d awoken from the sedative that had felled him in the stables.

This man moved faster than a normal man, although not at the same speed as Jack’s guards. And the unmistakable smell of pollen rose to Maxham’s nose, not from the original Goldensuit plants but from Jack’s hybrid. They were keeping him alive with the hybrid pollen, he guessed. He had thought those French agents had taken Jack’s plants, but perhaps these people had stolen them from the Frenchies.

He looked closer at the other two fighters, and abruptly recognized the shorter of the two. It was that same man from the stable, who had caused Maxham so much frustration. Maxham had gone through even more pain than normal, and yet the man had given him no useful information. He’d felt a strange kinship with the man, and yet at the same time Maxham had hated him from his very soul.

He had a rather bad feeling about how his trap was going to end. Before this, he would have expected Jack’s guards to run roughshod over the intruders, but now, he wasn’t so confident. He hadn’t planned on one of the attackers being nearly as strong as the others. If it were only that, the guards could have defeated him, but he had two other men fighting with him.

And Maxham knew at least one of those fellow teammates, that shorter man, had that fiery determination in his soul. Oh, how Maxham wanted to crush that in his fist.

He could step in. But against so many, he’d have to kill them, and he wouldn’t get the answers burning inside his stomach about Bianca’s key and the man who had formerly been a Berserker.

This man was nearly as strong as a man on the Root, even weeks after he had been a Berserker. As Maxham watched, he admitted that although he himself was stronger, the former Berserker had an edge with his better reflexes and fighting abilities, making him far better at brawling than Maxham. Maxham would only be able to kill the man if he took him by surprise, and even that wouldn’t be easily done.

So Maxham lay there and watched the events unfold, remaining quiet lest the man on the Goldensuit pollen hear him up here. Maxham began to realize he’d been fortunate that none of them had tried to climb up on the roof to ambush the guards. He hadn’t thought of that, but then again, he was not as clever when it came to military strategies, and these attackers had invaded the laboratory as if it were a military campaign. In observing how they fought, he wondered which department they worked for.

He guessed the distant archer was the same one who had fired upon him back at the burned factory. He was briefly intrigued when one arrow injured a guard’s spine. He wondered if the Root would heal an injury like that. He doubted it, and if it did, it would take some time before he regained his legs—far more time than this fight would last.

Finally it was over, and the intruders began speaking to one another. Maxham leaned closer to the glass, pressing his ear against it to catch the faint sound vibrations that floated up to him.

At first, they didn’t say much to each other. They tied up the guards, but the men’s slow movements and slight moaning indicated that the sedative used on them hadn’t been as effective as at the stables. Jack had crowed that he’d perfected the Root recipe, but Maxham knew it had been Heddetch who’d added a tincture to the Root to give the men greater immunity to chemical soporifics.

After nearly half an hour of watching over the captured guards and doing only a cursory search of the laboratory, the attackers appeared to be waiting on something. During the lull, a small figure approached the former Berserker, handing him the key. Maxham saw the smudge of blue on the handle and knew for a certainty that it was Bianca’s key.

“I never asked—where did you find this?” The voice could have been a young boy’s, and Maxham only knew she was a woman from the sound of her heartbeat.

“She found it in a side table that used to be in her husband’s bedroom. He hid it in the false bottom of a drawer.”

As soon as he heard the deep voice in reply, Maxham confirmed it was the same man he’d dosed with tainted Root and turned into a Berserker. He again marveled in his thoughts, Alive, awake, and strong!

The man looked at the key in his hand. Maxham followed the movements of his fingers as he placed the key inside a coat pocket.

“When will they arrive?” the man asked one of the others.

“Soon,” someone answered him.

They were expecting more people. It was time for Maxham to leave.

Surprisingly, Jack was better at sneaking around, but Maxham had been the one to teach him. Years in London doing unconventional things had enabled him to master the art of moving about unnoticed. He slipped off the roof and was soon hurrying down dark streets and into twisting alleys.

His trap had failed—Maxham shouldn’t have listened to Jack when he insisted that four of his men on the Root would be sufficient—but he might have gained even more from the failure than a success would have delivered to him. Jack would be upset at the capture of his men, but he would be quickly diverted by the good news Maxham had for him.

The building where Jack’s main laboratory was hidden was a-bustle with activity, so it was even easier than normal for Maxham to wander to the back and through Jack’s private door.

As he climbed the narrow stairs, his sensitive hearing picked up Heddetch’s whining voice. Maxham sighed. Jack would be on the verge of a murder romp.

Maxham opened the door to the laboratory without knocking, because Jack would have recognized the sound of his steps on the stairs at least two landings ago. Jack never looked to be in a good mood—his usual careless, mentally unstable act was always shadowed by the saw-toothed edge of violence. Now, however, he was focused on his workbench, pointedly ignoring Heddetch, but with a savage fire in his eyes that indicated his irritation was nearly topped off.

Maxham sighed. Heddetch was a splinter in his thumb, tiny and unimportant, but pricking him often and in unexpected moments. He was tempted to let Jack off his leash. But they still needed Heddetch to placate Ward, who would otherwise try to meddle in their affairs like an impatient boy sticking his fingers into a berry pie.

There was also the fact that if Jack lost control, Maxham would be the one forced to clean up the mess.

Startled, Heddetch jumped as Maxham entered the room. A self-satisfied smirk appeared briefly on Jack’s face in response. Maxham also admitted to himself that he preferred goading Heddetch over accommodating him because it felt a bit like goading Ward.

Heddetch smoothed a hand over his waistcoat, which seemed too fine and out of place in the laboratory. “I assume that since you are here, they didn’t take the bait,” he said. “I did as you asked and went along with your instructions, but I thought your plan was too complicated.”

“It’s only been one day,” Maxham replied, rather than telling him what had happened.

“I’m sure Dr. Ward would agree with my assessment,” Heddetch said. “I wrote to him about my idea to kill Lady Wynwood as the smarter option.”

Jack finally looked at Heddetch, a disgusted expression marring the black and blue lines on his face. He looked as though he dearly wished to say something, but instead smashed his pink lips shut and went back to his work, a vein throbbing in his temple where a pink X had been painted.

“It’s still an option,” Maxham said mildly.

“However, I am quite glad I went back to my house yesterday as you requested, Mr. Maxham,” Heddetch said, preening. “A letter from Dr. Ward had arrived with the post, and I only just read it now.”

Maxham doubted that. He probably read it as soon as he received it yesterday. He also probably read it to Jack. Multiple times. No wonder the poisoner was in such a foul mood. However, because Jack likely ignored Heddetch, the doctor was eager to babble on now that Maxham was here.

“Last week,” Heddetch said, “in his last letter, Dr. Ward finally confessed to me what exactly Mr. Maxham acquires for him.”

Maxham stilled. What was Ward thinking, telling Heddetch something like that?

Jack picked up on his mood and his eyes flicked toward Maxham, but he continued grinding roots in his mortar.

Maxham moved slowly and carefully toward a chair against the wall and sat. It brought him too far away for a comfortable conversation with Jack and Heddetch, who were standing near the workbench, but Maxham preferred being here. It was out of the way of Jack’s work, which sometimes threw random bits of things out around him, and it forced Heddetch to have to deliberately face in his direction to address him.

“I was quite surprised,” Heddetch continued, “because I could acquire the same ingredient for him whenever he wishes. I wrote last week to tell him so, and in his letter that arrived yesterday, he said he would be quite interested.” Heddetch was obviously gleeful to not only be in a position to serve Ward, but also to undermine Maxham. “I am so pleased that I can be of use to Dr. Ward. It will reduce your own workload, Mr. Maxham.”

So Ward wanted to eliminate his need for Maxham? He could certainly try.

The wrath and brutality rose in him, familiar and rusty. He hadn’t felt this intensely in a long while, not since before he had killed Bianca. He had forgotten how alive it made him feel. It pushed back the emptiness that was his constant companion, and he stoked the fires.

Maxham had become too used to the calmness and stillness of his thoughts lately. Now, Ward’s snub had caused Maxham to react more strongly than he had expected.

Ward had been holed up in his little country house for too long. He had begun to disregard Maxham, in the same way that Maxham had been disregarded by his rector father, as he had been disregarded by his cousin. And when he had killed each of them, he had vowed he would never again be disregarded. And yet here he was. Watching as Heddetch gloated.

He felt the viciousness fermenting inside of him, but he smiled at Heddetch, biding his time.

In contrast, Jack took offense where Maxham had not. His head whipped toward the doctor, neck elongated, teeth bared. Some of the pink face paint had smeared onto his yellow teeth, giving them a reddish cast, and for a moment it looked as though Jack had drunk blood and looked to open Heddetch’s veins next. “You can provide it?” Jack sneered. “You do realize that they have to be alive?”

Heddetch choked. “Alive?” he repeated in a faint voice.

Jack’s smile grew wider, like a tiger about to pounce.

However, Heddetch recovered quickly. “That will not be a problem at all.” He smoothed a hand over his waistcoat again. “I shall simply be … a tad more resourceful.”

Jack sniffed at Heddetch, then turned to Maxham. “Are you returning to Bianca’s laboratory tonight?”

“No,” Maxham said, crossing one leg over the other. “There’s no point.”

Heddetch stuck his nose higher in the air. “Your plan to trap them is much too complicated, Mr. Maxham—”

Jack slammed his hand down on the worktable, but because of his strength, the sound was extraordinarily loud in the large room. The people downstairs would surely hear it.

“You already said that three times tonight,” Jack said between gritted teeth, spittle flying out at Heddetch in a wide spray. “This was number four. Shut your mouth or I will nail it shut.” His wide eyes glared at Heddetch. He would do as he said in a heartbeat—with actual nails.

Heddetch grew pale, realizing he had poked the bear one time too many. “I shall make us some tea, shall I?” he asked in a high-pitched voice.

“Yessss,” Jack said, focused on Heddetch like a snake and sounding like one, as well.

Heddetch scurried out of the room through its only door, and soon they heard the sound of his footsteps heading down the stairs.

Jack turned his face toward the ceiling and gave a mighty sigh, his mouth hanging open. Then he snapped his jaw shut with an audible click of his teeth and turned back to his work. “What happened at Bianca’s laboratory?” he asked Maxham without looking at him.

Maxham explained what he’d seen and heard. He inwardly reflected that it was strange how he had once again underestimated these men. He had done it with the one he’d turned into a berserker—the one who had lived—and also when he’d put the other one in a stable to act as bait. He was usually not so short-sighted, nor did he often fail twice. He prided himself on observing his mistakes and correcting them, and yet once again he had not done so. It was as if there was a veil over his thoughts, causing him to see things darkly. He did not understand this blind spot he had developed, but he determined to overcome it the next time.

Jack, predictably, was unpredictable. He listened silently to Maxham’s tale, and didn’t react for a full minute. Then suddenly he hurled his mortar at the far wall, where it cracked the wood before clattering to the floor. “They overpowered all those men on the Root!” Jack shrieked in rage.

Maxham congratulated himself on having the foresight to sit far away from the workbench, for Jack rampaged about, throwing anything he could lay hands on, including broken instruments and discarded vials and ceramic containers that had been left to collect dust on the other side of the long table. “Useless!” Jack screamed. “They were supposed to ambush them!”

Maxham heard the footsteps of someone on the stairs outside that stopped upon hearing the commotion, then quietly headed back down again. Maxham was glad, for in his current mood, Jack was likely to take one look at Heddetch and snap his neck before thinking clearly.

Jack finally calmed down, standing before the bench, breathing heavily. He kicked away a broken bowl, then rested his hands on the edge of the table.

“But I saw something very interesting,” Maxham said.

With a startling change of mood, Jack whirled like a ballerina, balancing on the ball of his foot for a moment before dropping both feet. “Do tell,” he cooed, clasping his hands over his chest.

Maxham uncrossed his legs. “It made me realize that we’ve been spending too much energy trying to crush them.”

Jack bared his teeth again. “What do you mean? We need to crush them all.” He began stamping on the floor. “They’re like cockroaches—they move too quickly to step on them, and then they pop up in the most unexpected places.” He kept stamping on the wooden floorboards in a discordant dance.

“I disagree,” Maxham said over the sound of his feet. “What we actually need is to take only one person in particular.”

Jack stopped, swiveling back towards Maxham and clicking his heels together. “Oooooh?” he drawled.

Maxham smiled, feeling true elation as his mind sifted through the beginnings of his plan. “And I know exactly how we can do that.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Phoebe stood and automatically obeyed Aya’s orders as she dressed her for battle (which Aya referred to as Phoebe’s impending visit to her father’s house).

She didn’t know how things had unfolded after she and Keriah left last night. She still felt traces of guilt and horror at the arrow that had surely paralyzed that one man, but she had confessed all to Aunt Laura last night, who had prayed with her. Phoebe also believed Uncle Sol’s words, that she had been protecting her team. She had made the decision to fire that arrow. Soldiers had that mentality when going into battle. Spies were no different.

She hoped to be able to search the laboratory later today, or perhaps tomorrow. While Keriah had been more frustrated by it, Phoebe remembered what Isabella had told them about the agent, Mr. Clay, who had arrived at her aunt’s home with the message for Uncle Sol. Something about Mr. Clay had made Isabella distrustful, and she had muttered about the politics within the Ramparts. Since Isabella had been uneasy about the agents from the Ramparts, Phoebe would trust in Uncle Sol’s decision to shield them.

She also hoped to speak to Keriah later today. Last night, Keriah had been frustrated and also a bit depressed that her new sedative hadn’t worked very well against the men on the Root. If Keriah wasn’t able to shake off her doldrums by today, Phoebe was prepared to give her the swift kick to the backside that she’d need to move past this failure and work toward a new sedative formula.

“There, Miss Phoebe.” Aya had completed doing up her dress and positioning the fashionable bonnet upon her head. Phoebe eschewed too much frippery, so the straw crown only held a wide green ribbon and a matching silk lining, but the ribbon was richly embroidered in various shades of green and white, matched with sparser embroidery on the lining.

She sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror. Dealing with her father seemed rather trivial compared to her activities last night. However, there was a queasiness in her stomach and tightness in her chest that hadn’t been present then, and she admitted that her visit today was more upsetting. It was partly because she was still so angry at him.

She abruptly became aware that she was absently touching the muffatees that Aya had made for her, lovely lacey cuffs that fit over her forearms—and which each concealed a slim blade. She wondered if she could justify bringing a knife along …

But she wouldn’t be allowed to continue to help Uncle Sol if she were jailed for stabbing her father or stepmother. And she had a feeling that at least one of the two would say something to make her want to stab someone.

“Now, Miss Phoebe.” Aya took the muffatees away. “We wouldn’t want to be rude and accidentally skewer that man in the heart, now would we?”

When Phoebe exited her room in the hotel in order to enter Aunt Laura’s room, she was surprised to see Uncle Sol in the hallway, having just passed the agent standing guard at the door to the stairwell. He knew about her plans to visit her father today, so he would not have come unless he had something important to tell her. She immediately tensed, but a part of her was secretly relieved at a possible incident that would prevent her from seeing her father’s delightfully sour face today.

They entered Aunt Laura’s room, and her aunt greeted him with raised eyebrows. As soon as the door closed, he announced, “I shall be accompanying you to Mr. Sauber’s house.”

“Is there some danger?” Phoebe asked. Perhaps she shouldn’t have left the muffatees after all.

Uncle Sol took her hands in his. “I am not a true uncle related to you by blood, but I feel justified to stand as one by your side.”

Warmth blossomed in her heart at his support. She clenched his hands but said nothing.

They exited the hotel through the more private back courtyard where a nondescript coach stood waiting for them, driven by Aunt Laura’s coachman, Mr. Havner. She would normally take the large, older carriage with the Wynwood coat of arms emblazoned upon the side, which had been used by the previous dowager Lady Wynwood, but in order to keep the secret of her identity from anyone who might happen to see them outside the hotel, the Ramparts provided an unmarked carriage for her. She insisted upon Mr. Havner since Phoebe’s father’s household knew well that he was the only driver Aunt Laura ever used, and a stranger might attract notice, especially from Mr. Sauber’s gossipy servants.

Phoebe sat in the carriage on the short drive to her father’s house. She would much rather be rummaging through Dr. Heddetch’s laboratory, and regretted that Aunt Laura had committed them to visiting her father today.

She didn’t realize her legs were shaking restlessly until Aunt Laura slammed her hand down on Phoebe’s knee. With equal parts annoyance and concern, she said, “A bit nervous, are we?”

Chagrined, Phoebe tried to relax. “I beg your pardon.”

She didn’t want to see her father. Every time she thought of him, all she remembered was how carelessly he had treated her, culminating in the outright theft of her dowry, and the indignation rose hot and boiling inside her.

Now that they were on their way to his house, she suddenly wondered what he would be feeling. Perhaps he was angry at her for not supporting him. Although, since he had not invited his only daughter to his own wedding last week, she would have thought that their estrangement would be more embarrassing for him than for her.

He had ordered his servants to kidnap his own daughter. She didn’t trust him and was certain he would try to do something to detain her once she stepped inside his house again. Part of her anxiety was because she suspected he had something terrible planned for her.

He still thought he owned her. That was the essence of all her problems. He likely wanted to prove to himself and to his peers that he could control his own daughter.

“There is nothing to fear,” Aunt Laura said to her. “The visit will go smoothly.”

“He is going to say things to upset me,” Phoebe said, almost growling. “I don’t wish to visit him only to become upset.”

“I suspect everything out of his mouth will upset you,” Aunt Laura said dryly, then added, “We shall curtail the visit as much as possible. You’ll be leaving before you know it.”

“Will I?” Phoebe asked, her apprehension making her voice thin and reedy.

Uncle Sol said in bracing tones, “The plan will work.”

Somehow, his utter confidence buoyed up her spirits enough to keep her from feeling like she was drowning.

It was too short a carriage ride. Soon, Uncle Sol held out his hand for Phoebe to grasp as she exited the coach.

The front stoop of the house was not as filthy as it had been the last time she came here—which, as she now remembered, was to sneak into her father’s safe to recover her jewels—so the new Mrs. Sauber must have a firmer hand over the servants than Phoebe had ever had. Or perhaps Mr. Sauber did not countermand his spouse’s orders as he had done his daughter’s.

When they were shown into the drawing room, only Phoebe’s father stood to receive them. With an entirely insincere smile on his face, he quickly addressed Uncle Sol. “Mr. Drydale, rest assured you are always welcome in my home. However, I must earnestly beg your pardon in this instance, since I have asked Phoebe here to discuss a family matter.”

With an equally insincere smile, Uncle Sol replied, “It is precisely because it is a family matter that I have accompanied the ladies. It concerns me that your servants attempted to kidnap her, and I fear for her physical well-being. As she is unable to entirely rely upon her blood relations, I have come to act as her support in this distressing situation.”

Her father’s false affability cracked. “The supposed kidnapping was entirely a misunderstanding, I assure you,” he said in a faintly irritated voice. “The servants in question have been punished.”

“If that is the case, then surely you won’t object to my presence with the women? They certainly have no objection, and have confided in me entirely in all manner of private business.” Uncle Sol’s smile grew feral. “I am certain I can prevent any further ‘misunderstandings.’”

Aunt Laura cut into their conversation. “Aren’t you going to invite us to sit down, Denholm?” Then without waiting for an answer, strode toward the sofa.

Uncle Sol took the opportunity to cup Phoebe’s elbow and guide her to the sofa in Aunt Laura’s wake. Her father was forced to follow as the butler closed the door to the drawing room, and the party sat down.

“Will Mrs. Sauber not be present today?” Aunt Laura asked in a voice that clearly stated she had no interest in his new wife whatsoever.

“My wife is feeling poorly and begs your forgiveness for not being here to welcome you,” Mr. Sauber said, but Phoebe caught a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

She didn’t like that smile. Why would he be pleased that Mrs. Sauber was not here? She doubted he simply wished to avoid the conflagration that might erupt upon putting Phoebe and Mrs. Sauber in the same room.

“What did you wish to speak about?” Phoebe asked bluntly. She had no patience for games with this man, and not enough respect for him to be polite.

He gave a moue of displeasure. “You have not even congratulated me upon my wedding.”

Her smile in reply was as cold as ice. “I sent a lovely gift, even though I had not been invited.” It had taken forever to find the perfect gift—a set of matching water pitchers shaped like monkeys. The animals were contorted in what might have been playful poses if not for the fact that the water poured out of their buttocks.

“Mrs. Sauber assured me that, as you are my only daughter, you would be naturally expected to attend and would not need anything so formal as an invitation,” he said. “We were terribly disappointed when you did not join in the festivities.”

Aunt Laura actually tittered, which caused Phoebe and Uncle Sol to stare at her and shift uncomfortably. Aunt Laura never tittered, except when she was about to issue a thorough social walloping.

“Mrs. Sauber must have been dreadfully tired and distracted in her wedding planning,” Aunt Laura said, managing to sound concerned, “for she completely forgot the most basic of social niceties.”

“My wife would never neglect proper etiquette,” Phoebe’s father blustered.

“Oh? I hesitate to assign any hint of ignorance to the woman you married, Denholm, but any social hostess worth her salt knows that your daughter could not have attended the wedding alone and unescorted, as a young, unmarried female. As I had not been given an invitation, I could not accompany her. We did not even know the date of the event, since Mrs. Sauber neglected to send ’round a note to inform Phoebe.” She opened her eyes wide in innocence.

Phoebe’s father was caught off-guard since he had obviously not considered that nuance, likely due to the fact that he hadn’t wanted Phoebe to attend at all. “If she had been living at home, it would not have become such a tiresome issue,” he grumbled.

Because of the creaking of the floorboards, Phoebe suddenly heard footsteps coming down the stairs from the floor above, then toward the drawing room door. The steps were heavier than she would have expected for Mrs. Sauber, so when the door was flung open by the footman stationed in the hallway outside, she was not surprised to find a strange man standing there.

He was of average height, but his wide, round head, weak chin, and narrow shoulders made him seem shorter than he was. He had thinning, dishwater-blond hair and a petulant mouth, but he carried himself as though he owned the entire house and everything in it. His clothing was exceptionally fine—much more so than any other man in the room. His wealth positively scented the air as it wafted from the fine fabric of his waistcoat, the gold rings on his fingers, and the jewel sparkling in his cravat.

Phoebe’s father rose and greeted the visitor like an old friend. “Mr. Poe, how wonderful that you were able to join us. I do apologize for asking you to forego your usual nap after luncheon. Might I offer you a glass of wine? Or perhaps something stronger?” Without waiting for an answer, he snapped his finger at the footman waiting in the open doorway. The servant (whom Phoebe knew liked to partake of his master’s wines) made a slightly sour expression, but bowed and closed the door behind him.

“Laura, Mr. Drydale, might I present my good friend Mr. Poe? He has been staying here as my guest for the past week. Mr. Poe, this is Lady Wynwood, Mr. Drydale, and my daughter, Phoebe.”

The women gave the barest of curtseys while Uncle Sol dipped his head in a polite bow.

After they had all been seated again, Mr. Sauber turned triumphantly toward Phoebe. “Daughter, despite your recalcitrant behavior, I have secured a suitable marriage for you.”

Phoebe froze. Everything inside of her recoiled in disgust and horror, even before Mr. Poe ran his cold eyes over her person as though she were a cut of beef.

“You may thank my wife for this stroke of good fortune,” her father continued. “Mr. Poe is a friend of one of her relations, come all the way from the Colonies. He is a landowner in Virginia and has need of a wife for his motherless children.”

In a rush, Phoebe immediately said, “I thank you for the honor of your proposal but I must decline.”

Her father frowned, but Mr. Poe didn’t even acknowledge her reply. Instead, he turned toward Mr. Sauber and said in a desultory voice, “I must unexpectedly return home sooner than I had intended. I have just booked passage on a ship leaving next week. Will she be ready to leave by then?”

“Of course,” Mr. Sauber replied for Phoebe. “I am certain you will wish to rush home to tell your daughter that my wife will be able to sponsor her for a Season next year.”

So Mr. Poe was marrying Phoebe for the connection to the Saubers and social advancement for his daughter. However, she didn’t understand why Mr. Poe would want an unwilling bride when he could have found any number of women of good family who would be more than eager to marry him for his money. She hadn’t even a dowry for him to collect—in fact, he might be paying a bride price to her father.

Perhaps the Saubers had the best connections to the nobility out of all the people he knew in London. Or perhaps they were the only family willing to sponsor his daughter for a Season.

“I. Shall. Not. Marry. Mr. Poe,” Phoebe said with exaggerated slowness, her words clear and sharp as shards of glass.

A faint crease appeared between Mr. Poe’s thin eyebrows, but he still hadn’t looked her directly in the eyes, merely skimming over her face and focusing on her bosom.

“I apologize,” Mr. Sauber said to Mr. Poe, “but I did warn you of her stubborn nature.”

Still not speaking to Phoebe, Mr. Poe said, “I care not. She’ll be properly obedient once she’s been broken in, like a filly. I find that women are much like horses.”

Aunt Laura choked. Phoebe would have also choked if she weren’t already breathless with indignation.

“Sauber, your daughter is not an object!” Uncle Sol exploded.

Her father flinched at the volume of Uncle Sol’s shout, but he managed to reply, “My family is not of your concern, sirrah. You do not possess the right to say anything at all, as you are not a relation by blood or marriage.” His gaze flickered to Aunt Laura and he sneered.

Phoebe had rarely seen Uncle Sol use the power of his ancient family name and great wealth in social situations, but he suddenly seemed to grow taller and wider, the intangible strength of his presence seeming to crush the other men in the room. “It appears to me,” he said in terrible tones, “that since Phoebe’s father by blood is not interested in her welfare, I have every right to step in to protect her.”

Mr. Sauber was livid, his face a purplish red, but he also kept himself in check, intimidated by something threatening that he saw in Uncle Sol’s eyes. “I only have her best interests in mind,” he insisted with a quavering voice.

“It appears to me that you are selling your daughter, Denholm,” Aunt Laura shot back.

“I am hardly selling her. Do not be melodramatic.” Mr. Sauber glared at them all. “I am doing as a responsible parent should and arranging a proper marriage for her to a man who will provide every comfort for her. Mr. Poe is wealthy and owns a vast estate. He is well respected in Virginia. Phoebe shall want for nothing.”

“‘Phoebe’ does not wish to marry Mr. Poe,” Phoebe said again, her voice rising. “Should not the woman’s opinion matter?”

Mr. Sauber cast her a look of disdain. “Children often don’t know what is best for them, as you have clearly demonstrated. That being the case, you should trust in your elders’ wisdom and decisions.”

“Your wisdom is debatable,” Aunt Laura snapped.

“Anyone would agree that I am still responsible for her since she is unmarried and dependent upon her relations.” He sneered at Aunt Laura, the very relation Phoebe was dependent upon.

Ignoring his comment, Aunt Laura turned to Mr. Poe. “Pray tell, how long have you been acquainted with Denholm?”

Mr. Poe remained silent and refused to answer her—in fact, he looked positively offended that Aunt Laura had addressed him. Considering her aunt’s title, Phoebe had never seen someone treat her in that manner. Was it because he was from the Colonies? But she had met one or two other Americans who had not been so rude.

As the silence stretched, Phoebe was about to hotly demand a reply when her father hurriedly said, “We have known each other many weeks, and I have formed a favorable view of his character. He is completely trustworthy.”

Aunt Laura continued to study Mr. Poe for a long minute before abruptly turning to Phoebe’s father. “Tell me, Denholm, why have you not been going to your club of late?”

Phoebe blinked at this sudden change of topic. She didn’t quite understand her aunt’s reasons for it.

“I have been beset with tasks in the weeks leading up to my marriage, of course,” he said derisively.

“Mr. Poe doesn’t mind your sudden retiring nature?” Aunt Laura didn’t even glance at Mr. Poe as she asked her question.

Mr. Sauber glanced at Mr. Poe, who pressed his lips together and turned his head aside, his nose in the air. “Mr. Poe prefers quiet nights in the comfort of home,” Mr. Sauber answered stiffly.

“It isn’t because you’ve been avoiding your friends at your club, is it?”

The corners of her father’s mouth tightened.

Aunt Laura continued, “I would hazard a guess that you have not gone to your club because you’ve been embarrassed by how Phoebe’s actions make it obvious that you have no control over your own daughter.”

Mr. Sauber’s face grew apoplectic. “You—” He spat out a string of insults at Aunt Laura. The crassness of his language made even Phoebe gasp.

In contrast, the only change on Aunt Laura’s calm face was to lift her lips in a contemptuous half-smile. “It explains why you wish Phoebe to marry Mr. Poe so abruptly. You wish her gone quickly so that you may repair your tattered reputation.”

Phoebe’s father shot to his feet.

Uncle Sol did the same. Despite her father’s anger, it was Uncle Sol who appeared the more dangerous man, his back straight and his weight balanced, radiating power and athleticism through the stillness of his threatening posture.

Her father leaned backward slightly. Mr. Poe looked just as angry, but he had the look of a feral rat, fiercely superior in its own domain but forced to retreat in resentment when challenged by a predator.

A knock at the door interrupted the lightning bolts that seemed to be flying in the air between the three men. A maid entered, finely dressed and a stranger to Phoebe. She had the look of an upper servant, and Phoebe suspected this was Mrs. Sauber’s lady’s maid.

The servant was taken aback by the tense atmosphere, but she primly cleared her throat. “Mrs. Sauber has requested to see your daughter in her bedchamber.” She gave Phoebe only a dismissive glance.

Mr. Sauber welcomed the interruption and said eagerly, “Of course. Phoebe, follow Hampton upstairs.”

Phoebe rose slowly, unable to quickly come up with a reason to refuse the summons—at least, not an excuse that wouldn’t sound outrageous, such as, “I would rather swim naked in the Thames than breathe your wife’s poisonous atmosphere.” Aunt Laura also stood, and Uncle Sol moved toward the drawing room door with her.

Her father gave a choking sound, then hastily said, “The request was only for Phoebe. You couldn’t possibly enter my wife’s bedchamber when she is ill.”

Aunt Laura gave Mr. Sauber a frosty look. “And yet Phoebe is required to enter the invalid’s bedchamber?”

“What objection could there be for us to wait outside the bedroom door?” Uncle Sol asked.

“This is highly irregular,” her father objected, “and a shabby way to treat your host and the owner of this house.”

“The servants of this house attacked Phoebe,” Uncle Sol said brusquely. “It would be unusual for someone to not be concerned for her safety within these walls.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” her father repeated.

“I suggest you surrender, Denholm. I will not be deterred.” Aunt Laura moved to the door but was forced to pause.

The maid, Hampton, stood in the way, her face set in disapproving lines. “Only the gel was invited into my mistress’s bedchamber.”

Aunt Laura leaned closer to the insolent servant. “Let me be clear. I no longer care about the rudeness or bizarre nature of my behavior. I refuse to leave my niece unescorted.” She then barreled through the maid, pushing her aside with a sweeping arm. Hampton had to duck to keep from having her eye poked out by the feather on Aunt Laura’s bonnet.

For a moment, Phoebe stood there utterly nonplussed. She and Uncle Sol exchanged shocked looks, then they snapped out of their stupor and hurried after her.

Hampton also regained her senses and followed as they climbed the stairs, making inarticulate sounds of protest all the way. At the top of the landing, the maid pointed toward a small table upon which sat a particularly ugly china figure that might have been a shepherdess … or perhaps a donkey. “I must insist you wait there,” she said shrilly.

Uncle Sol stepped aside but Aunt Laura continued down the hallway, heading unerringly toward Phoebe’s old bedroom. After the last time she’d been in this house, she’d told Aunt Laura about the dresses in the wardrobe of her bedroom, and since it was the second largest room in the house, it seemed likely that Mrs. Sauber would have chosen it for herself.

Hampton hurried after them, yipping at their heels. “Mrs. Sauber only wanted the girl …”

“Anything your mistress says to me may be heard by my aunt,” Phoebe answered without turning around.

The maid jostled them aside in her haste to reach the bedroom door ahead of them and bar entry. “I must insist upon informing the mistress,” she panted.

“Very well,” Aunt Laura said in condescending tones.

Hampton opened and closed the door so swiftly, she nearly caught her skirt. But in a few moments, she opened the door and stepped back. “The mistress bids you enter.”

Aunt Laura entered the room first. Although they had told her father they were apprehensive about Phoebe’s safety, she suddenly felt ill at ease. She realized that this was not an afternoon call—this was a mission. She needed to treat it as such and act accordingly. She followed closely to better guard her aunt’s person instead.

Phoebe quickly scanned the room as she entered. Then, just as Mr. Armstrong had taught her, she also turned to glance behind her in the blind spot beyond the open door.

It saved her from what might have been a ferocious headache. She dodged as a footman’s descending fist tried to knock her unconscious from behind.

She heard the bedroom door slam shut, then the rattle of metal as the key locked it. But her vision was filled with the sight of the two footmen in Mrs. Sauber’s bedroom.

Of course it would be two men, because while her father might continue to underestimate his daughter, Mrs. Sauber would have heard from the footman that Phoebe had fought him. At the time of the attack in front of her aunt’s townhouse, Mr. Coulton-Jones had easily felled the other two men while Aunt Laura’s neighbor Admiral Blore had beaten the lot of them with his cane, but Phoebe had also acted, thinking her aunt had been in danger. Mrs. Sauber would know that Phoebe would fight to defend herself, but she would not expect Phoebe to be able to defeat two footmen if they surprised her.

Except that Phoebe had surprises of her own. Last night, before the raid upon Dr. Heddetch’s laboratory, Uncle Sol had given to her and Keriah special half-boots he’d had made for them. Inside the boots were metal casings over the toes and behind the heel so that kicks would cause more pain, to make up for their lack of strength. She’d also done as Mr. Armstrong often recommended to her, which was to wear one or two rings under her soft kid gloves so that her punches would cut more.

The taller footman who had tried to hit her had stumbled past her, so she was standing between him and his fellow. Her skirt was too narrow for a full kick, but she nevertheless lashed out with her right foot at the shorter footman. Her metal toe connected hard with his shin, and the unexpected pain made him yelp and jerk to a halt.

She immediately planted her foot and stretched to deliver a left cross jab at the tall footman, who had recovered his misstep and had turned toward her again. She popped him square in the nose, sending him reeling back, his hands over his face.

Phoebe followed with an immediate right cross jab at the short footman she’d kicked. He turned his head slightly, so the blow partially rolled over his cheek.

She only had a moment before they would be on her again, but she knew the layout of the room. She darted towards the fireplace mantel, remembering a vase she’d seen when she first entered. It was very large and heavy, holding both water and several large stalks of Syringa blossoms.

She quickly grabbed it and smashed it in the face of the short footman, who had recovered faster. The vase cracked and he staggered backwards.

Dropping the vase, she hiked up her skirt and delivered a solid kick to the tall footman directly in the crotch. He doubled over.

Phoebe’s hand was already reaching for the poker from the fireplace. She brought it down hard on the back of the man’s head.

As he fell to his knees, she immediately bounced the poker back up from the swing and clipped the short footman on the temple. He roared out in pain and stumbled away from her.

She became aware of Mrs. Sauber shrieking, which nearly drowned out the sound of pounding on the locked door and Uncle Sol’s irate voice. She found her aunt wrestling with the lady’s maid, who held tightly to the key to the lock.

Phoebe moved toward the two women, but the maid suddenly managed to fling the key toward the bed. It fell short, clattering on the floor near its corner.

In a flash, Mrs. Sauber had leaped from where she’d been sitting propped up by pillows and screaming. She scrambled over the bedclothes, reaching down to grab the key. Phoebe changed direction, but then Mrs. Sauber tossed the key out the open window nearby.

The two women stared at one another, both breathing heavily. Mrs. Sauber’s elegant ebony-black hair wafted wildly about her oval face, and her gray eyes were wide, bugging out from her face. Then she glared past Phoebe at the two footmen and snapped, “Take the girl!”

It was at that moment that Phoebe realized the sound of Uncle Sol pounding on the door had ceased.

The door suddenly exploded open as Uncle Sol rammed into the wood, breaking the flimsy lock. The swiftly opening door happened to catch one of the footmen and smack him in the face.

Uncle Sol strode inside, grasping Aunt Laura’s arm and pulling her away from the shocked maid. He held an arm out for Phoebe, and as she rushed toward him, he took her elbow and hurried them all out of the room.

Her father was standing in the hallway outside, surrounded by several other servants who had heard the fracas.

Despite what had happened in the bedroom, Aunt Laura hadn’t lost her composure and marched up to him. She delivered a mighty slap, the sound ringing down the hallway. “Denholm, Phoebe was attacked by two footmen! In your wife’s bedroom!”

He looked less shocked by the slap than the fact that the plan to detain Phoebe hadn’t gone according to plan. “What—?! You—!” Finally, he screeched, “The door!”

Uncle Sol was already herding Aunt Laura and Phoebe through the crowd of servants and down the stairs. “Beg your pardon, Sauber,” he flung carelessly over his shoulder at Phoebe’s father. “I’ll send someone to repair it.”

To indicate their visit would be a brief one, the ladies had not relinquished their pelisses, nor had Uncle Sol given his hat to the butler, so they had no need to pause as they hurried to the front door. Uncle Sol had dropped his hat when assaulting the bedroom door, and it had unfortunately become lost amongst the crowd gathered in the hallway, but he didn’t bother to collect it.

The coachman, Mr. Havner, had been instructed to simply walk the horses up and down the street rather than taking them to the mews, and he happened to be close by when they burst from the house. Phoebe had expected her father to come rushing after them, but perhaps he had paused to ascertain his wife’s well-being first, or maybe he had been too confused by what had happened (or rather, what had not happened) inside her bedroom. They were able to quickly board the carriage. A few servants walking to or from neighboring houses had paused to stare at the house, drawn by Mrs. Sauber’s screaming, and they peered at the coach as it drove away.

“Well.” Aunt Laura settled more comfortably in her seat, then looked at Phoebe and Uncle Sol. “That went well.”

Uncle Sol stared at her. “How in the world did that go well?”

She began ticking them off on her fingers. “Phoebe left her father’s house. No one was injured—well, except for those footmen, and by the by, Phoebe, your display of fisticuffs was quite impressive. And the only damage was to that pretentious vase that Phoebe used to rattle one footman’s brains and your disagreement with the door. I had thought the situation would be hideously worse than it was.”

Uncle Sol groaned and rubbed his hand over his forehead. But rather than reply to her, he said, “Phoebe, report.”

His commanding voice seemed to snap her out of her shocked stupor. She told him exactly what had happened, giving more details about the fight when he requested it.

“Oh,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Yes, most excellent fighting style. Mr. Armstrong would be pleased.”

“Mrs. Sauber might have anticipated that I would insist upon accompanying you,” Aunt Laura said, “but since it would be expected that I would enter the room first, she likely assumed the footman could knock you unconscious from behind and I wouldn’t even see the attack. If you happened to ‘faint,’ you’d naturally be taken to another bedroom.”

“And locked inside,” Uncle Sol said with a frown. Then his brow cleared. “Well, yes. You’re quite right. That did turn out well.”

It felt like a dream—or a nightmare—as Phoebe looked at their placid faces. Her breath began to grow quick and shallow. “My father tried to kidnap me … again. To sell me in marriage.”

Aunt Laura looked concerned, but Uncle Sol laid a firm hand on her aunt’s arm, then removed his gloves. He snapped his fingers in Phoebe’s face.

The sharp sound and sudden action made her jerk her head back.

“Breathe, Phoebe,” Uncle Sol said. His voice still had that edge of command, but there was gentleness in his tone, also. “You are safe, and you acquitted yourself well.”

Aunt Laura looked as though she didn’t quite agree with Uncle Sol’s coldly logical way of handling her niece, but said, “Sol is right, my dear. You are safe now. There is nothing to fear.”

“Breathe, Phoebe,” Uncle Sol said again. “Take deeper breaths.”

She obeyed, and slowly, the panic clawing at her ribcage began to ease. Aunt Laura reached over to take her hand.

Phoebe tried to swallow around the bird’s nest in her throat. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she finally said, “but I feel betrayed by my father all over again. He stole my dowry, and now he intends to sell me off like a slave.”

“I will never allow that to happen,” Uncle Sol said in a hard voice.

She didn’t say it, but her father’s betrayal made her feel betrayed by God, as well. How could she trust a God who would allow this to happen to her? The Bible talked of God’s goodness, but at this moment, she couldn’t help doubting it.

“Mr. Poe is scheduled to sail back to the Colonies next week,” Aunt Laura said. “It will be simple to keep you safe until he leaves.”

“But after that, will I be forced to constantly remain vigilant, keeping my guard up lest my father try to kidnap me again?” Phoebe asked. “I cannot hide myself away with you forever, Aunt Laura.”

“Denholm has been terribly embarrassed,” Aunt Laura said firmly. “I hold over him a particularly juicy scandal. He will come to heel, at least for this Season.”

“He also has now finally been convinced that you will not meekly go where he tells you,” Uncle Sol said. “He will not kidnap you and deposit you with a relation only to have you run away.”

“But I know him,” Phoebe said. “He will most certainly try the same scheme again with another bridegroom.”

“It will take him some time to find another one,” Aunt Laura said tartly. “Even if he realizes that he must bear the expense of a dowry to replace the one he stole, he has not the funds to attract any man but those with whom a connection would cause him social discomfort.”

“I want to believe you, but I also don’t wish to be taken unawares.” Phoebe took another deep breath. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You mustn’t try to solve this problem now,” Aunt Laura said gently. “We shall come up with something. I will send a note to my attorney to ask what legal recourse you may have.”

“Sauber has proven to be a danger to his own daughter,” Uncle Sol said in a dark voice. “Some men may pay it no mind, but others will see it for the injustice that it is.”

Phoebe nodded, but even though every part of her screamed in frustration that he would dare to do that to her, she knew the realities of the life of a woman in society. Her father had legal power over her in the eyes of most men. He was a proud man and would not suffer to be made a fool, not by his own daughter.

She couldn’t help worrying that although they may have routed her father’s schemes for the moment, what of his longer plans? Would he still strive to sell her? What would he try to do to her?

Despite her success today, she still felt as though she had somehow lost.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sep was gently shaken awake by Michael just as the afternoon had begun to color a golden-bronze color. He had stayed up most of the night to watch over the prisoners while Michael slept, so he had collapsed upon the thin pallet in the gamekeeper’s hut sometime before noon.

He ran a hand over greasy hair and rumpled clothes. They had brought the captured men here last night after the raid with the help of several agents from the Ramparts, so he and Michael still wore the dark, plain clothes they had on during the fight. His shoulder injury had been dressed, but the blood had dried to dark brown around the edges of the cloth where the knife had sliced into him.

“Have they said anything?” Sep asked.

Michael shrugged one shoulder. “More grunting and threats that we’ve made a dangerous enemy. Hungry?” He held out a piece of dried meat, a chunk of cheese, and a heel of bread that had been sawed off crookedly.

“Thanks. Any coffee or tea?”

“Yes, thanks, I’d love some.” Michael grinned and headed toward the door of the one-room hut. “Bring me a cup. I have to hurry back to guard the monsters.”

Sep picked up a bucket from the corner and exited the gamekeeper’s hut just as Michael’s form disappeared down the stairs to the nearby ice house, where the prisoners were being kept. Mr. Drydale had explained to the team that since he wanted to capture Jack’s men along with Heddetch, he picked this specific location as the most secure. The ice house walls were heavy stone and the doors to the rooms had been replaced only a few years ago with oaken doors so heavy that they creaked as they slowly swung open.

He walked through the trees of the forest, making his way through thick undergrowth. Deer and foxes ranged through the deeper, darker part of these woods, creating game trails, but here, closer to the edge where the trees were younger and let in more sunlight, the foliage grew thick and wild.

Sep reached the nearby well. Its winch had been repaired at the same time as the cell doors were installed, enabling the guards to have water as they watched over prisoners.

At the meeting when they were planning the raid, Sep hadn’t heard about this particular secret prison location until Mr. Drydale told them more about it. The lands and nearby manor house belonged to a gentleman, Mr. Burstom, who worked for the Home Office and occasionally helped the Ramparts through his social and business contacts, although he was not himself a Ramparts agent. In Mr. Burstom’s grandfather’s time, the manor house had originally stood nearby this section of the woods, but it had burned down and a new one rebuilt a mile away, along with a new ice house.

Mr. Burstom gave the Ramparts permission to use the old ice house, hidden in the forest with no near neighbors. The estate was only a few miles outside of London, but there was only a twisting, overgrown wagon track leading to the prison in the woods far from any roadways, making it quite secluded. The department had erected the gamekeeper’s hut and repaired the walls and doors to hold prisoners, making it the most secure of all the Ramparts’ prisons. However, it was also seldom used since most agents disliked the inconvenience of slowly picking their way along the three miles through dark woods to reach it.

Sep hadn’t actually expected to find coffee in the hut, but he looked inside the basket in the corner. Last night, he’d been surprised but pleased to find it in the wagon when they drove to the prison. The basket carried the faintest wisp of Lady Wynwood’s perfume, which suggested that she packed it for them personally.

He rummaged around and unearthed a ceramic jar filled with ground coffee. He then spent a moment with eyes closed and face raised to the ceiling, praising God and sending thanks for Lady Wynwood’s foresight for good measure. He reflected that the discovery of coffee when one didn’t expect there to be any should always induce stronger spiritual fervor.

He’d made enough coffee while on missions to be able to make a blisteringly strong brew and carried a mug out to Michael in the ice house. His friend sat on a stool opposite the two locked doors that held the four prisoners, two to a cell. He was carving something into a thin, flat piece of wood with his knife, but he dropped them both to the ground when Sep approached.

“Thanks,” he said as he took the coffee. He sipped, then made a face. “Your coffee could melt steel.”

“Is there any other kind of coffee worth drinking?” Sep drank from his own mug.

They both knew they needed the energy from a strong cup, because the two of them would be the only ones guarding the prisoners until Miss Gardinier could make more sedative. Mr. Drydale refused to allow them to take Jack’s men out of the cells without some means of sedating them should something unexpected occur. So last night, Thorne had left to catch a few hours of sleep before accompanying Miss Gardinier to Stapytton House, where she was madly working.

Michael glared at the two doors even as he drank more of his coffee. He didn’t have to speak for Sep to know he was impatient to interrogate the men, but even with his superior strength, he would be no match for four men on the Root. Last night, they’d needed the extra Ramparts agents to help wrestle the prisoners into the cells. Even still groggy, Jack’s men had struggled so forcefully that it had taken four agents to control one prisoner. It would have been disastrous if any of them had managed to escape.

“Oy.” A dirty face appeared in the small square window set in the door, crossed by thick iron bars. “Is that coffee? How about you give some ’ere?”

“How about you whiddle on your boss?” Michael replied.

The man frowned, then the face disappeared.

While watching the cells last night, Sep had heard the men finally rouse enough to start muttering to each other, but he hadn’t been able to make out their words. He’d gone to wake Michael, whose sensitive hearing would have made out their words, but by the time they returned to the ice house, the men had fallen silent. They hadn’t responded to anything Sep or Michael had said to them, except for the threats they growled at Michael while Sep was asleep.

The most activity last night had been when one of the prisoners had started tinkering with the door, even though the hinges were on the outside, but a sharp word from Sep had caused them to stop. He had some of the weaker powdered sedative that he could dump into the cell through the small barred window in the door. It wouldn’t cause them to fall unconscious, but it would make their actions just a little more sluggish. With the men’s greater strength, Sep and Michael would need all the advantages they could get. But the men had behaved themselves after that so he hadn’t needed to bother trying to dose them.

Michael reached down and picked up the thin, flat piece of wood he had been working on. Sep now saw that he was carving small holes into it.

“What is that for?”

Michael nodded to the third room in the ice house. “For the interrogations. This will fit over the barred window so someone outside the room can see inside.”

“Ah.” Sep understood. It was for Lady Wynwood to be able to view the prisoner being questioned without being seen herself.

Michael held up the wood and showed a long, shallow slot along the bottom. “For passing notes through to whichever unlucky chap is asking the questions inside the room.”

Sep nodded. There was a panel like this, although larger, in the wall of one of the interrogation rooms at the Ramparts, so that superior officers could watch the proceedings and give instructions on pieces of paper slipped through the slot in the panel. This would allow Lady Wynwood to control the inquiry of these men. He had heard from both Thorne and Michael about how she had quizzed Maner Hansen and had been able to almost magically interpret his body language into clear answers to her questions. She would surely do the same for these men.

“When did they last eat?” Sep asked.

“When you fed them.”

Which would have been sometime this morning, after he’d woken Michael up to switch shifts.

He headed out of the ice house and into the gamekeeper’s hut. Inside the basket, he found the loaf of bread, minus the part Michael had hacked off for him. Remembering his own meal, he chewed on dried meat as he cut four pieces of bread and four chunks of cheese for the prisoners, wrapping the lot in a scrap of cloth. They wouldn’t risk giving the men any type of eating utensils or bowls, since they were strong enough to bend or break any materials into sharpened weapons.

Sep cleaned off his knife and noticed with dismay that a crack had formed in the blade, as fine as a hair. It must have occurred during the fighting at the laboratory, but he hadn’t noticed when he had cleaned the sedative from it last night. However, a crack was dangerous no matter how small—in his next fight, it might break at a crucial moment.

In his dressing-room—the small room he rented in a Long Glades boarding house where he changed into costume—he had an extra knife suitable for fighting hidden under the bed, but he couldn’t leave Michael here alone with the prisoners. Until Miss Gardinier completed the sedative, he and Michael were the only guards, since Thorne was tasked with watching over the young women at their work at Stapytton House and Mr. Drydale was drowned in the paperwork that had piled up because he had requested agents to help with the aftermath of the raid.

He was surprised when Michael opened the door and said tersely, “Visitors.”

Sep tensed, listening. He didn’t hear anything, but Michael’s senses were much stronger than his own. “How many?”

“It’s a wagon.”

The only people they would have expected were Mr. Drydale and Thorne, and they wouldn’t bring a wagon. He looked down at his cracked knife, then asked Michael, “Do you have a spare weapon?”

Michael reached into his boot and handed him a smaller blade, then drew a larger one from the sheath secured to the small of his back, under his coat. “I’ll meet them far enough down the road so that Jack’s men can’t overhear. You hide in the forest in the event we need to ambush them.”

“Shouldn’t we both hide?”

“If they see no one in the hut, they’ll try to enter the ice house. I locked the outer door, but I don’t want them anywhere near there.”

Sep nodded and left the hut, but before he took more than a couple steps, Michael grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Take this.” Michael gave him the heavy iron key to the cells. “If I can’t open their cells, then the men approaching cannot, either.”

Sep nodded again, then slipped between the trees, picking his way parallel to Michael as he made his way down the overgrown wagon track.

His mind raced, trying to think of who the visitors could be. He tentatively eliminated Apothecary Jack or the pale-eyed man—either of them would have snuck up on them, rather than announcing their presence with the wagon. But only the Ramparts knew about this prison, and none of those agents had any reason to travel all the way here.

Michael finally stopped nearly a quarter of a mile away from the gamekeeper’s hut, crossing his arms and staring down the road as he waited. Sep looked for a good vantage point and found a thick oak tree, older than many of the others in this stretch of the woods. He leaped up to the lowest hanging branch, hauling himself onto it. His injured knee ached slightly, but on a whole, his leg felt strong. Sep could see the wagon track through the leaves, but the branches were thick enough that their approaching guests couldn’t see him hidden there.

The rattle of the wagon finally reached his ears. The heavy thud of the wheels in the uneven ground and the hollow echoes of wooden boards made it sound like a prisoner transport cart.

As it came into view, he realized he was correct, but the sight filled him with unease. He recognized one of the men driving the wagon—Mr. Ferrant, one of the Ramparts agents who had helped them bring Jack’s men to this prison last night.

The presence of Mr. Ferrant indicated that the Ramparts were involved. But Mr. Drydale would never order them to move the prisoners without sedative—they might as well fling open the cell doors and let them loose.

Michael stared down the cart until the driver stopped the horse. It was a large, heavy animal, strong enough to pull the enclosed prisoner carriage. Normally, the cart would require two horses, but this road, barely visible through the underbrush, was too narrow and twisted too sharply, and so they had to make do with only one.

“Mr. Ferrant, Mr. Clay.” Michael greeted them with a neutral voice. “What brings you here so unpl—er, expectedly?”

The one who must be Mr. Clay narrowed his eyes. “Mr. … Villager, is it?” he said with a sneer in his voice.

Almost none of the Ramparts agents went by their true names—the exceptions were agents who had been in the department since its early days, such as Mr. Drydale and Sir Derrick Bayberry, or superior officers who had transferred from other departments within the Home Office, such as Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby. Sep had gone by the name Mr. Hamlet, and when Michael heard of it, he impishly chose to be known as Mr. Villager. Every agent’s true identity was known only to their superior officer.

However, the way Mr. Clay addressed Michael indicated he knew exactly who he was. Sep then remembered hearing about the recent incident when an agent arrived at Lady Wynwood’s house and demanded to be told of Mr. Drydale’s whereabouts. The agent, Mr. Clay, had only been deterred when Lady Aymer herself spoke to him. Mr. Clay was one of the few who knew of Lady Aymer’s identity as the covert agent, le petit prince, and also that she had seniority of rank over him. She had refused to divulge Mr. Drydale’s location, forcing him to be contented with sending a message. This must be the same Mr. Clay.

Mr. Clay might be privy to the true names of the Coulton-Jones siblings, but from Michael’s flat look and the muscle ticking in his jaw, he obviously disliked the man. “I haven’t the time for niceties,” Michael said brusquely. “If you’ve nothing important to say, I’ll return to my assignment, which is guarding the prisoners.” He turned to leave.

“What are you—!” His face twisted in anger, Mr. Clay stumbled as he climbed down from the cart. “Mr. C— … Mr. Villager!”

Michael stopped, but he merely put his hands on his hips and cast a disinterested look over his shoulder at Mr. Clay, ankle-deep in leaf mold, and a surprised Mr. Ferrant, still sitting in the driver’s seat of the cart.

Seething, Mr. Clay ground out, “My superior officer, Mr. Uppleby himself, has sent us to bring the prisoners to London for interrogation.” While Sir Derrick was the highest ranking officer at the Ramparts and its leader, Mr. Uppleby was one of two agents who were second-highest ranked.

Sep felt a headache start to form behind his forehead. Mr. Clay’s voice had been loud in the quiet woods. The man obviously hadn’t been told or hadn’t believed what Mr. Drydale said last night about Jack’s men possessing better hearing than a normal man. Thank goodness Michael had moved far away from the ice house.

Michael’s mouth pressed into a displeased grimace. “You and I both know that your superior wants them moved closer to him simply because he’s too much of a lazy slug to travel to this remote location.”

Mr. Ferrant gave a startled cough—which Sep was certain covered his laughter—while Mr. Clay turned red. “Watch your tongue! You will refer to your superiors with respect.”

Sep knew that Michael wasn’t the type of person to denigrate men higher ranked than himself, and he guessed he did it to purposefully draw Mr. Clay’s ire. The other agent’s heightened emotions would keep him on the back foot, so that Michael could control the situation.

“I beg your pardon,” Michael said in a honeyed voice, “he is most certainly not a lazy slug. He is simply using department resources to send two agents on this long, tedious journey to this spartan cottage in order to bring the prisoners to a location more convenient for himself.”

“He has more important tasks than to waste time making this trek,” Mr. Clay snapped. “You will do as you’re told.”

Michael’s eyes grew frigid. “I answer only to my superior officer.”

Mr. Clay smirked. “You appear to have forgotten that I am an officer and I outrank you.”

“You are a junior officer, Mr. Clay, and you do not outrank the man in charge of this mission.”

“But he is not here and I outrank everyone present. Now, then—”

“You have not been assigned to this mission, Mr. Clay,” Michael interrupted. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the sound of his words cut through the woods like a blade of ice. “Your rank has nothing to do with anything happening at this location. When agents were called last night, they were solely tasked with helping us to move the prisoners from the laboratory. My team is responsible for questioning them and searching the laboratory building.”

Mr. Clay snorted. “Mr. Uppleby is senior to Mr. Drydale and can take over any mission as he pleases.”

Mr. Uppleby was indeed senior to Mr. Drydale, but Mr. Drydale answered directly to Sir Derrick, the leader of the entire Ramparts department. Did Sir Derrick know about this? Had he approved of this change for the prisoners? At the thought of that possibility, Sep felt a twist in his guts. He hoped it was simply gas.

Mr. Clay added smugly, “And as for the laboratory, other agents are already there searching it as we speak.”

Sep’s guts twisted again, harder and tighter. No, that definitely wasn’t gas.

Last night, all of them had checked the laboratory quickly before the other Ramparts agents arrived. There had been a great deal of equipment and ingredients which they hadn’t recognized, but they hadn’t found any Root samples. Also, Miss Gardinier had said that due to how the Root was inexpertly made, she doubted Heddetch was helping Jack to make the elixir, so they hadn’t expected Heddetch to have vials of it stored at the laboratory.

However, they had not had the time to search the room thoroughly. There may still be items remaining—notes, or ingredients—that an outside agent might assume was of no consequence and throw away.

He and Michael needed Mr. Drydale’s presence to override any orders given by Mr. Clay or Mr. Uppleby, and the only one who could race to tell him what was happening was Sep. He fingered the heavy iron key in his pocket, then slowly and quietly began to ease his way through the branches and down the tree. He didn’t want to leave Michael here with Mr. Clay and Mr. Ferrant, but since he alone possessed the key to the cells and Michael’s strength far outmatched that of the two men, he knew he could trust him. The only question would be if Michael would be protecting the agents from the prisoners or the prisoners from the agents.

“Now, I have explicit orders to bring these men to London,” Mr. Clay continued. “Where is the key to the prison?”

The key to the outer door lay in Michael’s pocket, but he remained still, his arms crossed over his chest. “The prisoners cannot be moved. They are exceptionally strong and could easily break out of one of the normal cells in London. These cells were chosen especially as the only means to hold them.”

“Last night, they were difficult but not overwhelming,” Mr. Ferrant said doubtfully, speaking for the first time.

“They have been given a drug that makes them violent,” Michael said, since he obviously could not explain about the Root. “Last night, we had to sedate them in order to move them to this location, and even then they were able to fight against us. They will be extremely difficult to control if they are taken from the cells, and we have no more sedative. A chemist is currently making more.”

“How can a drug that makes them violent still be affecting them hours after taking it? This is ridiculous.” Mr. Clay motioned to Mr. Ferrant. “We will move the prisoners ourselves.”

“Even were I inclined to help you, you cannot move the prisoners,” Michael said. “I do not have the key to the doors to the cells.”

Mr. Clay stared at him. “What? Where is it?”

“I thought it best to give it to Mr. Drydale,” Michael said evenly.

Sep was already nearly to the ground, but that pointed statement affirmed that Michael wanted him to get away to London and give Mr. Drydale that key. Mr. Uppleby would be forced to find Mr. Drydale to speak to him directly in order to have the prisoners moved. At that point, it would be up to Mr. Drydale to defy him, to submit to Mr. Uppleby’s demands, or to shunt the entire problem to Sir Derrick.

“There is surely more than one key,” Mr. Clay said.

“No, there is only one key to the cells,” Michael said. “And we judiciously removed any tools from the gamekeeper’s hut that could enable someone to remove the doors.”

Sep paused. What he said was true, but Michael, like Sep, had ridden a horse alongside the prisoner transport cart last night, and he had brought tools in his saddlebags. He was likely indicating to Sep to take the tools away with him.

“The officer in charge will return soon,” Michael said. “I shall not obey you until he does.”

Sep and Michael were unsure when to expect Mr. Drydale. He had mentioned that he would make his way here today after he had accompanied Miss Sauber to a visit to her father’s home.

Thorne had been with Miss Sauber when she discovered her father stole her dowry, and Michael had fought off the men ordered to kidnap her. In light of all the troubles she was experiencing, Mr. Drydale could not predict that the visit would go smoothly. If something happened, he would be delayed.

Mr. Clay was so incensed, he was nearly foaming at the mouth. “You will obey or risk being arrested for defying a superior officer!”

Michael gave him a level stare. “I do not see one here.”

At this point, Sep had moved too far away to hear Mr. Clay’s response, and he hurried through the trees. Michael would not be able to waylay them for long, so he needed to saddle his horse and sneak away quickly.

The hut had a small shed that served as a stable, and all the agents, including Sep and Michael, had ridden while Thorne drove the prisoner transport cart last night. The other agents had left, but their two horses remained in the shed.

Sep quickly saddled his mount, then removed Michael’s saddle-bags and transferred them to his own animal. He led his horse through the trees until he was deeper into the forest, then climbed up and rode slowly, circling wide of the wagon track. Once he was clear of Mr. Clay and Mr. Ferrant, he could pick his way back to the wagon track and continue towards London at a faster clip.

Sep had assumed that, since the very existence of the Root was not well known at the Ramparts, none of the other agents would be at all interested in Heddetch’s laboratory. Now, the fact that Mr. Uppleby had ordered his men to not only collect Jack’s men but also to search the laboratory made Sep uneasy.

Some of the agents who had arrived to help them last night had asked about the laboratory, but Sep had repeated what Mr. Drydale had told them to say—that they were investigating Dr. Heddetch, and this was the place where he made his tinctures. The agents would assume that Heddetch had been brewing things besides tinctures, but they would not know what those things might be. Mr. Drydale had not wanted the agents to become curious about a potion that could grant unusual strength, since it was difficult to also convince them that it was a deadly poison and had caused men to become Berserkers.

Sep was now grateful that Miss Gardinier and Miss Sauber had not yet been allowed to search the laboratory. He would have liked to think that the agents would not have harmed the women if they’d discovered them there, but he was relieved they hadn’t been forced to find out.

However, it seemed suspicious that Mr. Uppleby now appeared to be interested in this investigation. As Sep rode through the forest, his misgivings only deepened.

Had Mr. Uppleby discovered something important about Heddetch and Apothecary Jack?

If so, what kind of information would cause him to try to take over?

***

Upon entering London, Sep headed first to Lady Wynwood’s hotel. After visiting Miss Sauber’s father, Mr. Drydale would accompany the women back to their rooms before returning to his townhouse to change into riding clothes and ride out to the prison. If he wasn’t at the hotel, Sep could at least ask the agents guarding the rooms if he had not yet arrived with the women or if he had already departed for home.

However, he was in luck. Upon reaching the hallway outside Lady Wynwood’s rooms, he was told by the agent that Mr. Drydale and the ladies had arrived not five minutes before.

The maid, Aya, answered Sep’s knock at the door, but he glanced over the woman’s head and sought out Mr. Drydale sitting next to Lady Wynwood on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

Upon seeing the look on Sep’s face, he immediately stood. “What has happened?” he demanded.

Sep entered the room and waited until Aya had closed the door behind him, then said, “Mr. Uppleby has sent men to the prison to transport Jack’s men to London.”

Mr. Drydale’s face grew thunderous. “Explain,” he barked out.

Sep described Michael’s conversation with Mr. Clay and Mr. Ferrant in as much detail as he could remember, then handed him the key to the cells. “Mr. Clay also said that Mr. Uppleby already had agents searching the laboratory, but he might have been exaggerating.”

Mr. Drydale frowned. “I would have been inclined to agree with you, because Mr. Uppleby is rarely so efficient, but everything about this stinks worse than Sir Derrick’s socks.”

Not having had occasion to smell Sir Derrick’s socks, Sep remained silent. Aya glared at Mr. Drydale, but Lady Wynwood, far from being offended, simply rolled her eyes.

Mr. Drydale held up the iron key. “This was quick thinking.”

“Michael thought of it, not I.”

“All of you seem to work together quite seamlessly,” Lady Wynwood said.

Sep gave a bow to hide his embarrassment. He again was feeling that pleasant surety of being part of a trusted team. After working as a lone agent for several years, he had not expected to enjoy depending upon others. He enjoyed this feeling of belonging.

“Sol, can Mr. Uppleby’s men open the cells without that?” Lady Wynwood asked.

“They should not, especially without any tools at the prison to remove the doors,” he said. “I personally looked over the cells to ensure their security.”

“Why is Mr. Uppleby poking his nose into your business?” she asked. “He not only wishes to question Jack’s men, he has also specifically sent agents to search the laboratory.” She paused, then added, “It appears as though he is more interested in the Root than Apothecary Jack or the Gentians.”

“Outside the Long Glades, not many people even know about the Root,” Sep said.

“Most agents have not heard of it,” Mr. Drydale said. “No one in the Ramparts seriously believes it gives men supernatural strength.”

“Then how could Mr. Uppleby have learned of all this?” she asked.

“A handful of officers senior to me—including Mr. Uppleby—are allowed to read reports from agents of my rank,” Mr. Drydale said, “but few bother to do so since they are in charge of so many other missions occurring at the same time. When asked, I say that my team is investigating Apothecary Jack’s treasonous activities.”

“But Mr. Uppleby is behaving as though he is fully aware of the effects of the Root,” Lady Wynwood said. “It appears he has read your reports.”

“I don’t know why he would do so,” Mr. Drydale said, the crease deepening between his brows. “Our types of missions are outside of the normal scope of activities for which he is responsible. And months ago, when I first brought Septimus’s report about the letter he found in the desk of Napoleon’s aide, Uppleby was entirely skeptical about the effectiveness of the elixir being promised to the French.”

“If Sir Derrick had wished for the Root to remain unknown, he should have limited the men who could read your reports,” Lady Wynwood said with some asperity.

“He didn’t see the need to keep the Root, specifically, a secret,” Mr. Drydale said, “especially since hardly anyone believed it worked. When Septimus brought the letter he found, Sir Derrick was more concerned about the mole in the Foreign Office than about what the elixir claimed to do. It was only recently that he began to worry about the attention it has garnered.”

“Well then, what shall you do about Mr. Uppleby?” Lady Wynwood asked.

Mr. Drydale’s face grew grim. “Before the raid on the laboratory, Sir Derrick personally put himself in charge of the operation because he felt the need to be cautious about some of the senior-ranked men under him. However, because he personally gave me full authority, I will be able to order Mr. Uppleby’s agents to leave the laboratory and the prisoners alone.” He turned to face her. “Laura—” he began.

But she preempted him. “Go and do what you must.”

“I wanted to speak to Phoebe …” he said.

She shook her head. “Considering what has occurred, it might be best that you do not. Your protective instincts would only make her feel helpless. I shall be here with her.”

He nodded.

Lady Wynwood added, “Sol, there is something else about which I must speak with you. However, I know you are busy, so please visit me again whenever you have the time.”

“I shall. I apologize for leaving so abruptly, Laura.”

“I quite understand.”

Sep bowed to her. “I also apologize for interrupting you, my lady.”

“Thank you for bringing this to Sol’s attention so quickly, Mr. Ackett.”

The two men left the hotel and hurried to a nearby hackney stand. Mr. Drydale gave the driver the address of a brothel at the far end of the Long Glades, near the border of Rasken Hill and close by to Heddetch’s laboratory.

“We’ll change into clothes a bit less conspicuous at the brothel and then walk the rest of the way,” he told Sep. “Time is of the essence. I don’t want to think about what Uppleby’s agents might be doing to the contents of the laboratory.”

“I understand, but I admit I’m worried about Michael.”

“Uppleby’s men won’t be able to open the cells,” Mr. Drydale said confidently. “Not simply because they do not have the key, but also because I know Mr. Coulton-Jones will physically prevent them if he must. The laboratory is more urgent and closer by.”

“Do you know what Mr. Uppleby might be looking for?”

“From what Sir Derrick said, probably the Root.”

“If that’s so, then the agents wouldn’t break or throw away anything important, surely?”

Mr. Drydale rubbed his chin. “You may be correct, but they would take those things to chemists working with the Ramparts. I would not trust those chemists because they would know the full value of the Root and may try to develop it for themselves.”

Sep couldn’t stop himself from shuddering. “There might be Berserkers all across London.”

“Not all chemists are self-serving—they might be like Phoebe and Miss Gardinier. But I would rather be prudent. Besides, I would much prefer that Miss Gardinier search the laboratory instead. She would be far more careful and thorough than the agents, and her recent experience has made her more knowledgeable than anyone else would be.”

They alighted from the hackney near the brothel, which stood close enough to Rasken Hill to be in a slightly more run-down area than other parts of the Long Glades (not that the Long Glades were particularly opulent). A few coins in the madam’s hand and they were given dark cloaks to hide Mr. Drydale’s fine clothing and Sep’s scruffy ones, and then they headed out into the dark streets.

“We could have acquired cloaks at my costuming room,” Sep said.

Mr. Drydale shook his head. “The room you are renting is on the other side of the Long Glades. From there, we would have had to find another hackney cab. This brothel is close to the laboratory.”

The air was damp and smelly since they were nearer to the river, and there were more criminal elements roaming about the dark streets. Had Mr. Drydale been alone, he would have been swiftly attacked. He could handle himself, but not against several attackers. So Sep remained close to him, his senses on alert. The two men also kept to the shadows as they made their way down the narrow streets.

They saw the laboratory long before they reached it. Lights leaked through the cracks in the window shutters, shining like a beacon in the midst of buildings that were almost all completely dark. The brightness of the light indicated several lamps, making it more conspicuous in an area where the poor could not afford to burn candles for too long past dusk.

Sep was surprised at first, because Ramparts agents assigned guard duty were strictly ordered to be concealed, or at the very least unnoticed. Mr. Drydale had told the guards to remain inside the laboratory in the dark or using partially shielded lanterns so that none of the neighbors would know that anyone was inside guarding it.

But he then realized that if Mr. Uppleby had sent agents, of course the guards would have allowed them inside, since the men would not wish to stand in the way of a senior officer. Mr. Uppleby’s agents had likely been the ones to light lamps so that they could search the laboratory.

As they hurried up the outer stairs to the door on the first floor, Mr. Drydale grumbled, “What are the guards there for?”

Last night after the raid, Sep hadn’t expected Mr. Drydale to assign guards in the first place, until it was explained to him that once a team captured a building, the standard procedure of actions was to leave a guard to protect against criminals returning and removing anything important. Mr. Drydale had told the guards not to touch anything, but he had also confused them by instructing them to run rather than fight if men attacked the building. The agents protested that their capabilities were being questioned, but Mr. Drydale’s orders were firm since he secretly knew that the agents’ chances were poor against Jack’s men.

With the lights burning brightly, making it obvious someone was inside the laboratory, Sep fervently hoped that Jack wasn’t out there, planning something against them.

The hole Michael had kicked into the wall had been hastily repaired, but they had found the key to the front door in the pocket of one of Jack’s men. The front door was unlocked, and Mr. Drydale strode inside, his booming footfalls making it clear that he was displeased.

Five men turned to stare at them. Sep recalled that two men were assigned as guards, so the other three must be under orders from Mr. Uppleby.

Mr. Drydale immediately made his way toward the oldest man there. He was taller than Mr. Drydale and also wider, with double chins quivering under a petulant mouth and tiny button nose. Black eyes glared at Mr. Drydale from behind a pair of small round spectacles.

“Mr. Elsbury, this is my operation,” Mr. Drydale said. “I must insist that you and your agents leave.”

Sep recognized the name, although he’d never met him before tonight. At the Ramparts, the weapons supply agent in charge of the armory was a chatty fellow (likely due to the fact that his job involved long stretches of time with nothing to do but wait around), and he once told Sep about how Mr. Elsbury had been banned from the armory for a week because he had argued quite loudly with Sir Derrick after being passed over for promotion. However, the supply agent had also confided that Mr. Elsbury was famous for his foul temper and rather lazy work ethic, which often led to him blaming others for his mistakes, so other agents were relieved he had not been promoted.

The fact that Mr. Elsbury was about the same age as Mr. Drydale likely explained the man’s curled lip and narrowed, hate-filled eyes. “Mr. Uppleby is senior to you, Drydale, and he is now in charge.”

“I have a signed notice that Sir Derrick has personally placed himself in command and has given me full authority.” Mr. Drydale unfolded a thick sheet of paper and flourished it in Mr. Elsbury’s face.

Mr. Elsbury batted it away. “All you’re doing is flapping around a piece of paper. Mr. Uppleby personally ordered me to search the building.”

“Mr. Uppleby is unaware that Sir Derrick has taken charge.”

“Strange that Sir Derrick did not inform Mr. Uppleby.”

“Why should he? This type of mission is hardly Mr. Uppleby’s area of responsibility,” Mr. Drydale said in a deceptively mild voice.

“Well, perhaps you ought to go back and tell Sir Derrick that he is needed to settle this matter himself,” Mr. Elsbury said with a sneer.

Sep was shocked at his disrespect, presuming to order the leader of the Ramparts about like a servant. However, the two younger agents behind Mr. Elsbury smirked. Catching Sep’s gaze, the shorter one of them casually pulled out a knife and started playing with it, tapping the tip against the table nearby.

Mr. Drydale remained calm. “This signed notice overrides your orders from Mr. Uppleby. You must leave, Mr. Elsbury.”

But Mr. Elsbury snatched at the paper and flung it into the grate nearby, where it quickly caught fire. Taking a step closer to Mr. Drydale, he growled, “I dare you to make me leave.”

There was a heartbeat of complete silence as Mr. Drydale and Mr. Elsbury stared each other down.

Then Mr. Drydale punched Mr. Elsbury in the nose.

Sep didn’t hesitate. When the shorter agent had begun fondling his knife, Sep had cast a quick glance around the room, taking stock. So he knew that, besides his own knife, the closest weapon at hand was the broken table leg leaning against a chair nearby.

In one smooth movement, Sep reached out to snatch the table leg and then brought it in to jab the end into the throat of the taller agent, who was nearest to him. He grabbed the agent’s jacket and yanked hard toward the left.

The stunned man could do nothing but stumble, but the movement brought him momentarily in between Sep and the shorter agent, blocking an attack with the knife. Sep kicked sharply at the agent’s knife hand, knocking the blade away, then thumped the table leg into his chest.

He didn’t pause but swung the wood at the first agent, who had recovered from the blow and was coming at Sep. The table leg connected with the taller man’s temple, and he crumpled unconscious to the ground.

On the back swing, Sep struck the wood into the shorter man’s knee, making him drop halfway to the ground. He slammed the wood down on the back of the man’s head, and he fell face-first to the floor.

Sep turned back to Mr. Drydale in time to see him block Mr. Elsbury’s descending arm. The other agent, with blood running from his nose, had pulled out a long, wicked knife, but Mr. Drydale’s smooth movements diverted the attack to the side, slamming Mr. Elsbury’s knife hand hard into the edge of the worktable. The knife clattered away and became lost in a pile of broken equipment.

But Mr. Elsbury was swift and swung a roundhouse punch with his other hand. However, Mr. Drydale also diverted that attack to the side, except that this time he grabbed Mr. Elsbury’s wrist. Using the momentum of Mr. Elsbury’s own punch, he swung him around in a wide circle and released him to crash head-first into the frame of the front door. The door was closed, but the solid wooden beam knocked into the side of Mr. Elsbury’s head and his shoulder.

Mr. Drydale walked up to him where he stood crouched against the frame. He opened the door, then planted his foot on Mr. Elsbury’s rear end and booted him outside. There was a yelp as Mr. Elsbury rolled down the stairs.

Sep and Mr. Drydale turned toward the two agents who had been assigned to guard the laboratory, but they were stiff with shock. They didn’t move a muscle as Sep and Mr. Drydale each grabbed the arms of the two men Sep had knocked unconscious and dragged them out the door, also rolling them down the stairs.

Brushing off his hands, Mr. Drydale turned toward the two guards. “Well, that’s taken care of,” he said cheerfully, as though he’d merely cleaned off his desk.

The two agents slowly nodded at him, although their eyes were wide and one guard’s mouth still hung open in shock.

“Now, then, if anyone else tries to search the building, then one of you should immediately run to report to me. If you fail to do so, I will hear about it.” Mr. Drydale smiled, but there was entirely too much teeth and an intensity to his eyes that made him look like a lion who’d missed his afternoon snack.

“Yes, sir,” one said in a wavering voice.

“Also,” Mr. Drydale said, his expression growing grave, “if you are suddenly attacked, escape and do not fight the attackers if you can help it. Run to inform me immediately. Do you understand?”

The guards nodded again, but this time they looked slightly unnerved at the strange instructions. Sep could see the caution in their eyes as they wondered at the kind of opponent who would make a superior officer tell them to run. He guessed Mr. Drydale repeated himself since these were different men from the agents of the guard shift last night.

Mr. Drydale smiled and clapped the two men on the shoulders. “Er … well done. Carry on!” He promptly exited the laboratory, with Sep following closely behind him.

Sep’s mind whirled. He knew Mr. Drydale tended toward the unconventional, but punching Mr. Elsbury had taken him by surprise. He’d thankfully responded automatically, so he was able to take advantage of the other agents’ hesitation. “Sir … next time … perhaps a bit of a warning …?”

Mr. Drydale cleared his throat. “Yes, well … I admit I hadn’t planned on doing that. I just suddenly found my fist in his face.”

“Please stop misplacing your fist, sir,” Sep said tiredly.

***

Sep heard the watch calling out the time as he walked the lamp-lit streets. He hoped he would not be late in meeting up with Mr. Drydale.

After leaving Heddetch’s laboratory, the two men had temporarily parted ways. Mr. Drydale intended to return to the Ramparts and report the night’s events to Sir Derrick, foisting the trouble with Mr. Uppleby upon his superior.

He mentioned that after that, he would return to the hotel, which was near the Ramparts building, to speak to Lady Wynwood, as she had requested. Normally he would not interrupt Ramparts business in order to engage in personal business, but he expected Miss Gardinier to finish making the sedative tomorrow and he would not have time to speak to Lady Wynwood for several days.

Since Mr. Drydale had other things that would be taking up his time, Sep was instructed to retrieve his spare knife, collect his horse—which he’d left at the hotel—and then make his way to Mr. Drydale’s townhouse. Mr. Drydale’s chef would oblige him by getting him something to eat while he waited. Once Mr. Drydale returned home and changed into riding clothes, the two of them would set off for the prison together.

When Sep had first heard that Mr. Drydale intended to speak to Lady Wynwood before leaving London, he’d bitten back his impatience. He worried about the fact that Michael had been alone with Mr. Uppleby’s agents for such a long time. Granted, Michael could easily overcome both of the agents if he had to fight them, but Sep had left his friend and teammate in a volatile situation.

What was worse, it would take him and Mr. Drydale even longer to return to the prison. Unlike when Sep raced back to the city this afternoon, it was now full dark, and they would have to pick their way carefully through the trees.

But this business of retrieving his knife was taking longer than Sep had expected, and now he was the one who would be in danger of delaying them. He approached the building and entered quietly, hearing voices in the dining hall. He didn’t wish to be noticed—and possibly stopped and trapped in conversation—so he snuck up the stairs and to his room.

Sep opened the door and stopped dead.

A candle was burning on the mantle, the light too weak to have been seen from the hallway. He swiftly looked around and spotted the man sitting in a chair near the window, half-hidden in the shadows.

His heartbeat galloped in his chest. He stepped into the room, and without turning around, he nudged the door closed behind him.

“Why are you here?” He slowly moved his hands to fall loose at his sides. The short knife he’d borrowed from Michael lay in his boot—he’d need to be quick to draw it if he were attacked.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t arrive,” the pale-eyed man said. “You would have ruined my dramatic introduction if you didn’t return here tonight.”

“I would have hated to disappoint you,” Sep said carefully. The man remained sitting in the chair, which meant Sep had a chance to draw and throw the knife. Would he be fast enough? This man was surely as strong and as quick as Apothecary Jack had been.

“Please don’t do whatever you’re thinking of doing.” The pale-eyed man rose and placed a small white square on a table that stood in between himself and Sep. “Do you know who this belongs to?”

Sep abruptly grew ice cold, like plunging into the sea near his family home in the dead of winter.

The pale-eyed man continued, “I assure you, I have no wish to harm anyone. I simply needed to bluster and threaten a little to force you to listen to me rather than attacking me. Do you see?”

Sep stepped forward to take the folded handkerchief, his fingers crushing it in his agitation. He looked up at the pale-eyed man. “How did you …?”

“Find you?” The man took something from his coat pocket, a movement so quick that Sep barely had time to jerk in reaction. He expected a weapon, but instead it was a folded piece of paper.

The pale-eyed man unfolded the paper and looked down at it, then up at Sep. “Ah, yes. I think I did a rather good job.” He flipped the sheet over to show him.

It was a charcoal drawing of Sep’s own face.

“I had to show this to so many people. It took rather longer than I had hoped to find someone who recognized your face, but …” The pale-eyed man smiled deeply, almost fondly. “I found you at last.”

“What do you want?” His throat was dry and his voice came out soft and raspy.

The pale-eyed man resettled himself in the chair. “I need you to go and speak to whoever is leading you. Don’t deny it,” he said as Sep opened his mouth. “I don’t have the patience for arguing.”

“What do you want?” Sep asked again, his voice harder.

“You are going to relay a message for me to your leader,” the pale-eyed man said. “Tell him that he must obey these instructions exactly if he wishes to save your precious Dr. Shokes.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was the first moment Laura had been alone with her maid, Aya, since they returned from Phoebe’s father’s house. After Sol left with Mr. Ackett, Laura had tried to talk to Phoebe over tea and apricot biscuits, but her niece had been too disturbed by what had happened to her.

Laura didn’t blame her. She had known many men of her class with positively antiquated notions about women and cruel natures to accompany those notions. She had heard horrific stories from the Senhora of how customers had physically abused prostitutes.

But she had never personally witnessed a man trying to exert his iron control over a woman in this way. While she had prepared for the possibility, she admitted that a part of her hadn’t quite believed that Denholm would resort to such measures over his daughter, especially because he had shown several times that he cared about her not one whit.

She thought perhaps Phoebe had also been surprised. Despite her anger at her father, despite the fact that he had ordered the inept attack outside Laura’s townhouse, her niece still hadn’t quite written her father off as a hopeless case. Laura suspected it was because Phoebe couldn’t believe she hadn’t known her father’s true character in all the years she’d lived with him.

Laura’s heart ached for her, and she had prayed over her niece. But Phoebe hadn’t appeared calmed by the prayer. She declined dinner and retreated to her room down the hallway, and so now Laura was sitting to a solitary meal.

After Aya had set a bowl of hare soup in front of her, she asked the question Laura had been expecting. “What will you speak with Mr. Drydale about?”

After the visit to Phoebe’s father, if Sol hadn’t already told Laura that he intended to travel directly to the prison from the hotel, Laura might have asked to speak to him at that moment. But he had obviously been busy, his mind on the prisoners even before Mr. Ackett arrived with the disturbing news about Mr. Uppleby’s agents. So she had instead asked him to come to see her later at his convenience. She was secretly relieved that the reckoning had been postponed, but she was also still certain it had to be done eventually.

Laura fiddled with her spoon. “I wish to tell Sol about the night Wynwood died.”

Aya sighed. “I still believe it would be disastrous for you to do so.”

“I know.” She didn’t want to cause such anguish for Aya, who was far closer to her than a mere lady’s maid, but she knew she had to do this. And she knew Aya had the right to know why. “Aya, please sit.” She gestured toward a seat at the small round table.

Aya hesitated, her training preventing her from such a familiar action. But at last she sat down gingerly, as if the chair would suddenly collapse under her as punishment for having the temerity to sit with her mistress at dinner.

Laura folded her hands in her lap. “I had all day yesterday to think about this. It was not an easy decision to make.” In truth, she had had too much time on her hands, so that she could do nothing except to think about the guilt weighing upon her heart.

After they had found the key to the laboratory, Sol and Phoebe—and the rest of the team—had had a great deal to do to prepare for the raid. Yesterday, Laura had done what she could to help Phoebe and Keriah, and she had had a few trifling domestic problems that arose because she was in hiding at this hotel rather than at her townhouse, but on a whole, she’d had hours to herself with no one else around.

“For weeks now,” Laura said, “during my time each morning reading my Bible and praying, I have felt a pricking on my heart about this secret I am keeping from Sol.”

Aya’s gaze faltered as she remembered the night Wynwood died. It had been even more traumatic for her than for Laura. She had spent weeks in bed, unsure if she would ever walk again. She swallowed and said, “Mr. Drydale said that my lord’s decanter had been poisoned. So, there is no secret to keep from him …”

“Learning about the decanter did not make me feel acquitted,” Laura said gently. “Instead, I have the sense that my sins weigh even more heavily upon me.”

“Why do you wish to tell him now, after all this time? Is it because Mr. Drydale offered to accompany Miss Phoebe to her father’s house today?”

“While the fact that Sol considers Phoebe to be like a true niece did touch my heart, I had already made this decision. But his loyalty to Phoebe also seemed to show me that he values his friendship with me, that it is not simply because he was ordered to befriend me in order to investigate Wynwood.”

Aya hesitated, then said, “I think that finding proof about the secrets that my lord kept from you is causing you a great deal of pain. But Mr. Drydale is the last person to begrudge you a few secrets of your own.”

“It has nothing to do with Sol’s job. To be honest, it has very little to do with Sol at all.”

Aya frowned at her in confusion. “My lady?”

“I was moved to see how much Sol cares about Phoebe and myself,” Laura confessed, “but the decision to tell him is because I feel God does not wish me to continue to lie to him. There are already too many secrets in my life. They have been eating at me, like rats nibbling at a round of cheese. I cannot continue to harbor these secrets, thinking about them and feeling guilt. They must all come into the light.”

Aya’s face crumpled into despair. “But … the servants …”

“I will take full responsibility for what the servants did. However, I also don’t believe Sol will try to have anyone arrested for covering up for what I did. I could insist I had ordered them to do so.”

“You didn’t order anyone,” Aya whispered.

“No one would believe that except for Sol. A judge certainly would not. I am ready to face the consequences of my actions. I must tell Sol what I did to Wynwood.”

Laura knew she was risking her friendship with Sol. The thought saddened her, but she also felt that their friendship would not be real if it was built upon lies. Sol seemed to value their friendship, so she would need to value it, as well.

She steeled herself for more arguments, but Aya surprised her when she simply nodded. “You should do what you think is best, my lady.”

“I expected you to protest more,” Laura said.

Aya gave her a half-smile that was somehow brimming with regret and self-recrimination. “I have been wrong often enough. I hope I am wrong now about how Mr. Drydale will respond.”

Laura reached over to grasp Aya’s hand, and their fingers squeezed over each other. “I will protect you all with all my strength,” Laura promised. “We have all passed through the Valley of the Shadow of Death together. A journey like that forges bonds that cannot be broken.”

She was surprised at a knock at the door. She glanced at the clock on the mantle, seeing that several hours had passed since Sol had left her with Mr. Ackett. He surely would not be returning here tonight, when he had such urgent business at the prison?

Aya’s expression grew wary as she reached the same conclusion, but she readily rose to answer the door.

It was indeed Sol, but his face looked ghastly as he entered the room. Laura wanted to rush to him to demand what had happened, but she instead took a deep breath and gave a subtle gesture to Aya. She forced herself to speak calmly, soothingly to Sol. “How nice to see you, Sol. Won’t you sit to dinner with me?”

He paused. He looked so tired that it was as though he were mentally replaying what she had said so that he could understand it. Finally he nodded. “Just tea, please.”

“Of course,” she said. Aya handed her the pot and set a teacup in front of Sol before whisking away the cold soup and disappearing out the door, likely to fetch hot soup for them both.

Laura poured tea for Sol and for herself, although it was cooled by now. She pushed plates of roasted duck and a sliced round of bread in front of Sol. “Eat first,” she told him. “It will make everything seem … not so atrocious.”

He shook his head, but when she served herself some duck, he sighed and then followed suit.

They ate in silence for several minutes. Aya returned with fresh soup and a piping hot pot of tea, as well as some dessert piled high with wiggling, quivering whipped cream which Laura would guess that Aya had requested of the hotel chefs specifically to ease Laura’s tense nerves. Or perhaps Aya hoped to sweeten Sol’s mood in preparation for what Laura would say to him.

Aya finally left them alone, and Laura served Sol some stewed carrots, feeling like they had returned to past times—luncheon at her townhouse, the two of them comfortable in their old, relaxed relationship, before Wynwood managed to throw everyone’s lives into disorder from beyond the grave.

Sol seemed to grow calmer as he ate. Their silence was comfortable, and she made no effort to break it.

He refused the “Floating Island” dessert at first, but she wordlessly insisted. He took a tentative spoonful, then practically guzzled the rest of the cake and whipped cream. He finally finished, staring down into the glass bowl as though he’d like to lick the bottom. He looked so mournful that Laura finally pushed her half-eaten dessert toward him. His eyes lit up as he ate the rest of her portion.

Somehow, seeing a strong man like Sol receive such enjoyment from a fluffy whipped cream dessert was … adorable.

Adorable?! What was she going on about? She straightened and sipped her wine, hoping her face hadn’t lapsed into some mawkish expression like a lovesick schoolgirl.

“Would you tell me what happened tonight?” she asked him gently.

He began to eat more slowly and took smaller bites of his dessert as he told her. “Mr. Uppleby had sent three agents to Dr. Heddetch’s laboratory.” His hand tightened on his spoon as it paused in mid-air. “I wish I had arranged for Miss Gardinier to look through the room sooner.”

“You know that would have been impossible,” Laura said. “Keriah has been working around the clock to create the sedative for you. Phoebe might have been an adequate substitute, had she not had that distasteful visit to her father today. Did the agents create a terrible mess?”

“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “It didn’t appear they had time to look around before we arrived. Hardly anything had been moved since last night. But …” He ate the last of the dessert, dropped the spoon into the glass bowl and sat back in his seat with a heavy sigh. “It had to be Elsbury.” It sounded almost as though he were talking to himself.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“We both began working at the Ramparts fourteen years ago—he started two months before I did. We trained together, even went out on a few missions together. But Elsbury is incredibly lazy, and so I avoided him when I could. I would need to do most of the work simply to ensure the missions succeeded. As we grew older and he was passed over for promotion, he grew bitter and impatient. Now, all he does is yell at the younger recruits and blame them for his own mistakes.” Sol sighed again and shook his head. “I do believe that Uppleby especially sent Elsbury to the laboratory to provoke me.”

“Sol, I know you too well—you are explaining far too much in order to avoid saying something.”

“I had clear authority to order him to leave, but he had the gall to burn the document. Heated words were exchanged …” Sol looked uncomfortable, and then said in a mumbled rush, “… I might have drawn his cork.”

Laura dropped her face into her hand.

After a few minutes, she looked up at him. “Surely the Ramparts has had other similar incidents of disputes between agents? This cannot be unusual, even for you.”

His cheeks reddened slightly, as though he’d drunk an entire bottle of wine in a rush. “It’s my third time …”

“Three times in eleven years? That’s not so extraordinary—”

“… with Mr. Elsbury.”

Her face dropped into her hand again.

Then she began to laugh. “Oh, Sol, do tell me exactly what happened.”

She felt her own ire rise as she heard of Mr. Elsbury’s contempt and the deliberate taunt he flung at Sol. Her old friend seemed to be in dire need of venting his spleen, and she let him rant and rave about his difficult relationship with the other agent.

“Shall you be reprimanded?” she asked.

“I already was,” he said gloomily. “After I left the laboratory, I went directly to the Ramparts. I wasn’t certain if Sir Derrick would be there, and so I had intended to leave a full report of my actions, but he was in his office. He gave me a proper dressing down.”

“However, it sounds as though you were in the right of it, Sol. Mr. Elsbury did dare you to take a shot at him, and he shouldn’t have even been present had Mr. Uppleby not tried to take over your investigation.”

“Yes, Sir Derrick was perhaps more upset at how Mr. Uppleby’s actions were undermining his authority than at my quarrel with Elsbury,” Sol admitted. “He signed another document giving me full authority, shoved it in my hands and ordered me to go do the same to Mr. Clay at the prison.”

Over the years, Laura had spoken with Sir Derrick briefly at society functions—although at those times, she had not known about his role as leader of a clandestine government department. From what she had seen of his bluntness, he would certainly be likely to send Sol off to punch another agent in the mouth for him.

She was about to reach for the bottle to pour Sol another glass of wine when she hesitated. “Sol, I had told you that I wished to see you at your convenience. You shouldn’t have put off more important work in order to come to see me tonight.”

He didn’t smile at her, exactly, but the warmth and tenderness in his face made her breath catch.

Sol reached over and laid his large hand over hers, squeezing gently. “My dear Laura, I simply wanted to see you.”

She stared at him, wanting to memorize the look on his face as he gazed at her with such affection. She wanted to reach out her hand to cup his cheek, to run her fingers along that strong jawline … but then she remembered why she had needed to speak to him.

Laura laid her hand over his and squeezed lightly, then eased her other hand out from under it. She picked up her wineglass to force herself to turn her eyes away from him.

He straightened, also picking up his wineglass. “How is Phoebe?”

Grateful for the not-terribly-awkward change of subject, Laura said, “She is trying to be strong, but I can tell that the situation deeply upsets her … possibly even frightens her.”

Sol frowned in concern. “That girl has never been frightened of anything.”

“She’s frightened by the fact that she doesn’t know what she can do about it all.”

He stared into his wineglass without drinking. “She must leave London, at least until Mr. Poe sails for the Colonies again.”

“Denholm may prevail upon him to postpone leaving until he captures his wayward daughter. But even if he does not, I fear Mr. Poe shall not be the last man he’ll try to foist her upon.”

“I do not see why he must go through all this trouble when she is perfectly content with you,” Sol groused. “Her domestic arrangements hardly affect Mr. Sauber at all.”

“He dislikes that she has shown she will not bow meekly to him any longer and has made him a laughingstock. But some of his feelings may be influenced by his new wife. If I were to guess, Mrs. Sauber would prefer to be rid of Phoebe entirely. Both of them will be more contented if she is safely married and no longer connected to Denholm and the Sauber name, you see.”

He lapsed into silence, and although he appeared to be staring into his glass, she knew his mind was vigorously attempting to figure out a solution to Phoebe’s problem.

At that moment, Aya entered the room to remove the dinner plates. She glanced between Laura and Sol quickly, but somehow sensing that Laura had not yet spoken to him, her face grew even more tense.

Laura should have known that Sol would notice something like that. Once she had left with the dishes, he said, “Is something the matter with Aya?”

Her mood turned somber in an instant. Now faced with telling him, her nerves had drawn taut and trembling, and she couldn’t force herself to speak. She took a few quick breaths and squeaked out, “It is not Aya.”

He waited patiently for her to continue. She almost wished he had less solicitude—but were he like that, she might not be telling him this. That is, if she ever got her mouth to open and her tongue to speak.

“Do you remember when we met, in my debut Season?” she asked in a rush, not entirely certain why she’d brought up the subject.

“I remember you had eyes for no one except Wynwood.”

She grimaced at how that had turned out, but she deliberately turned her thoughts away from the memories of years of conflict and pain. “I did not see you often, only at occasional parties. Even after you married, you were not as sociable as your wife, and when she passed, I saw you even less. Until the year before Wynwood died.”

His face grew tight. He had already confessed that he had been ordered by the Ramparts to grow close to Lord and Lady Wynwood, after some inflammatory remarks by her late husband, in order to investigate him.

She asked, “Was it difficult for you to befriend me and my husband, when you obviously didn’t get along with Wynwood very well?”

“Do you truly wish to know?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she lied. “It will not upset me, I assure you.”

He sighed. “Wynwood was a man who only respected strength, so I knew that no amount of smooth words would make him do more than nod to me in passing at his club. I arranged to ‘happen’ to challenge him to a round at Jackson’s boxing gym.”

“Ah yes, I remember now. At the time I wondered at how you had managed to impress him when he was taller and more … aggressive than what I knew of you.”

A smirk peeked from the corner of his mouth and then was gone. “I keep myself well-trained, but even I practiced with Mr. Armstrong at the Ramparts before that bout. However, it worked to make me seem interesting to Wynwood.”

She smiled at him. “I don’t think I ever told you about that day. He returned home, battered and bruised but triumphant from what he told me was the most thrilling round of fisticuffs he’d ever engaged in.”

Sol gave her a mock-annoyed expression. “I’ll have you know that it was dashed difficult to convincingly lose to him. He was quite terrible.”

Her smile faltered. He might have been terrible at boxing, but he had never needed particular skill to hit his wife or his servants.

Sol abruptly realized what she must be feeling, and his face filled with horror. “I beg your pardon, Laura, I should not have said such a thing.”

She smiled again to allay his fears. “You mustn’t worry. I daresay that by now, Phoebe could lay him flat on the ground.”

“I was glad I had no more need to fight him,” Sol said. “I had accomplished my objective of becoming close enough to him to be invited for parties and dinners, although I could not say we were friends.”

“Did you present a false personality to Wynwood?” she asked, curious.

“No, but I made myself agreeable.” A crease formed between his brows. “I had not intended to become quite so good a friend to you, however.”

“Sol, let me say clearly that I appreciate that you became my friend and yet still acted with propriety, for although Wynwood had had no qualms about being unfaithful to me, he would not have withstood being cuckolded.”

Distaste flitted across his face. “I would never have dishonored you, Laura.”

“I didn’t realize it at the time, but I needed your friendship.” She looked down at where her fingers twisted the folds of the tablecloth. “You were the only person to grow close to me since I married.”

“Surely not,” he said, but she saw him try to remember those times, and his expression shifted as he slowly realized she was telling the truth.

“While Wynwood allowed me to attend social events,” she said, “he never encouraged me to form closer friendships with other women. He also discouraged notions of entertaining my own friends, although he demanded I throw entertainments for his.”

“Why would he do that?” Sol’s voice had grown low and hoarse.

“Perhaps to keep me vulnerable and isolated.” She remembered the loneliness that had visited her often in the deepest stretches of the night. “But you persisted in speaking to me and making me feel … oh, not so caged up with Wynwood in the house.”

Her words seemed to disturb him even more, for his face grew dark, so she continued, “Are you truly my friend now, years later? Even though you had to befriend me at first for your job?”

“Of course,” he said promptly, and she could tell he was not lying. “Laura, you have been …” His mouth worked as he tried to organize his thoughts. “You have always been an anchor for me. Even though we argue about various things, I would never hesitate to come to you for help.”

She gave him an arch look. “We almost always argue about spiritual matters, but I see you conveniently neglected to bring that up. To be honest, Sol, you hardly ever need help from anyone.”

His expression grew solemn. “You were a great help to me when Priscilla died.”

He didn’t elaborate, but she clearly remembered how their friendship had deepened during that time because he had been in need of someone to talk to. He had been wracked with grief and guilt that his wife’s constant miscarriages had contributed to her poor health, and yet he hadn’t been able to refuse her when she wanted to try once more to have children. Laura had never seen Sol’s spirits so dark and low as the weeks after Priscilla died.

“My other friends didn’t know what to do,” Sol said, “but you reached out to me. You forced me to speak with you—nearly every day—and then you forced me out into society again. You practically booted me in the rear to make me move on with my life rather than wallowing in sadness and guilt.”

Sadness and guilt. Yes, perhaps she was simply wallowing, and that was why God had wanted her to confess her sins to Sol.

She was startled when he suddenly leaned forward and wrapped his hand around hers, which had been clasped in her lap. She only then realized that her fingers were strangling the edge of the tablecloth.

“Laura,” he said, peering at her with chocolate brown eyes that had grown almost black in the candlelight. “I can tell you don’t simply wish to reminisce about our past together. Tell me what is wrong.”

Here was her moment. She opened her mouth, but her lips were dry. She tried to speak, but her tongue was thick. She closed her mouth.

“You have helped me a great deal,” he said to her gently, “so tell me, how can I help you?”

Everything inside her tightened as she braced herself to speak. She inhaled—

A violent hammering at the door made her jump. Sol’s hand squeezed hers even as he twisted around to stare at the closed door.

There were muffled voices outside the room—two or three different men and then the sharper tones of Aya, who had been away from the room for longer than was proper for propriety’s sake. The guards and her maid were confronting whoever had knocked so vigorously.

Sol stood. “How would the guards have allowed someone close enough to bang on the door?” He strode to the door and pulled it open.

Mr. Ackett stood there, which explained why the guards hadn’t stopped him at first. But he was braced against the doorframe while the guards were trying to forcibly pull him away, and his face was white and dreadful.

Laura stood in alarm as she saw him. “Mr. Ackett, whatever is the matter?”

Sol nodded at the guards, who released their hold upon Mr. Ackett. He stumbled into the room as though sleepwalking.

Laura caught a glimpse of Aya’s alarmed expression and called her name. Aya slipped inside behind Mr. Ackett, and then Sol had closed and locked the door.

“What has happened?” Sol demanded.

Mr. Ackett’s hands were shaking as he removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “The pale-eyed man came to see me. He was in my room.” His voice was hollow.

“How did he find you?” Laura asked.

“He drew a picture of me and asked around the Long Glades. He was waiting for me when I went to retrieve my spare knife.”

Something inside of Laura twisted as she looked at him.

Mr. Ackett handed the paper to Sol. “He had a message for you. He made me write it down.”

Sol barely had time to open the note and scan it when Laura cried out, “What does it say?”

Sol had gone white as he looked up at her and Aya. “He has Dr. Shokes. He wants to trade him for Mr. Coulton-Jones.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Isabella woke so early that she was only half-awake as she washed her face in the basin, and ended up yawning and snorting water through her nose.

She yawned as she drank a cup of tea with some buttered toast for breakfast in her bedroom. She yawned as her equally-sleepy maid dressed her in her riding habit. She nearly fell asleep sitting at her dressing table as the maid styled her hair.

She’d like nothing better than to dive back into her bed, but she knew that as tired as she was, Thorne would be feeling the effects of even less sleep. Late last night, he’d dropped by the house just as she was tucking her mother into bed. The visit wasn’t unusual—he would occasionally stop by on his way home from some evening entertainment—and he only stayed a few minutes. Long enough to whisper a message about an early morning meeting at Stapytton House. She expected him to arrive soon for their “early morning ride,” which meant he’d had to wake even earlier than she in order to dress, collect his horse and ride to the Coulton-Jones’ townhouse.

As she descended the stairs, she told her maid, “If my mother wakes before I return, please tell her that I have gone for a ride with Thorne and will be back shortly.” Her mother was feeling better from her bout of sickness, but was still weak and fretful, especially since she had been confined to her bed for a week.

“I never knew Mr. Rosmont to be such an early riser,” the maid replied.

“Neither did I,” Isabella muttered under her breath. Louder, she said, “He has a new horse and wishes to try its paces on Hampstead Heath. I expect we shall be some time.”

The sky was a pale gray as she exited the house, although the tall buildings made the streets still murky with gloom. Thorne waited with his horse while a groom held hers. Were she still unmarried, the groom would be required to accompany them, but her widowhood enabled her to ramble about with her childhood friend unescorted, at least at this hour when few would happen to notice them.

Before Thorne threw her up into the saddle, she squinted at the sky above, seeing the black feather in her bonnet sway in the breeze. “I do hope it shall not rain.”

“You shan’t melt,” he said with the unfeeling manner of an old childhood friend as he clasped her foot and hoisted her onto her horse.

“How do you know?” she demanded as she wheeled her mount, the sound of the hooves striking the road echoing against the nearby houses. “I could be as delicate as a sugared violet.”

“Surely not.” He grinned as he pulled himself onto his own horse and followed her. “You’re more like a mulled brandy—spicy and bracing.”

She glared at him at the unfavorable description, then kicked her horse into a canter. Not because she was in a hurry, but because if she only walked her horse, she might fall asleep in the saddle.

As they made their way out of London, the streets were empty of all except for merchants with various carts, and they made good time. The sky was still like smudged coal and the air sodden with the threat of rain as they headed up the driveway of Stapytton House, then around back to the stable. They nodded in greeting to Lady Wynwood’s coachman, Mr. Havner, but Isabella was surprised to find that Michael, Mr. Ackett, and Mr. Drydale were also there, caring for their horses. They must have arrived not long before.

“Who is guarding the prison?” Isabella asked Michael in lieu of a greeting. She was tired enough that she didn’t care about politeness, not with her brother.

“I arranged with Sir Derrick for agents to watch the prisoners this morning so we could meet,” Mr. Drydale said. “Hurry and care for your own mounts. I want Mr. Havner present at our meeting.” His curt tone made clear the urgency of this meeting, so they all hurried at their tasks.

They entered through the back door of the manor house, which they used much more often than the front door, and were greeted by the warmth of the fireplace. She also spotted Lady Wynwood, who was attempting to hoist a heavy basket, its contents protected by a cloth. Isabella came forward to take it from her, and she smiled in thanks. Isabella fervently prayed the basket contained something more substantial than the toast she’d had for breakfast, which had been all the cook could throw together for her before she had to leave the house.

Lady Wynwood wordlessly gestured toward the stack of plates on the warped dresser, then headed down the stairs to the cellar. Isabella followed, leaving one of the men to carry the plates with them.

The scent of tea welcomed her as she entered the butler’s pantry, and after setting the basket down on the table, she practically attacked Keriah, who was pouring cups for everyone. The room had originally housed racks of wine bottles, and the dining room table that Mr. Drydale had moved to fill the center fit with just enough room for the mismatched chairs around it.

Isabella sank into one with a cup of steaming tea, too hot to drink, then eyed the muffins, scones, and a bacon and egg pie that Lady Wynwood was removing from the basket. Lady Wynwood’s twin servants, Clara and Calvin, were hovering over the basket, but Phoebe told them to sit as she piled two plates high with food and then passed it to them.

She noticed that Mr. Ackett accepted a cup of tea, but he didn’t drink. Mr. Drydale looked exhausted, as though he’d been awake all night. Isabella knew this early meeting must have been important, but their expressions made her uneasy about the horribleness of the bad news that they obviously had to tell them.

Lady Wynwood prayed before they began. After blessing the food, she added solemnly, “We pray for Your wisdom in the actions we are about to take. Amen.”

Isabella was wide awake now. What had happened?

Mr. Drydale looked around at them all. “Last night, the pale-eyed man found Septimus and gave him a message for me. He has Dr. Shokes and will kill him if we do not give them Mr. Coulton-Jones.”

“What?!” Isabella shot to her feet.

At the same time, Keriah yelped, “What?!” and nearly upended her teacup.

“How did they know that taking Dr. Shokes would force us to act to save him?” Phoebe demanded.

“They know from his brother, Mr. Shokes, that the two women who made the sedative that saved Mr. Coulton-Jones used the Shokes’ stillroom,” Mr. Ackett said. Isabella remembered that he’d been in the stable when Mr. Shokes approached Apothecary Jack, offering what little information he’d been able to glean about the sedative from what he’d seen in his stillroom after Keriah had used it.

“So the Gentians would know that we have a connection to the Shokes family and wouldn’t want Dr. Shokes to be harmed,” Keriah said weakly.

“But the Gentians don’t know that Michael cares a fig about Dr. Shokes,” Isabella said.

“But they know that Keriah and I wouldn’t want Dr. Shokes to be harmed,” Phoebe said, “and the Gentians know that we saved Mr. Coulton-Jones’s life. He’d surely feel obligated to us.”

“Do they think he’ll simply turn himself over to them, after you worked so hard to save him?” Isabella asked.

“They probably know that we would not let an innocent man be killed,” Mr. Drydale said. “Or they are perhaps gambling that Phoebe and Miss Gardinier would be so worried about Dr. Shokes that they would pressure us into giving Mr. Coulton-Jones to them.”

“We’re not giving him to them,” Isabella said hotly, but then she felt Michael’s hand on her arm. She turned toward him, and his expression was unsurprised—Mr. Drydale must have told him about all this last night.

“Why do they want Mr. Coulton-Jones?” Phoebe asked.

“The pale-eyed man said that they are curious about how he is alive after not only becoming a Berserker, but also after not having another dose of the Root for weeks,” Mr. Ackett said.

But Phoebe shook her head firmly. “He must have been lying. After working with the Goldensuit for so long, the Gentians surely know that pollen can keep a person alive and off the Root, if only for a limited time. They also know by now that someone acquired Jack’s plants—that pimp and his women witnessed our fight with the French agents, even though we collected everything and left the area as soon as possible. Naturally they would assume that Mr. Coulton-Jones is alive because of the plants we captured.”

“The pale-eyed man said it was the truth and wouldn’t give me another answer,” Mr. Ackett said.

“It may be part of the truth,” Lady Wynwood said, “but likely not all of it.”

“So what is their true purpose in demanding Michael?” Isabella asked.

Mr. Drydale frowned, but his hand moved in a helpless gesture. “We don’t know.”

“Are you truly going to let him walk into their den of villainy when we don’t even know why they want him?” Her voice was reaching higher octaves.

She was shocked at a snort of laughter from beside her.

Isabella rounded on Michael, but then stopped whatever she was going to say at the pained look on his face as he tried to hold in his laughter. “‘Den of villainy?’” He gave another snort. “Really, Ugly?”

She stared at him, but couldn’t remain angry. She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “I may have been a touch melodramatic,” she conceded, “but my question still stands. Are we going to trade him like a bolt of silk on a merchantman when we don’t know what the Gentians will do to him?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Keriah said in a soft voice. “Not if we want to save Dr. Shokes.”

“Mr. Ackett,” Phoebe said, “how did the pale-eyed man find you?”

“Yes,” Isabella interjected. “Why didn’t you knock him over the head and capture him?”

“Or follow him back to his den of villainy?” Michael asked. She heard the teasing in his voice at those last words and kicked him under the table.

Mr. Ackett hesitated, looking a bit startled at the multiple questions fired at him, then said slowly, “I headed to my costuming room in the Long Glades to get my spare knife. My other one was cracked and I was borrowing Michael’s blade.” He nodded toward Michael. “The pale-eyed man … was waiting for me. He had drawn a picture of me, from the time in the stables.”

Thorne sighed. “He must have told his men all over the Long Glades to keep an eye out for you.”

Mr. Ackett nodded. “I did consider following him after he left, but I wasn’t certain what he might do to Dr. Shokes if I were discovered.”

“I, for one, am relieved you did not,” Michael said. “It would not benefit anyone if you were captured again.”

Isabella had been about to demand why Mr. Ackett hadn’t even tried to follow the pale-eyed man, but then backed down, feeling ashamed of herself. Mr. Ackett had been tortured terribly during the time he’d been in the hands of Apothecary Jack and the pale-eyed man. She could not have withstood their barbaric treatment with the stoic strength Mr. Ackett had displayed.

Lady Wynwood looked at Mr. Ackett for a long moment, then turned to Isabella. “Lady Aymer, last night Sol and I put together a plan that will protect your brother and even lead us to the Gentians.”

Isabella straightened in her chair. “Oh?”

“They have scheduled the meeting for tonight,” Mr. Drydale said, “at Vauxhall Gardens.”

“It is Friday,” Michael murmured. “It will be busy tonight.”

“It will be difficult to follow anyone,” Isabella said, “which is likely why they chose this venue.” During her years as an agent for the Ramparts, she had had to follow people in all manner of places and situations. She had never had to work within Vauxhall Gardens before, but she had been there while safely escorted with friends in her social circle, and as she remembered the dark, crowded walks, she knew it would be difficult—perhaps impossible to keep track of Michael in the press of people.

“According to the note the pale-eyed man gave to Septimus,” Mr. Drydale said, “Mr. Coulton-Jones is to enter Vauxhall with one companion. Someone will approach him and tell him where he may find Dr. Shokes. The companion will go to rescue the doctor, and Mr. Coulton-Jones is to accompany this person.”

“Two of us will be following Michael within the Gardens,” Mr. Drydale said. “Myself and Mr. Rosmont. Calvin will follow close behind me to act as a runner should I need to send a message to anyone outside.”

The twins, who had been listening while gobbling muffins at the same time, now paused in inhaling their food. Clara said, “I’m better at moving in a crowd than Calvin.”

But he frowned at her. “I don’t want you by yourself inside the gardens.”

“I quite agree,” Lady Wynwood said.

Isabella also nodded. While there were some respectable areas of Vauxhall, women had to be appropriately escorted because there were far too many places where men had assignations with mistresses or a Cyprian for the night. A young girl alone, even if she were disguised as a boy, would be in far too much danger.

However, Isabella was not only an adult, she had also infiltrated places even more dangerous than Vauxhall before. “I would be better at following Michael,” she said. “I can spot him in a crowd no matter his disguise, and in this case he would simply be himself.”

Mr. Drydale shook his head. “I want you stationed at the Water Gate and Septimus at the Coach Gate. The two of you have experience enough with clandestine operations that you will more clearly notice if anyone entering Vauxhall is not simply seeking pleasure.”

“But Uncle—er, Mr. Drydale,” Phoebe said, “Lady Aymer has never seen the pale-eyed man’s face, nor Apothecary Jack. I have seen them both, including Jack without his face paint.”

“I doubt Jack or the pale-eyed man will be there,” Mr. Drydale said to her. “But more than that, Lady Aymer is the most skilled in disguise of any agent within the Ramparts, and I do not give such praise lightly. Vauxhall can be dangerous for lone women, and Lady Aymer’s disguise will be all that protects her from untoward advances that could jeopardize the operation.”

Phoebe’s mouth pursed in disgruntlement, but she did not argue. She had asked Isabella for schooling in disguise, but Isabella was not a good instructor. She had not been able to impart much wisdom aside from a few tricks she used most often. If Phoebe were in Isabella’s place and a man happened to notice she was a woman, she had the fighting skills to dissuade even aggressive solicitations, but the encounter would attract attention from others and distract her from her job of observing the crowd.

“Lady Aymer, out of all of us, you are more likely to notice if the pale-eyed man sends someone else into Vauxhall.”

“I shall keep my eyes and ears open.” When dressed as a street urchin, Isabella could become almost invisible, which was how she most often overheard conversations. They might be fortunate enough to hear a conversation between Jack’s men about any traps they had set.

“Mr. Havner.” Mr. Drydale turned toward Lady Wynwood’s coachman, who had been standing awkwardly in the corner, firmly refusing to sit at the table. “I would like to ask you to be waiting somewhere outside the Water Gate with two horses for myself and Mr. Rosmont. I shall send Calvin with a message if we must ask you to meet us outside the other entrance. We will be able to follow Michael whether they take him by carriage or by the river.”

Mr. Havner nodded gravely, but said nothing.

Mr. Rosmont frowned. “Following the river on horseback can be difficult.”

“Which is why I will hire a boat to wait for us near the Coach Gate,” Mr. Drydale said. “If they go by water, I will follow in the hired boat while you go by horse. However, areas of the river can be very dark, so I am hoping they will not take him that route.”

Phoebe frowned. “Who will accompany Mr. Coulton-Jones into Vauxhall?”

“We shall hire a, er, young woman,” Mr. Drydale said.

“It was my idea,” Lady Wynwood interjected. “Among all the other ladybirds in the gardens, one more will be difficult for the Gentians to follow. Her instructions will be simple—she need only carry the message about Dr. Shokes to Mr. Ackett, who will go to fetch him. Then the girl’s part in the affair will be done and she will be out of any danger.”

“Why Mr. Ackett?” Keriah asked.

“The Gentians already know his face,” Mr. Drydale said, the crease deepening between his dark brows. “I have no interest in revealing more of my agents so the pale-eyed man can draw more portraits of them.”

“Where should I take Dr. Shokes?” Mr. Ackett asked.

“We shall hire a hackney to wait nearby,” Mr. Drydale said. “Septimus, you must ensure you are not followed when it takes you both to Laura’s hotel. Once there, Miss Gardinier can tend to any wounds Dr. Shokes may have.”

“The hotel?” Keriah objected. “I should be at Vauxhall and see to him immediately. At the very least I should be nearby in the event something happens to one of you.”

But Mr. Drydale shook his head. “You, Clara, and Phoebe will wait at the hotel with Laura.” His hard voice brooked no objection.

Phoebe’s expression had been growing more and more indignant as the meeting progressed, so she must have been suspecting this. However, she kept her mouth shut and gripped Keriah’s arm firmly when she opened her mouth to protest, silencing her. Clara also had a mulish expression, but she remained silent.

Isabella understood Phoebe’s frustration, but applauded her control. It meant she respected Mr. Drydale as her superior officer, like a true Ramparts agent, and not simply as a family friend.

Mr. Drydale appeared to be relieved that the women didn’t immediately erupt in anger. “I am arranging for the third room on the same hallway of the hotel to be reserved for the doctor, so that it will appear he is a guest. It will afford Laura some privacy when she questions him to find out what happened and try to glean any information he might have overheard.”

“Also, Keriah, consider,” Lady Wynwood said gently. “The hotel is the safest place for Dr. Shokes since two Ramparts agents are guarding the hallway at all times. You would wish him to be removed from danger as soon as possible, surely?”

Keriah nodded reluctantly.

“Also, I wish for the two of you, as well as Clara, Septimus, and Laura, to be together at the hotel,” Mr. Drydale said to Keriah and Phoebe. “As soon as we know anything, I shall be able to contact all of you quickly.”

“For those of us at Vauxhall, what shall we do once you and Thorne leave to follow Michael?” Isabella asked. “We shan’t be able to follow a carriage or a boat.”

“Lady Aymer, Mr. Havner, and Calvin shall gather in a small room in a brothel near Vauxhall and wait for us to return,” Mr. Drydale said.

“What brothel?” Michael looked disapproving, although he and Isabella had hidden at even more scandalous places a time or two while on a mission.

“A small one a bit farther away from Vauxhall,” Mr. Drydale said. “It is near a stable, where Mr. Havner may store Laura’s unmarked carriage while we are using the horses. I have used it before because it is a long, narrow building with an entrance on a quiet street and a back door in a dark alleyway, so that people may enter without being easily noticed. However, it is not a safe location, so be on your guard. You should not need to wait for long.”

“Shall we merely follow Michael to discover where they take him?” Thorne asked Mr. Drydale.

He nodded. “We will scout out the building and surrounding area, but we shall need to return to the others to formulate further plans.” He looked directly at Isabella. “Lady Aymer, it is the reason I am asking you to wait at the brothel. I don’t wish for you to cross the river until I know that I shall not need your particular skills. It may be that you and Mr. Rosmont shall be needed to watch the building for us.”

“We can help,” Calvin piped up.

Mr. Drydale glanced at Lady Wynwood first, then said, “We shall perhaps allow you to help Lady Aymer, but it will depend upon the type of area it is. If it is too dangerous, only Lady Aymer and Mr. Rosmont will stand vigil. We will try to decide how to rescue Mr. Coulton-Jones as soon as possible.”

Isabella felt a chill run through her, and hoped it was simply the cold seeping into the cellar room from the stone walls. She remembered another mission where she had been left waiting and watching an enemy building while Michael had been in danger inside, and she had gone nearly mad with worry for him. It had been after that mission that she had requested another agent as her guard, which was when she had been paired with Mr. Clay for a few missions. He was not as skilled as Michael in disguise, nor was he as strong a fighter as Thorne, but it had been less harrowing for her emotions when he had been put in dangerous situations.

Keriah spoke up. “I may have an idea that would make it easier for you to follow Mr. Coulton-Jones, if they take him by carriage. I can create two liquids that will smell very strongly when they are mixed together. If they are in two small glass vials in a cloth pouch, Mr. Coulton-Jones need only crush the glass and toss the pouch out the carriage window. I can give him several pouches. Anyone following closely enough would smell the pouch, although it might be more difficult on horseback.”

Mr. Drydale’s eyebrows rose. “That would be convenient, even if we had to stop and dismount for a block or two. How long would the smell last?”

“Twenty minutes, perhaps? But much less if it is raining or the pouch lands in a puddle on the road.”

“This is also assuming Michael isn’t trussed up or knocked out,” Thorne said.

“Or closely watched by his captor,” Mr. Ackett added.

“Then I shall do my very best not to be trussed up, knocked out, or closely watched, and to have excellent aim,” Michael said.

There were a few chuckles in the silence that followed, then Phoebe spoke up in a firm voice. “Mr. Drydale, I have no role in this mission. Could I not go in disguise as a man?”

Lady Wynwood was pale but unsurprised, so she must have expected her niece to request something like this. Isabella gave it serious consideration. Phoebe was tall enough to pass for a slender young man, and she was able to alter her stance and stride to be convincingly masculine. In Isabella’s opinion, she could pass for a man quite adequately. She had the fighting skills to protect herself against common dangers, but against men on the Root, she would need to flee, and in that instance, her height would make that more difficult for her.

Isabella was about to voice her opinion on that, but Mr. Drydale shook his head. “It is Vauxhall,” he said. “While there are some respectable areas, we do not know where Mr. Coulton-Jones will need to go. I am unwilling to allow you to follow behind him when he may need to traverse the Dark Walk or somewhere equally lecherous.”

“I can remain close by to you or Mr. Rosmont,” Phoebe said. Her voice was tight, just on the edge of being angry or unreasonable. Isabella began to worry about her self-control.

“If something happens and we must separate even further, I or Mr. Rosmont might take a moment to worry about leaving you alone,” Mr. Drydale replied. “That would endanger the mission. Even a second of distraction could hinder our ability to follow Mr. Coulton-Jones.”

He was minimizing the risks. Isabella understood that quite well, having done that herself when requesting Mr. Clay to guard her. Vauxhall was a pleasure garden, not a den of villainy, but it collected many men, most with wealth and privilege, and the darkness brought out the predator in them.

Phoebe’s mouth was a straight line, her hands clenched into fists. At first, Isabella was startled. She had never seen Phoebe so belligerent, almost quarrelsome. But then she remembered that Phoebe had mentioned her agitation about the impending visit to her father’s house—which had been yesterday afternoon. Had something happened?

Impulsively, Isabella reached over to touch the back of her fist where it rested on the table. “Not all of us will have roles in every mission,” she said. “Agents accept that they have specialties that are not always appropriate for the needs at hand.”

She stared down at where Isabella touched her, and then loosened her fingers. She gave Isabella a small half-smile, to acknowledge the truth of her words, but she was clearly still unhappy that she was not a part of tonight’s operation.

“Sir, what about the prison?” Michael suddenly asked, his face hard.

Mr. Drydale sighed, making Isabella wonder if something had occurred last night at the prison. “I have requested that Sir Derrick send agents to guard the prisoners tonight,” Mr. Drydale said.

“The same ones who arrived this morning to guard them?” Michael asked. “Can we trust them?”

“What happened?” Isabella demanded.

Septimus explained that Mr. Uppleby had attempted to take over Mr. Drydale’s investigation. He had sent agents to the prison to move Jack’s men to another location closer to the Ramparts so that he could question them himself, without needing to make the trek out to the ice house on Mr. Burstom’s estate.

“Mr. Clay?!” Isabella exclaimed. Of all the people Mr. Uppleby could have sent, why had it been him? Mr. Uppleby had once compared him unfavorably to Michael as an agent, and since then, the man had held a thorny grudge against her brother.

She immediately turned on Michael. “What did you do to him?”

“Why do you assume I did something to him?” His voice had a whining edge, just as it had when they argued as children.

“Because he obviously couldn’t do anything to you,” she shot at him.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Michael said. “He tried to plant me a facer and it wasn’t as if I was going to stand there and let him have a go at me.”

Isabella moaned. “Please tell me you didn’t do something childish and embarrass him.”

Michael blinked at her, eyes wide and mouth open in a dumbfounded expression, which usually meant he was trying not to say something she didn’t want to hear.

“Michael didn’t break any bones,” Mr. Ackett said cheerfully. “When I brought Mr. Drydale back to the prison, Mr. Clay was sleeping in the corner of the hut. He didn’t even seem to mind the ropes tying his hands and legs together.”

Michael squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead. “Sep, you only made it worse.”

“Regardless of Mr. Clay’s ill-advised actions,” Mr. Drydale said, “Septimus managed to sneak away and find me in London. I went to Heddetch’s laboratory first, and ousted three agents who had been sent to search it.”

“They didn’t break anything, did they?” Keriah asked in alarm. “You should have allowed us to search it last night …”

“If you recall, the sedative you are tasked with constructing is more important,” Mr. Drydale said severely. “And no, they didn’t break anything.”

Keriah looked at him with skepticism.

He cleared his throat. “Well, we didn’t break much. There was a slight altercation—”

“Sol prevented them from making a mess, dear,” Lady Wynwood said. “You needn’t worry.”

Mr. Drydale hastily continued, explaining how Mr. Ackett had met the pale-eyed man and received his message. They had then ridden to the prison and sent Mr. Uppleby’s agents packing. Mr. Drydale returned to London to tell Thorne (who would tell Isabella) about the meeting and to plan tonight’s operation with Lady Wynwood.

At this point, Isabella realized that Mr. Drydale, Mr. Ackett, Lady Wynwood, and Michael had all not slept last night.

“Sep and I completed the interrogation cell last night,” Michael told Mr. Drydale. “Did you want to question the prisoners about Dr. Shokes?”

Instead of replying, Mr. Drydale turned to Keriah. “Have you completed the sedative?”

“If you will wait an hour or so, then I shall have a small amount.”

“Then yes, I will question them,” Mr. Drydale said to Michael, “although I doubt they know anything. Jack and the pale-eyed man do not appear to be the sort to tell their lackeys what their plans are.” Mr. Drydale turned to Lady Wynwood. “Might I request your help with the questioning?”

“Of course,” she said. “But first I must return the twins to London.”

Since Thorne was tasked with remaining here at Stapytton House to guard Keriah and Phoebe while they went about their work, Isabella asked for a ride in her carriage, tying her horse behind it.

“Lady Aymer,” Mr. Drydale said, “please set up at a position outside of Vauxhall two or three hours ahead of the meeting time. Miss Gardinier, after you make the sedative, prepare the tracking pouches for Mr. Coulton-Jones. The rest of you,” Mr. Drydale said as he looked around the table, “rest as well as you can, for it will be a long night. Prepare any disguises and weapons for fighting, since it may come to that after we discover where Mr. Coulton-Jones is taken.”

With that, the meeting was ended.

Isabella laid a hand on Michael’s arm to keep him seated a moment. “Please be sure to be cautious,” she told him.

“If I were not cautious, Ugly, I’d have died a dozen times over the past several years.”

She ignored his teasing tone. “Everything about this smells suspicious. I am worried, Michael, about the true reason the Gentians want you.”

He sobered, looking at her directly with glass-green eyes exactly like Richard’s, exactly like her own. “I don’t know why they want me, Bella.”

She picked up his hand. Both of them had removed their riding gloves when taking tea, and she felt his callouses. His finger rubbed the long scar on her palm, where her husband, Sir Walter, had slashed at her the day he died.

The room had emptied of the others by now, although voices drifted through the open doorway from the cellar hallway. “I simply wish for you to remember that your family depends upon you now. I depend upon you.” She sighed. “I am trying, but it is very hard.”

“Trying? What are you trying to do?”

“I am trying to trust in God to watch over you tonight.”

Small changes in his face showed his surprise. “I had expected you to be more upset by all this.”

“I had expected that, also.” She hesitated, stroking her thumb across the hills and valleys of his knuckles, catching on small scars. “I have been remembering Richard more often lately,” she confessed. “Not only do I miss him, but I am remembering about how Richard made me feel God was real. I had forgotten about that until I spoke to lady Wynwood a few weeks earlier.”

It was his turn to hesitate. Then he said slowly, “I have been thinking more about God lately, also.”

“Oh? Have you been speaking with Lady Wynwood?”

“No … It was during the last time I spoke privately with Miss Sauber.”

The way he said her name made her want to smile, but she suppressed it. She wondered if he knew how he felt … but considering what he had suffered through lately, he likely was doing his best not to think about it. “What did you speak about?” she asked mildly.

“I told her about Richard’s death.” He remained silent for a time, but then suddenly admitted, “I told her about my full role in Richard’s death … and yet she absolved me. It was the first time I felt that someone truly believed I deserved to be forgiven.”

“I have never blamed you for Richard’s death—” she began, but he stopped her by gently squeezing her hand.

“I know you have not blamed me, Ugly, but I have blamed myself enough for us both.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I admit when I first heard about Richard’s investigations at the Smoke Domino Club, and about how he had told you about it, for a moment, I did blame you for it.” She gave a short laugh, hard and self-mocking. “I blamed you for not being able to see into the future and prevent the tragedy. I am sorry,” she said earnestly. “It was wrong of me to blame you, and I am sorry if you noticed my feelings and if they hurt you.”

“You did not hurt me,” he said. “I was already full of self-recrimination.”

“And Phoebe’s reaction lifted some of your guilt?”

“I told Miss Sauber the entire story, and yet she told me it was not my fault. I felt … It felt warm, not like sunlight, but like the sting when Richard slapped me too hard, and smiled, and told me to cheer up, trust in God to work everything out, and not be so gloomy. I suppose … I have also been remembering Richard’s faith.”

She bit her lip. “I knew you have been feeling guilt about Richard, but I didn’t know what to say to you, except to tell you not to feel guilty, or something equally inane. But the truth was that I couldn’t speak to you about it because I blame myself, too.”

“That is ridiculous, Ugly,” he said. “You knew nothing about Richard and Jack.”

She looked him full in the face. “If I had told Richard about le petit prince, he might have confided in me instead of you. I might have helped him and he would never have been noticed by Jack in that club.”

His forehead creased. “It is not your fault, Ugly.”

“In the same way, it is not your fault, either.”

He gave her a true smile, then, with crinkles at the corners of his eyes and light shining through the glass-green color.

They were suddenly interrupted by the sounds of loud voices from somewhere inside the house. The house was never truly quiet—it creaked and moaned like an old man with the gout. Isabella had initially ignored the soft murmur of voices from outside the open door, but now came sharp, indistinct words spoken in the heat of an argument.

Michael stood to his feet. “What is happening?”

She followed him up the stairs into the kitchen, but the only person there was Thorne. The voices came from the floor above, and Isabella made to follow the sound, but Thorne reached a hand out to clasp her arm.

“Miss Sauber is … speaking with Mr. Drydale,” he said.

“What are they speaking about?” Michael asked.

But it was Isabella who answered. “She feels excluded from the events of tonight,” she murmured.

“Miss Sauber does seem … agitated,” Thorne said with wary concern. “I understand about wishing to be included in the operation, but she was unusually aggressive in the meeting. I have never seen her behave as such before.”

“I understand Mr. Drydale’s reasoning,” Michael said, “but I admit I was surprised that he had not assigned even a small role for her.”

Isabella wasn’t certain if she ought to share with them what she knew, but then she remembered that Thorne had helped Phoebe reclaim her mother’s jewels, and Michael had protected her from the kidnapping attempt. “She had an appointment to visit her father yesterday afternoon,” Isabella said, “and I believe that something about it may have upset her.”

Michael’s eyebrows rose. “What could he do to her that would be more shocking than what he has already done?”

The sound of arguing had suddenly stopped, followed by quick footsteps on the stairs. Through the open kitchen door and the straight hallway that led to the front of the house, Isabella saw Phoebe as she descended into the entrance hall. She hurled her tall frame against the front door, and the warped wood gave way a couple feet. She slipped outside the house.

Isabella considered going after her, but decided it would be best to allow her time to herself first. She had only seen Phoebe’s face in profile, but clearly saw that it was etched in anguish. “She looks as though she has gone guns blazing into a naval engagement against despair,” Isabella murmured.

“I remember that feeling,” Thorne said in a gravelly voice. He looked as though he hadn’t meant to say that, and his face hardened into granite. “I remember how little good that did for me,” he muttered.

Isabella wanted to say something to him, maybe something light and gay to soothe his aggressive spirit. However, she knew that nothing could erase the scars he worked so hard to hide. It all burned inside of him—his anger over his wife’s betrayal, his inability to love his son. Each year, he grew harder and more bitter.

Remembering Richard had also brought back to her the memories of her childhood together with Thorne. She had forgotten that Thorne had once been quite close to the local curate. When she and Michael had first met Thorne, he had been like a whipped dog. But their mother’s nurturing and his close friendship with Michael had enabled him to trust them. And then, a few years later, his closeness with the local curate and a stronger faith in God had somehow given him freedom and peace from the virulence and abuse of his father.

But as an adult, first that injury that forced him to sell out of the Army and then the entire affair with Drusilla caused him to turn his back on God. Isabella hadn’t known what to say to him then, either. She had not been a devout Christian herself until only a few years ago, when she had had a particularly deep conversation with Richard. They had spoken about many things, but what she remembered most was Richard’s strong faith and the balm it had brought to her heart.

Now that Richard was gone, recently she had been able to speak to Lady Wynwood about the same kinds of spiritual matters. Richard had helped her through that dark time in her life, so now she wanted to help Thorne recapture that freedom and peace that he used to have when he was younger, when God had been a comfort to him. Most of all, Isabella wanted to help Thorne learn to love his son.

Thorne surprised her by asking, “Should you go after her to speak to her?”

“I will try to speak to her before leaving,” she said. “Otherwise I may not have a private moment before tonight.”

At the mention of the operation, Thorne’s brows drew down in the crooked V-shape that she was familiar with, indicating that he was concerned, but wasn’t certain how to express it. “Tonight at the Water Gate, only Calvin shall be there with you,” he said slowly. “In the clandestine operations in which you participated before, you were usually assigned a male agent to guard you.”

“You forget that there were many times when I was alone because my guard was nearby but not close to me.” She touched his shoulder lightly. “I am not anxious because I trust the rest of our team. We are all constantly looking out for each other. I shall not truly be alone.”

Strangely, his mouth twisted in something that looked a bit like disappointment. “I suppose I am no longer the only one who watches over you anymore.”

She had known Thorne nearly her entire life. Their estates neighbored each other and he and Michael were close in age, so it was natural that they would become fast friends, and he had had the run of their home. Years later, when she became an agent, she had already known that Thorne and Michael both worked for the Home Office. So when Michael was otherwise engaged, she had often requested Thorne to be assigned to protect her on her missions.

As Michael grew busier, it had been Thorne who most often accompanied her for several years, but now things were starting to change.

Perhaps it was best this way. She knew it was not quite proper for her to be so intimate with him in both social and work situations, not with her husband dead and his wife banished into the country.

So she told him, “You need to trust the team also, Thorne.”

He frowned at her. “I do trust them.”

“This group is different from any other agents I have met and worked with,” she said. “I suspect it is the same for you.”

“Yes,” he readily agreed. His mouth worked silently for a few minutes, as though he were trying to order his thoughts. “It is … an unfamiliar atmosphere, but not unpleasant,” he said at last. “I am unsure how to act in regards to it all.”

His words were vague, but she thought she understood what he was feeling. She forced a smile and patted his arm again. “I’m sure that if you trust the team, they will not disappoint you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It was afternoon, and Aunt Laura had sent Mr. Havner with the carriage to retrieve Phoebe and Keriah from Stapytton House. As soon as the two of them had stepped inside the privacy of the coach, Keriah stabbed a finger at her friend and said fiercely, “Do not do whatever harebrained scheme you are considering.”

Phoebe tried to look innocent. “I have no intention of doing anything harebrained.”

“That is a very misleading statement,” Keriah said, “because your actions may not seem harebrained to you, but it will most certainly appear harebrained to everyone else.”

Annoyed, Phoebe swatted away Keriah’s finger, which was still jabbing at her. “It is not harebrained—”

“Aha!” Keriah’s eyebrows shot up. “You were thinking of doing something! What are you planning?”

“I shan’t do anything,” Phoebe said, although she heard the sullenness in her tone. She cleared her throat. “The last thing I wish to do is endanger everyone else.” Especially Mr. Coulton-Jones.

Keriah must have realized she was being sincere, for she sat back against the squabs of the coach. “I feared you would disobey Mr. Drydale.”

It took a few moments for Phoebe to realize that her face had crinkled into a frown, and she smoothed her features. “I shall do no such thing. I simply feel … rather useless.”

“But Isabella did say that not every agent could be utilized for every mission.”

“Yes, and I know she is correct.” Phoebe sighed. “On top of everything else that has happened lately, not being able to participate tonight has made me feel weak.”

“You didn’t sound particularly weak when you were arguing with Mr. Drydale.”

Phoebe grimaced. She already regretted the heated words she had exchanged with Uncle Sol. “I fear that because my mood is rather turbulent right now, at the time, I felt as though Uncle Sol had been treating me in the same manner as my father.”

Keriah rolled her eyes. “Oh, that wasn’t obvious at all.”

“I thought that working with the Goldensuit plants today would take my mind away from the problems with my father and the marriage contract, but the work only seemed to make me think about it more. And as I thought about it more, I became more upset about it. No—I am beyond upset,” Phoebe confessed. “I am angry with my father nearly every second of the day. And at the same time, I feel powerless, as if I am physically restrained—because I simply cannot fight him. I have no means to legally oppose him.”

“Didn’t your aunt say she would speak to her attorney?”

“Aunt Laura sent a note to Mr. Cossman yesterday, after we returned from my father’s house, but she hasn’t received a reply yet.”

A silence fell between them. Keriah was gnawing on her bottom lip, and Phoebe knew that she was trying to think of something to comfort her. But she also knew that there was nothing anyone could do.

Shackled. She felt shackled. And this overwhelming awareness of her impotence and vulnerability was causing panic to rise inside of her, clawing under her breastbone.

Keriah’s lower lip had been gnawed until it was red and swollen. To change the subject and rescue her friend’s abused lip, Phoebe asked, “How many pouches of that tracking chemical did you manage to make?”

“Six. I also finished some sedative today, although there isn’t a large amount yet, since I spent most of today making the compounds. I also haven’t yet been delivered of the ingredients to make a larger batch.”

“Have you given all of that to Mr. Rosmont?” Phoebe glanced outside the coach, where she could see his figure astride his horse as he rode alongside the carriage. He had remained at Stapytton House all day with Phoebe and Keriah to guard them, but they were returning to London a bit early so that he could prepare for tonight’s operation.

Keriah nodded. “Do you think Mr. Coulton-Jones will be all right?” she asked in a hesitant voice.

Phoebe’s hands involuntarily clenched together in her lap. “I do hope so. It will be very dangerous tonight.”

In the light of the hazards that he would be facing in only a few hours, Phoebe’s own problems suddenly seemed to be mere trifles. And yet, a marriage to Mr. Poe would change the course of her life. Defying her father would open herself up to other machinations that he might devise. In a way, they were both trapped. They both were being forced to do what they did not wish to.

They arrived soon at Keriah’s sister’s house. Phoebe had encouraged Mr. Rosmont to bid them farewell and head toward his own townhouse once they entered London, but he had remained to accompany them. Phoebe did not exit the carriage, but simply waved when Keriah turned to look at her from the open front door. Then the carriage returned to Aunt Laura’s hotel, where Mr. Rosmont left her.

Phoebe returned to her quiet room next door to her aunt’s suite. She was trying to decide if she should call for tea to try to raise her sinking spirits when she heard a bustling in the hallway. Aunt Laura had just returned from questioning the prisoners.

Phoebe joined her in her seating area while Aya bustled about, removing her outer garments. She was surprised to find that the twins had arrived with her. What was more, their clothes were rumpled and smudged here and there with dirt and grass stains. “Did you allow the twins to accompany you?” she asked.

Aunt Laura gave a long-suffering sigh, but Calvin grinned and said, “We convinced her to take us with her.”

“To the prison?”

“We were forbidden from entering,” Clara answered. “We were bored, so we spent the day playing in the woods.”

Ah, that was why her aunt had relented. She never would admit to spoiling them, but about once a month, she took the twins with her to visit a friend’s country estate, or some abbey ruins. If she couldn’t find somewhere outside of London, she set them loose on Hampstead Heath. Uncle Sol had told them that the estate where the ice house was located was secure, which was likely why Aunt Laura had brought the children. It also explained the grass stains.

After Aya had put away her aunt’s outerwear, she took the twins with her and left to fetch tea for the two of them.

Phoebe asked, “Did Jack’s men have anything useful to say?”

Her aunt shook her head. “As far as I could tell, the men know nothing about Dr. Shokes and even Mr. Coulton-Jones.”

“In a sense, it’s fortunate for us that Jack did not tell his men about Mr. Coulton-Jones when he sent them to guard Dr. Heddetch. Perhaps it indicates that they knew nothing about him before the raid on the laboratory.”

Aunt Laura gave her a slight smile. “That is what Sol said, also.”

Normally Phoebe would be pleased to be thinking so similarly to Uncle Sol, but after their argument, and with her simmering resentment against all male authority figures at the moment, she said nothing.

Her feelings must have shown on her face, because her aunt looked at her with concern. Aunt Laura left her chair and walked around the low tea table to sit next to her.

“Dearest.” She took Phoebe’s hand into hers. “I know you do not wish to speak of this, but perhaps we should consider the possibility that you must go into hiding in the country since your father is seeking to kidnap you.”

The suggestion was made with tenderness, but it stabbed at Phoebe’s heart like a shard of ice. She pulled her hand away from her aunt’s grasp. “Aunt Laura, I don’t wish to leave London. I don’t wish to leave the work I’m doing with Uncle Sol.” Despite the feelings inside of her that were mixing Uncle Sol and her father, Phoebe still knew that whatever work she could do for the Ramparts would give her life more purpose than any path that others picked out for her.

“Phoebe, I only wish you to be cautious and wise about this, because although Denholm is terribly shortsighted, his wife is quite clever. The two of them could find a way to surprise you and take you.” Her hand fluttered to the green lace fichu at her bodice. “I am disquieted at simply the thought of it.”

“I have bested the servants before,” Phoebe said hotly, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew they were merely bluster.

Her aunt’s brows drew down. “If Denholm hired more men, you know very well that you wouldn’t stand a chance. No matter how skilled a fighter you become, you cannot escape if you are too badly outnumbered.”

Phoebe’s eyes dropped to her lap. “I know you’re right. But Aunt Laura, I am still unwilling to give up this place in which I stand, and this work that I’m doing.”

Aunt Laura reached for Phoebe’s hand again, and this time she grasped it quite firmly. “I am concerned about you, because lately your emotions have been highly agitated.” She didn’t mention it, but Phoebe knew that she was referring to the argument with Uncle Sol after the meeting this morning.

Not surprisingly, Uncle Sol had said almost the same thing to Phoebe. He had been firm in refusing her and said quite bluntly, “I have decided that I cannot count upon your help tonight because lately, you have been more volatile than usual due to your feud with your father.”

Of course, Phoebe took offense at his words, even though she knew that he was correct. She said things to him that she regretted.

His mouth tightened in displeasure, but all he had said to her was, “You must learn to control your emotions or it will cause you to lose focus when you most need to concentrate.”

She knew that he was trying to guide her, not as a family friend, but like her superior officer. A week ago, she would have been warmed by the fact that he treated her exactly as he did his other agents.

But at the moment, it simply upset her. “You can’t expect me to snuff my emotions out like a candle,” she had snapped at him, then stormed away.

Phoebe knew that Aunt Laura meant well, but right now, it felt as though she were trying to stuff her inside an uncomfortable corset that was too small, and all Phoebe could feel was frustration and the strain of being pushed and pulled in every direction.

She suddenly felt the need to move, to try to release the turmoil that seemed to be quivering in her limbs. She shot to her feet, knowing she was being rude but unable to stop herself. “Aunt Laura, if you will excuse me, I will walk to Keriah’s house. I’ll take Clara with me.”

She changed out of the old gown she had worn while working with the plants at Stapytton House, then bundled herself into her pelisse and bonnet and set off with Clara toward Keriah’s sister’s house. She promised her aunt that she would return with Keriah by nine o’clock, which was the time at which Mr. Coulton-Jones was scheduled to enter Vauxhall Gardens.

Unlike Aunt Laura’s townhouse, the hotel was quite close to Lord and Lady Stoude’s residence, so Phoebe had no need to find a hackney cab. But even during the short walk, her mind was filled with memories of the visit to her father’s house, her emotions as she met Mr. Poe and learned about the marriage contract, the strange coolness of her thoughts when she was fighting against her father’s footman, and then the way the anxiety, and rage, and pain had fallen upon her in the carriage in the aftermath, like a huge oak tree that finally toppled after a violently heavy rain.

Twice, Clara had to tug at her sleeve before Phoebe absentmindedly stepped out into the road in front of a cart or carriage. The young girl looked fraught with anxiety by the time they turned the corner into the square.

It was only then that Phoebe realized, too late, her tragic failings.

She might not have noticed the men if Mr. Coulton-Jones had not trained her in observing such things. There were five of them, large, hulking brutes rather than her father’s servants, looking distinctly out of place in the residential square since it was obvious that they were not tradesmen. They loitered close to the houses, looking bored and yet alert, quite unlike hirelings waiting outside a house for payment or delivery.

They spotted her walking in full view with only a young maid beside her.

The moment she noticed them, she was at first confused. Why had Jack sent men to wait outside Keriah’s sister’s house?

She was about to whirl about and leave as unobtrusively as she could, but one of the men happened to turn and stare directly at her.

He slapped his companion’s arm and said something, but they were too far away for her to hear. Even worse, the second man abruptly raced off, sprinting down the street to the corner and turning out of sight. It was obvious that he had gone to inform someone or fetch them.

Why were they interested in Phoebe?

Then she realized that they did not quite carry themselves in the same way as Jack’s men, and for that she was grateful. But the next moment, she realized that her father must have sent them to watch outside of Keriah’s sister’s house, waiting for Phoebe to arrive. They must have been there when the carriage dropped Keriah off at home, but Phoebe had not alighted, nor had she seen the men, so it was possible that they had not known she was inside the coach.

There were four of them, and they blocked her path to Keriah’s sister’s house.

It was too late to turn back the way she came, so she grabbed Clara’s arm and tugged at her. “Quickly, Clara, this way.”

They changed direction, moving across the entrance of the square, then making their way down the cross-street. She did not see the man who had run away.

“Over there.” She hurried them toward Dyer Street, a bustling area filled with shops. She plunged the two of them into the crowd of pedestrians, grateful that it was unusually busy today.

As she explained to Clara what she had seen and what she surmised about the men, inwardly she berated herself. She had been too aggrieved and too prideful, and she had walked directly into the situation her aunt had just warned her about. Even Uncle Sol had told her to control her emotions because it would make her lose focus, and she had done just that. If she had not been so caught up in her worries on the walk to Lady Stoude’s home, she would have been more aware of her surroundings and spotted the men long before they saw her.

They wove in between the clumps of people on the street, but while it was crowded, it was not crowded enough. She surreptitiously glanced behind them and spotted the men. They had just turned onto Dyer Street and were searching the crowd. She quickly twisted back around so that they would not notice her staring at them.

“Clara,” she said urgently, “where is the nearest hackney stand?”

“This way, miss.” Clara nearly pointed, but caught herself just in time, and lowered her hand. She began guiding them in a diagonal path.

They were not quite yet at the end of the street when Clara had them turn left and traverse a short alleyway that connected Dyer Street and Moody Lane, which ran parallel to each other. As they exited the alleyway, Phoebe spotted a hackney stand to their right.

She was about to hurry toward it when something caught her eye. On the left, at the corner of Moody Lane and Retford Lane, she spotted a magnificent carriage whose crest she recognized.

She paused, looking first at the carriage, then glancing behind her. The alleyway was still empty, but the men would surely have seen her and Clara turn into it. Would they manage to board a hackney cab and pull away before the men caught up to them? Even more alarming, what was to prevent them from taking another coach to follow them? She could not lead those men back to her aunt’s hotel.

Uncle Sol had told her to continue to think of creative solutions—that her ability would be her greatest strength. In that sense, he said, she was very similar to her aunt Laura.

The man following them would enter Moody Lane and immediately spy the hackney stand. Phoebe realized this would be the perfect way in which she could try to lose them.

She grabbed Clara’s shoulder. “This way.” She turned left and skirted around two large gentlemen ambling up the street. She moved them in front of the two men and then matched their pace, so that anyone who exited the alleyway and looked in their direction would only see the backs of the two men.

The short distance to the carriage seemed to take forever. The two men were discussing a recent horserace, having a fairly animated conversation, but walking with slow, plodding steps.

At last they drew close to the carriage. She moved around to the backside of it, and then stepped up to the coachman’s box. She was relieved to find that she knew the man and could only hope that he recognized her, as well. Looking up at him with what she hoped was a winsome smile, she said, “Good day, Mr. Soptus. I beg your pardon, but is your mistress here today?”

He glanced down at her, and his face alighted with recognition. “Why, certainly, Miss Sauber.” He pointed back the way they had come. “She’s in the stationary shop over there.”

The shop was on the same side of the street, but past the entrance of the alleyway that they had just exited. It would be a risk to head in that direction, but the men following them would surely not expect it. She gave him a coin for his troubles. “Thank you, Mr. Soptus.”

Phoebe did not immediately walk out from behind the carriage, but waited until a matronly woman and her daughter had passed, going in the direction of the stationary store. The woman’s dress made her look twice as wide as her natural figure due to the copious amounts of ruffles and lace, and her daughter’s dress had nearly as many furbelows attached to it. Due to the mother’s high poke bonnet, Phoebe was able to slouch slightly and hide her tall frame behind the two women, and she and Clara followed behind them.

She saw the moment the four men exited the alleyway onto Moody Lane. Three of them immediately headed towards the hackney cab stand, but one man looked around, scanning the faces of the crowd. He crossed to the other side of the street.

Phoebe moved to the opposite side of the two women, keeping them between her and the lone pursuer. However, perhaps because he was across the street from the women, the man did not even bother to look in her direction as he passed and continued up the street. She could only hope she could also confuse his three companions.

She now shifted behind and slightly to the side of the two women, keeping their figures between themselves and the hackney stand coming up ahead. As soon as they had passed the stand, the stationary shop was only two doors down.

The three men at the stand were speaking to two drivers loitering there. The drivers repeatedly shook their heads, likely telling the men chasing her that she had not taken a cab.

She couldn’t tell which direction the three men would go once they left the cab drivers. If they turned toward them …

After arguing with the drivers for another moment, the three men turned and walked toward Phoebe. The drivers cussed after the men, complaining about not receiving anything in return for the information they had doled out.

The three pursuers were walking with one man in front and two behind. They would pass the women before she reached the stationary store. Phoebe knew her timing would have to be precise.

Strangely, her heart rate slowed rather than speeding up. Knots of tension in her gut abruptly released, and calm flooded her body.

In contrast, Clara’s face was white, and her body vibrated with tension. However, the young girl did not fidget but moved slowly, matching her movements to Phoebe’s, so that the men would not notice her.

Time seemed to slow. As the men drew even with the matron and her daughter, they passed next to the older woman, so Phoebe moved Clara smoothly alongside the daughter.

It was over and done in a moment—they had each passed the ruffled woman and her daughter at the same moment, but the men had not noticed Phoebe and Clara.

She hurried ahead of the two women and continued to keep the walking mounds of lace and ribbons in between themselves and the three men for the few steps before she could finally duck into the stationary store.

There were only a handful of people in the shop, and Phoebe spotted her quarry quickly. She walked up to her, Clara trailing behind her, and smiled. “Miss Tolberton! I am quite delighted to see you.”

Miss Tolberton looked up from the bound notebook she was perusing and returned Phoebe’s smile. “Why, how do you do, Miss Sauber?” Miss Tolberton’s smile then slowly faded as she searched Phoebe’s face with consternation. “Why, Miss Sauber, whatever is the matter?”

Phoebe blinked. She thought she wore a polite mask, still in place from when she was trying to evade the men outside, but apparently Miss Tolberton had noticed the strain leaking through.

She had thought up a dozen different things to tell Miss Tolberton to explain the situation, to wheedle her into doing what she wanted, but the genuine solicitude in Miss Tolberton’s eyes gave her pause. She remembered Miss Tolberton’s comments about her father, she remembered the bruise on her wrist in the shape of a man’s fingers.

“I am not his daughter. I am his pet.”

Phoebe made the decision to tell her the truth. “Miss Tolberton, may I ask a favor of you?”

“Of course. What may I do for you?”

“My father …” Phoebe swallowed. She needed to tell Miss Tolberton, but speaking the truth aloud was surprisingly harder than she had expected. “My father has hired men who are attempting to take me back to his house, and I am caught without a carriage.” Her voice was hoarse, and she delicately cleared her throat. “Might I beg a ride in your coach?”

Phoebe had expected confusion, questions, and disbelief. But after only a moment, Miss Tolberton’s mouth firmed and her shoulders straightened. “Of course,” she said without hesitation. “Allow me to send my maid to my carriage and have the coachman drive to the door.”

The relief washed over Phoebe like a swelling wave, although she still felt as though she were swimming in deep waters, just as she and Keriah had done at the beach near her family’s home.

As soon as the maid left the shop, Miss Tolberton suddenly ushered Phoebe toward a darker corner. Phoebe was surprised, not because of the sudden action, but because she herself had been about to try to convince Miss Tolberton to move there rather than standing in front of the shop window.

Miss Tolberton gestured toward that window now. “I do beg your pardon for bustling you here and there, but I thought it might be best for us to remain out of view of the street.”

Phoebe stared at her in bewilderment for several seconds. This was hardly what she would have expected a sheltered young woman of polite society to consider. “Er … yes, I see you are quite right.”

When the carriage arrived, Miss Tolberton turned toward Phoebe and asked with admirable foresight, “Perhaps you would like to send your maid to check outside before we leave the store to ascertain if any of those men are nearby?”

Again, Phoebe was bemused by the unconventional thinking of this proper young lady. “Miss Tolberton, that is a very good thought.” She nodded at Clara.

Clara was also staring at Miss Tolberton, mouth slightly agape. But she quickly bobbed them a curtsy and exited the store. A minute later, she returned and indicated that it was safe for them to leave.

Phoebe had expected that she would need to urge Miss Tolberton to hurry, but strangely, it was Miss Tolberton who rushed toward the coach, setting a smart pace. They tumbled inside, heedless of decorum. Miss Tolberton’s maid followed them inside, eyes wide in shock.

Miss Tolberton ignored her maid and thumped upon the underside of the hood. “Soptus!”

The carriage abruptly started moving, throwing Phoebe back against the seat. They were in motion.

Her heartbeat had begun to calm down when the coach suddenly jerked to a halt. Her heart sped up again.

“What is happening?” Miss Tolberton said.

Phoebe was about to look outside, but remembered just in time to not show her face. She motioned at Clara, who looked out the window.

“There is a cart blocking the road,” she reported.

Miss Tolberton said, “Miss Sauber, do switch places with me, and I shall look out the opposite window so that you need not be seen.”

Phoebe readily assented, grateful for Miss Tolberton’s quick thinking right at the moment when Phoebe’s own thoughts were jumbled.

Miss Tolberton looked ahead of them at the accident, but she also turned to glance behind them, then ducked back inside. “There are two men hastening toward the coach from behind us,” she said. “They are not dressed like gentlemen or servants, so I would assume they are the miscreants your father has hired. They appear to have spotted us exiting the shop and climbing into the coach.”

Phoebe strove to control her breathing. Would the men enact a shocking scene here, in broad daylight in the middle of a street filled with pedestrians? But then again, the people about them were strangers, and any of the gentlemen in the crowd would not be so quick to interfere if it were too inconvenient for themselves. At her aunt’s house, the street was quiet and surrounded by residences, and her father had still ordered his servants to attack her. Had he ordered the same to these men?

Miss Tolberton thumped on the roof of the carriage urgently, but her maid said, “Miss Emilia, there is nothing Soptus can do if a cart is blocking the way.”

She sighed. “Yes, Felton, you are right.” But she gave Phoebe a worried look.

That strange calm wrapped around Phoebe again. Clara, also, settled her face in determined lines rather than appearing panicked, although she did continue to look nervously toward the window.

Phoebe could not involve Miss Tolberton any further in her troubles. She stood up and poked her head out the window, despite cries of protest from Miss Tolberton and Clara. But she knew she needed to clearly see her surroundings in order to determine what she should do.

She saw all four of the men. The first man that they had passed was the farthest away, but like the others, he was heading in their direction. Between him and the carriage, the other three men were more spaced out, with one several yards behind. But the two men nearest to them were alarmingly close.

One of them spotted Phoebe and looked straight at her, a sly smile creeping across his wide mouth. She realized that he was the same man who had first seen her when she walked into the square on her way to Keriah’s sister’s house.

She ducked her head back inside the carriage and took a long, deep breath. The sight of the man and his slow smile threatened to overset the calm waters of her heart, but she regained her equanimity.

Phoebe was strangely impassive as she considered her options. The two nearest men were far too close, and her only option would be to quickly exit the carriage and try to escape them. The carriage was at the intersection of Retford Lane and Moody Lane, so she could run down Retford and try to find another hackney stand. Once she had separated from Miss Tolberton, if the men attacked her, she would be able to fight them. She would have no need to hold back.

She had remembered to wear the muffatees Aya had made for her. The lace cuffs each hid a leather knife sheath underneath, and they were currently tucked away under the long sleeves of her pelisse. After the attack at her father’s house, she had sworn never to traverse outside without them, and she had worn them even while working on the plants at Stapytton House today.

She was immensely grateful that she had the slim blades, but she also needed to consider how she would be able to defend herself when hampered by the narrow column of her skirt and the weight of her petticoat, not to mention the stiffness of her stays. Several weeks ago, Aya had helped Phoebe to alter her stays when she began training with Mr. Armstrong, so now they were thankfully not as constrictive as they used to be.

She did as Mr. Armstrong had taught her and quickly imagined in her mind the steps she would need to take in the next few seconds. Then she looked up at Clara. “Clara, stay with Miss Tolberton.”

But Clara shook her head. “I will not leave you, miss.”

“I am ordering you to stay.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but I work for Lady Wynwood, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m more afraid of her than of you.”

Well, she couldn’t blame Clara for thinking like that. “Wait a few seconds, and then follow me. Try not to let them see you.”

“Wait a moment, Miss Sauber,” Miss Tolberton objected, “you are not surely thinking of leaving the carriage?”

“I cannot allow any harm to come to you, Miss Tolberton,” Phoebe said. “I must lead them away.”

“You are safer here in the carriage,” Miss Tolberton said firmly.

“I cannot be certain that these men would not attack, regardless of whose carriage this is. My father has done more outrageous things in the past few days than you would believe.”

“Be that as it may, you must not leave.” Miss Tolberton looked quite fierce as she added, “I shall not allow those men to do anything to you. They will regret it if they attack my carriage.”

Strangely, Phoebe was certain Miss Tolberton was deadly serious about her promise.

But Phoebe could no longer waste time. She was about to fling open the door and had half risen to her feet, when suddenly there came the shout of men outside. She was about to look to see what had happened, when the carriage abruptly lurched forward and she was thrown back onto the seat. Miss Tolberton’s maid gave a surprised gasp at the suddenness of the movement. Phoebe heard the coachman plying his whip, and the carriage rolled forward at increasing speed.

Clara ducked her head outside the window to look back at the men. “We have left them behind,” she said.

Phoebe sat there, her breath still quick and light, as if she had been running. It was as though her body could not quite believe that the danger was passed.

“There, you see?” Miss Tolberton smiled broadly and sat back, folding her hands into her lap. “We have made our grand escape.” She laughed, appearing to be in high spirits. “We may have been worrying ourselves over nothing. It is difficult to believe that they would have attacked a gentleman’s carriage in the midst of a crowd. They would have been seen and apprehended by the police.”

Phoebe was not certain if she believed that, but it did make her fears of a few minutes ago seem fantastical. “I beg your pardon, I should not have been so alarmed or caused such trouble for you.”

“Miss Sauber, I declare, I was likely more nervous than you were.” Miss Tolberton grinned at her. “You have been remarkably calm and collected.”

Phoebe realized that she had not reacted to the danger as a proper young woman would have done. She should have been panicked to be stuck in a carriage with no way of escape, just as she should have been nervous earlier when she was trying to evade the men. Yet instead of anxiety, she had been clearheaded and able to consider avenues of escape.

But rather than feeling she was an oddity, she realized that this unusual trait made her very well suited for the kind of work Mr. Coulton-Jones performed. She found that she was rather happy to have this in common with him.

She truly could be of use to Uncle Sol and the Ramparts … but she would need to prove herself. She would need to control her emotions so that she would not be caught out again.

Phoebe had not been prepared today, in more ways than one. As a woman, she lacked strength, and as a noblewoman, the fashionable clothing she was required to wear was a hindrance.

She could not dress in breeches all the time—she did not want to even consider the scandal that would ensue if someone recognized her dressed so outrageously. Although Isabella had praised her ability to pose as a boy, Phoebe was not confident she could play the role so perfectly that no one would see through her disguise.

When in Mayfair, she needed to be Miss Phoebe Sauber. Dr. Heddetch’s attack upon her aunt should have made her more aware of the liability that her society dresses would be if she were confronted with expected danger from someone like Apothecary Jack.

She had been working quite earnestly at her fighting ability, but today had proven Mr. Armstrong’s injunction that confrontations were not simply a matter of strength. She needed to learn every trick that would give her an advantage over men, and over multiple attackers. She needed to learn how to fight wisely, to take advantage of her strengths and adapt for her weaknesses. Uncle Sol would have no confidence in her abilities if she could not do that.

She felt the urge to improve herself and her fighting ability so that any agents who worked with her would have no need to worry about her safety, and so that she would feel more confident in her ability to complete the mission. With her physical limitations, she needed complete strength of mind—no matter what her father did to provoke her.

“Now, Miss Sauber,” Miss Tolberton said, breaking into Phoebe’s thoughts, “what shall you do now? They will surely also be waiting outside of your aunt’s townhouse.”

Phoebe had already considered her best course of action the moment she saw Miss Tolberton’s carriage parked on the street. She could not be dropped off at the hotel, for she did not dare compromise her aunt’s safety.

“I am in a strange carriage, and I happen to have a copy of the key to the mews.” Phoebe bit her lip and tried to look ashamed. “When I was younger, I would occasionally sneak out of my aunt’s house.” The real reason was that before Aunt Laura moved to the hotel, Phoebe was being picked up by Mr. Havner at the back lane of her aunt’s house before he drove her to Stapytton House, so she had a key to lock the mews door behind her and to open it again when she returned in the evening. “If I hop out of your carriage quickly enough, any men who might be waiting outside the mews may not be able to attack me before I get inside.”

“Oh no,” Miss Tolberton said. “I could not send you directly back into danger when you have already escaped from these men near moments ago. I have an excellent idea instead. Won’t you dine with me tonight? My father is not home, and I am dining alone and early.”

“I do thank you, Miss Tolberton, but I hesitate to impose upon you …” Her reply was automatic, but she found she didn’t really want to refuse. However, she couldn’t possibly have dinner with Miss Tolberton tonight, of all nights, could she?

“Oh, I insist!” Miss Tolberton’s eyes lit up. “I should dearly wish to have a private dinner with you. We have so much to talk about.”

Perhaps it was the earnest desire in Miss Tolberton’s smile that decided it for her. Here was a friend who truly desired her company, which contrasted with the fact that Uncle Sol had felt that Phoebe was not needed.

But could she go to enjoy herself when the rest of her team was working so diligently to protect Mr. Coulton-Jones? Shouldn’t she at the very least be present at the hotel with Keriah and her aunt, to welcome Dr. Shokes when he was rescued? But what would she do until the doctor arrived?

Also, she realized that spending time with Miss Tolberton could be useful. Phoebe remembered that Miss Tolberton was quite passionate about growing poppies, and in the past few weeks, Phoebe had discovered that Goldensuit was very much like a poppy plant. Dinner tonight would be a good opportunity to ply Miss Tolberton with questions, and Phoebe might learn methods to grow the Goldensuit plants, which were still quite sickly under her care.

“If you are certain, Miss Tolberton …”

“Of course. Soptus is already taking us to my home, so I need not instruct him to change direction.”

“I am afraid I would need to leave you by eight o’clock,” Phoebe said. If she could leave Miss Tolberton’s house by eight, she could arrive at her aunt’s townhouse in half an hour, and the servants could find her a hackney to take her to her aunt’s hotel by nine.

“I shall be happy to send you home in my carriage,” Miss Tolberton said.

“In that case,” Phoebe said, “yes, I should be grateful to join you for dinner.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Miss Tolberton’s townhouse was one among a line of old, respectable houses on Green Street, quite near to Grosvenor Square. Once inside the house, Phoebe had intended to send Clara back to her aunt’s hotel to inform her of what had happened, but Miss Tolberton insisted upon sending one of her own servants.

It would have been odd for Phoebe to argue with her about sending Clara, so she was forced to write an innocuous note for Miss Tolberton’s servant to deliver to her aunt’s townhouse. The servants still at the house would need to send it on to the hotel.

She explained to the housekeeper, Mrs. Rook, that she would be dining with Miss Tolberton tonight and asked that the servants be waiting at the mews at the back of the house for her to arrive around half past eight o’clock tonight.

Phoebe did not explicitly mention it, but Mrs. Rook would understand that they needed to unlock the door ahead of time and protect Phoebe when she arrived. Mrs. Rook would know to check for any men loitering around the backside of the house, and she would send the servants to chase them off, at least long enough for Phoebe to arrive.

Phoebe was given a spare bedroom in which to freshen up. When she descended the stairs to the drawing room, she could hear the servants were rushing about on the floors below, preparing for an extra mouth to feed. Miss Tolberton had apparently indeed been intending to dine alone and early today.

As Phoebe entered the drawing room, she immediately said, “I do beg your pardon, Miss Tolberton, for inconveniencing your chef.”

“You needn’t concern yourself,” Miss Tolberton said with a gentle smile. “The cook always makes too much food for me to eat, and I always send back plates still piled high. I hope you do not mind that the fare tonight will be rather simple.”

“That is the type of food I enjoy most,” Phoebe said with sincerity.

“I admit I am still quite ashamed as your hostess.” Miss Tolberton gave a rueful smile. “Over the years, I have come to appreciate finer cuisine far more than I had expected to care about food. It is why I enjoy coming to London, even though it takes me farther away from my greenhouse.”

Miss Tolberton glanced around the empty drawing room, and she appeared to be listening as if to ensure that none of the servants lurked in the hallway outside. Her manner was hesitant as she led Phoebe to a set of chairs near the window.

Rather than choosing the seat across from her, Miss Tolberton sat next to Phoebe on the sofa. In a very quiet voice, she said, “if you do not wish to tell me, I would quite understand. Will you confide in me about why your father sent those men to take you back to his house? They did not look like his servants. In fact, they looked quite dangerous.”

Phoebe had known that Miss Tolberton would be curious about Phoebe’s pursuers, but she found herself also touched by the concern in her open face. She had obviously taken pains to ensure that they were quite private, so that Phoebe could confide in her if she wished. Phoebe did not want to reciprocate her worry with falsehood and secrecy. More than that, she knew that out of all her friends, Miss Tolberton would most understand the troubles she was experiencing with her father.

“May I trust you to keep this just between us?” Although even if the scandalous events were spread, she suspected her father would be the one more embarrassed.

“Of course you may depend upon me to keep mum.” Miss Tolberton gave a grave nod.

Phoebe told her about the visit to her father yesterday. Had it truly been only yesterday? Phoebe felt as though her heart had been crushed by these melancholy burdens for much longer than a day.

Miss Tolberton was shocked to hear about the engagement to Mr. Poe. She went so far as to burst out, “He wishes to be rid of you like a dog he no longer cares for!” Her cheeks were red with indignation on Phoebe’s behalf. “I am surprised he did not simply take you out back to shoot you.” She then gasped. “I beg your pardon, that was extraordinarily rude of me.”

But Phoebe laughed. Miss Tolberton’s empathy soothed her, and the ridiculous statement emphasized her father’s selfishness, assuring Phoebe that she was not being unreasonable to react as she did to the problems he was causing her. “After what I did in Mrs. Sauber’s bedroom, now he no doubt wishes to do exactly that.”

Phoebe was purposefully vague as she described escaping the two footmen, exaggerating the heroics of Uncle Sol as he burst into the room in order to rescue her.

Miss Tolberton sniffed. “I consider it much more scandalous that she had two footmen in her bedchamber. But, well … I have heard several salacious stories of the haut ton.”

Phoebe was rather shocked that a gentleman’s daughter would hear such things, but since her mother was deceased, perhaps her father and his friends were not so circumspect once they’d had a few bottles of wine.

“What ever shall you do about this situation, Miss Sauber?” Miss Tolberton asked.

She had felt comforted in retelling the story, but now the uncertainty returned to her, causing her insides to feel rumpled and messy. “I don’t know.” She despised herself that her words came out sounding almost timid. She cleared her throat. “I have no intention of meekly obeying his whims. But Aunt Laura suggested that perhaps I must leave London for a time, in order to remain safe from any other schemes he may have.”

Miss Tolberton looked stricken, which surprised Phoebe. “You mustn’t leave town,” she said a trifle more fiercely than Phoebe would have expected. Miss Tolberton spoke in a voice that seemed years older, stretched thin with worldly cares. “If you leave town, it will feel as though he has won.”

The words pierced Phoebe’s heart like an arrow shot true, directly in the center of the target. Yes, simply the thought of leaving town did feel as though she were allowing her father to triumph over her. But she said reluctantly, “It would be foolish to decide my course of action simply to prick his ego. I have no wish to put myself or my aunt in danger.”

Miss Tolberton stared at her for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Yes, your first consideration must be the safety of your family.” However, her voice sounded strangely hollow as she said it.

But before Phoebe could puzzle over why she had found it that way, she continued, “Please do not make a hasty decision just yet. There may yet be something that could be done.”

“Mr. Poe is scheduled to leave next week, although my father may persuade him to stay.”

“Then you have at least until that time. Do not lose hope.” Miss Tolberton reached over to clench her hand and squeeze it.

At that moment, the butler entered the drawing room and announced that dinner was served. Miss Tolberton tucked her arm through Phoebe’s in a companionable way and led her to the dining room.

After being served and dismissing the servants, Miss Tolberton asked, “Miss Sauber, how in the world were you able to leave your aunt’s house without being taken? If there were men stationed outside of Lady Stoude’s residence, surely your father would have sent men to wait outside Lady Wynwood’s home, also?”

“I left on foot, and didn’t see anyone outside the building,” Phoebe said in perfect honesty. “The men likely arrived to watch the house after I had left.”

“It must have been quite shocking to see those men outside of Lady Stoude’s house.”

“I did not notice them at first,” Phoebe said, “but when I drew closer, I saw that they stood out from everyone else in the square. Then they stared at me quite brazenly and began walking towards me, and at that point, I began to be distressed.”

Phoebe hastened to change the subject. “Miss Tolberton, have you read any recent botanical journals? I confess I have neglected my own reading lately.”

She could not have chosen a better subject. The time flew by as they discussed plants and the various means for them to grow better. Both women were well-read in the London botanical journals and were able to debate new techniques that had recently been published.

Miss Tolberton looked a little uncomfortable as she asked, “Now that you have moved to your aunt’s home, what of your roses, Miss Sauber?”

It had already been weeks since Phoebe had last worked with her beloved roses, and she still felt a prick of pain at the thought that the new Mrs. Sauber would surely be burning them all by now. She didn’t have to pretend the sorrow in her voice as she said, “I am mourning the loss of my roses, but I have determined not to let it depress me any further. I heard that poppies are easier to grow, and so I have decided to look into growing some. Unfortunately, I have had difficulty in growing them in my aunt’s townhouse.”

Miss Tolberton appeared to be thoughtful as she murmured, “Poppies … How curious …”

The way she said that made Phoebe pause in sipping her wine. It was such an innocuous statement, but something about her tone had seemed odd. In fact, for some reason, a small corner of Phoebe’s mind had even been slightly alarmed, but she was certain she was overreacting.

She had expected Miss Tolberton to begin gushing about her own poppies, but she remained strangely silent. Her eyes shifted to the side, unfocused and yet sharp at the same time, with a burning light in them, as though she were furiously calculating something.

Phoebe worried that she might have said something to offend her, and thought back over the last minute or two of the conversation. Had she said anything to give away that she had been lying about the poppies? “Miss Tolberton?”

At the sound of her name, she blinked, and her head shot up. “Oh! I do beg your pardon, Miss Sauber, I was quite wool-gathering.”

“It has been an eventful day. Perhaps you are tired …”

“Oh, no, I feel perfectly well. Please, I beg you will not worry about me. I was reminded of something unrelated to our discussion.” She picked up her fork, which she had laid down absentmindedly, and dimpled at Phoebe. “I was surprised to hear of your interest in poppies. They are quite different from roses.”

They were indeed very different, and Phoebe had been trying to think of a reason to explain why she had picked a flower from a completely different botanical family once she was no longer caring for roses. “It was a fortuitous accident. One of Aunt Laura’s acquaintance happened to acquire several pots of extraordinarily beautiful poppy plants, rather than cut flowers, but they were destined for the trash heap. My aunt admired the blooms greatly, so I volunteered to try to grow them.”

“Poppies are like cats, Miss Sauber,” Miss Tolberton said mischievously. “They are rather finicky and they enjoy lots of sunlight.”

Phoebe laughed. “They are certainly finicky, as I have been discovering. They are not doing very well, although they are in the brightest room in the house. It is the best I could do, since I have no greenhouse here in town.”

She then began quizzing Phoebe on the number of hours of direct sunlight the flowers received each day, the timing and the volume of water she gave to each plant, the size of each, and anything she added to the soil to nourish the roots. They once again entered into a deeper botanical discussion, and Phoebe learned some tips that she intended to try on the Goldensuit.

Miss Tolberton had spoken extensively about her own poppies when giving examples and suggestions, and now Phoebe said, “I should love to see your greenhouse someday.”

Miss Tolberton’s bright face suddenly clouded over. She laid down her spoon and wiped her mouth with her napkin, even though her syllabub was only half eaten. “I may not be able to grow poppies for much longer,” she said in a low voice.

Phoebe’s heart twisted, for she recognized the pain in Miss Tolberton’s voice. “Whyever not?”

“My father wishes to tear down my greenhouse and use the land for something else.” She raised her eyes from her lap.

Phoebe had at first thought she was despondent about the loss of her flowers, but now she saw the storm of animosity glittering in the sky-blue eyes.

“My father says I am being childish and unreasonable,” she said, her voice trembling. “No matter what logical arguments I try to present, he ignores them all. It is all so unjust. I feel as though I am burning with frustration at how helpless women are—at how helpless I am in the face of a man’s power over me.”

The rancor radiated from her in waves. These were Miss Tolberton’s true feelings, broken through the social mask that everyone wore while in Town. They resonated with all the outrage simmering inside of Phoebe at her father, and even at Uncle Sol.

“I quite feel for you,” she said with fervor. “Not only from the loss of your greenhouse, but the grievous crime in how women’s lives are controlled by men, as though they are only an item to be possessed.”

Miss Tolberton seemed to suddenly realize she had revealed rather intense sentiments as she blinked away the fierceness in her gaze. “I apologize that I have drawn you into my family’s discord. But you and I have become such close friends recently, I feel as though I can share anything with you. I am well enough acquainted with you to know that you will not judge me for being honest in my emotions.”

“Of course, Miss Tolberton. I quite understand, more than I can say.”

“Won’t you call me Emilia?” She gave a shy smile, full of warmth and friendliness.

“I would be honored. You must call me Phoebe.”

At that moment, the clock on the mantle chimed delicately, and Phoebe noted the time. She must leave soon. “I thank you for a lovely dinner, Emilia. The time seemed to fly by.”

Miss Tolberton gave a little pout which, on her peaches and cream complexion, looked lovely and cute (as opposed to mulish when Phoebe tried to pull that expression). “I have greatly enjoyed our time together, and there are some books I would like to show to you. Does your aunt have need you? Could you not be persuaded to stay?” As she sat in her chair, she seemed to shrink and look small and lonely.

Phoebe hesitated. Uncle Sol had told her to remain at the hotel with Keriah while Mr. Coulton-Jones and the rest of the team were inside Vauxhall. Phoebe was told to return to her aunt’s hotel by nine o’clock, but … her aunt did not actually need her at all. She was simply worried about her. Phoebe would be doing nothing but waiting around. The earliest that they would hear about what had happened to Mr. Coulton-Jones would be an hour after that, around ten o’clock. Her only role was to keep her aunt company.

Disgruntlement rose up inside of her again. Out of all the adults on the team, Phoebe alone had no role whatsoever in this mission. She thought Uncle Sol was being too overbearing with her.

But hadn’t she justified his fears when she heedlessly walked into the trap laid for her in front of Keriah’s sister’s house? She also fully admitted to herself that she was feeling rebellious against men in general because of her father. In addition, Uncle Sol had not done anything to deserve such treatment from a girl he had known since she was a child.

And Uncle Sol was not simply a family friend. He was now also her superior officer, and soldiers did not disobey orders, no matter how they felt about them. By accepting her onto his team, Uncle Sol had enabled Phoebe to experience things she never would as a proper society miss. She had found a purpose to her life that had been lacking before. She had found that she greatly enjoyed the work she did on the Goldensuit plants and in various roles as an agent, like Mr. Coulton-Jones.

This new direction in which she had begun to walk was becoming vitally important to her. She wanted to put forth her best efforts into becoming a skilled agent. To do that, she had to prove herself to Mr. Drydale, and she would not do that if she disobeyed his orders to her.

“I am sorry, Emilia, but I am afraid I must leave.” She was saddened, but she also felt she had made the right decision.

Miss Tolberton was obviously disappointed, but she did not attempt to further persuade her. She called for a servant to instruct that the carriage be prepared for Miss Sauber.

But just before the servant left the dining room, Emilia called him back. “On second thought, please have the coachman prepare the old traveling coach instead of the carriage.”

After the servant left, she turned to Phoebe. “The men who attempted to take you today would have seen the crest upon the carriage, and if they see that same carriage approaching your aunt’s house, they will know that you are inside. The traveling coach is rather shabby, but stately and ponderous, and it does not have the Tolberton coat of arms upon it.” She gave a slight giggle. “In fact, anyone looking at the coach would assume you were a toothless old beldam leaving for Bath to take the waters.”

Phoebe laughed along with her. She was again surprised that Miss Tolberton, despite being raised in society, would have such a penchant for subterfuge and scheming.

She gathered her outer things, and Clara met her in the front entrance hall. Before the butler opened the front door, Emilia clasped Phoebe’s hand tightly. “I know that you are concerned about your father, but do nothing hastily. Things may yet come about.”

Phoebe smiled, grateful for the encouragement, and then left the house.

***

Phoebe had once been instructed by Mr. Coulton-Jones at length about how to ascertain if another vehicle were following, and Phoebe utilized all the advice he had given to her as she traveled from Miss Tolberton’s townhouse in the lumbering traveling coach. However, she saw no one behind her.

Rather than having the coachman drop her off at the front door of her aunt’s residence, Phoebe had instructed him to turn down the narrow lane that ran along the backside of the row of houses. The lane looked deserted, but as soon as they stopped directly in front of her aunt’s backdoor, there was movement in the shadows.

Phoebe hesitated before opening the coach door. Whoever she had seen was very close, and likely moving closer. If she had intended to use the key, she wasn’t certain she would be able to let herself and Clara inside before the shadow reached them.

But she was not using the key. She stared at the door to the mews-turned-laundry house of her aunt’s townhouse, counting her heartbeats as she waited.

Barely two heartbeats later, the door opened, and two of her aunt’s footman exited, placing themselves on either side of the coach door. Phoebe and Clara hurried from the coach to the open door in a few seconds. Then the door closed behind them, and Phoebe was standing safely inside the dim laundry house, smelling the soap and lye.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rook.”

“I don’t hold with this havey-cavey business,” the housekeeper grumbled, but she seemed relieved to see it had been accomplished without incident.

Phoebe dashed off a note to Keriah. Originally, Keriah had planned to simply take a hackney cab to Aunt Laura’s hotel, but because the men were watching Lady Stoude’s house, Phoebe wasn’t certain that the men wouldn’t follow her, thinking that she would lead them to Phoebe.

Instead, she would come to fetch Keriah, and then they would all head to the hotel. It would make them a trifle late, but it wouldn’t be long enough to worry her aunt too much.

When she had Keriah’s response twenty minutes later, she sent Clara to fetch a hackney, along with specific instructions for the driver.

Phoebe exited the house and raced into the carriage much as she’d done at the backdoor, flanked by footmen and moving so abruptly that it surprised the men who were assiduously watching the house. They moved toward her, but she had already flung herself inside the cab, which had barely slowed before quickly racing off down the street.

Phoebe straightened her bonnet and rose from the seat where she had fallen, while Clara reached out to secure the door.

“Does the driver know what to do?” Phoebe asked.

Clara nodded.

Phoebe looked behind often and noticed another hackney cab following some distance behind. After she had entered through the back, the men waiting outside had likely decided to have a vehicle ready. But Phoebe wasn’t worried. The cab was keeping them in sight, but it was too far away to interfere with her plans.

The hackney entered the square and raced up to Keriah’s sister’s house exactly the same way as it had done at Aunt Laura’s townhouse. Keriah hurried out of the front door as quickly as she could, her gait uneven, but she was protected by two footmen.

A man appeared from the shadows and attempted to reach her, but he was blocked by one of the servants. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Before the man could answer, Phoebe had opened the carriage door and Keriah jumped inside. The cab sped away, and Phoebe saw one strange man outside of Keriah’s house, staring after them, while the other was arguing with the footman. They had hesitated at the sight of the servants and had not been able to react in time to stop the young woman.

Keriah straightened her bonnet and settled herself on the seat. “Goodness! Was all this nonsense really necessary?”

“Of course not. I merely wished to watch you sprint from your house and take a flying dive into a moving cab. I thought it would be vastly entertaining.”

Keriah glared at her.

“There is only one vehicle following us, miss,” Clara said, having turned around to look behind them.

“Good.” If there had been two vehicles, this plan would have been more difficult. The men watching Lady Stoude’s house had not been prepared for Keriah to be picked up, nor had they had a vehicle prepared to follow them.

“I know you do not intend to lead these men to your aunt’s hotel,” Keriah said, “but you have this devious look on your face that always indicates that we are about to do something that I will dislike very much.”

“You will dislike it very much,” Phoebe said brightly.

“We’re nearly there, miss,” Clara said.

Phoebe hesitated before speaking. She didn’t want to hurt Keriah, and she hoped her friend would understand the necessity. “Keriah, the coach is going to turn the corner and then slow down. We will need to exit the coach very fast, so … Clara and I will help you.”

Keriah’s face looked stricken at first, then angry, then aggravated. Finally she bit her lip and nodded, looking down at her lap.

Phoebe also bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Ready, miss?” Clara said, half-rising from the seat.

The cab swerved around the corner, going at a dangerous speed, but as soon as it had straightened out, it abruptly slowed in front of a townhouse, the horses whinnying in protest.

Clara flung open the door, and Phoebe put an arm around Keriah, hauling her from the carriage. The three raced the short distance from the cab to the house. Keriah would have had difficulty climbing down the narrow steps into the front area, so Clara and Phoebe helped her with arms around her torso. Meanwhile, the cab pulled away, continuing down the street at its previous breakneck pace.

The three of them crouched on the stairs, out of sight of the street, waiting and listening. Within a few minutes, another vehicle came racing around the corner and rushed past where they hid.

Clara peeked over the railing and whispered, “That was the cab that was following us.”

Phoebe let out a sigh of relief. “You did an excellent job in explaining my instructions to the coachman, Clara.”

Clara gave her a grin. “That was quite fun, miss.”

Keriah was sitting on a step several below where Phoebe sat, and now she raised a hand toward her. “Help me up. I don’t know how you’re going to get me up the stairs,” she said gruffly, disgruntled that she’d had to have been carried.

It must have galled her to be reminded of her injury. Phoebe grabbed Keriah’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “When next we are free, we shall go to Gunter’s and I shall buy you every flavor of ice that you desire.”

Keriah pouted for a few seconds more, but then a smile peeked through. It was more than an invitation to eat sweets. Phoebe always invited Keriah to Gunter’s when she wanted to apologize to her for doing something that hurt her.

Phoebe had chosen this particular corner and this particular house because there was another hackney stand close by. They hopped on another cab and alighted one or two blocks away from the hotel. This area was on the edge of Mayfair, but they were still cautious as they walked along.

She had heard the watch sound the hour several minutes ago and knew that they would be very late. For the mission, they did not have any particular tasks that were assigned to them, but she knew her aunt would worry.

She wished she had sent a note to the hotel when she was still at the townhouse, but she had thought they would only be a few minutes late, hardly enough for Aunt Laura to note the time and wonder where they were. As things stood now, she’d be lucky to escape a terrible scolding—which she still dreaded even though she was now almost twenty-three years old. She had discovered from a young age that Aunt Laura was an absolute terror when she was upset.

They soon came in sight of the back stable yard for the hotel. Phoebe quickened her pace.

A moment later, she jerked to a halt and reached out for Keriah’s arm to stop her. Clara bumped into the small of her back.

A carriage had pulled up to the entrance to the stable yard, small and old, rattling loudly on the stones of the street. It stopped in the road, blocking the entrance, waiting.

Phoebe had no desire to be seen by visitors to the hotel. She doubted her father had discovered Aunt Laura was staying here, but there was always the slim chance that, since Heddetch had brought her aunt to Jack’s attention, she might be recognized as Lady Wynwood’s niece. She, Keriah, and Clara backed into the shadow of a doorway to keep watch.

Phoebe saw two figures emerge from the back of the hotel. As soon as she realized who they were, her heart slammed into her chest. The shock and confusion hit her first, causing her to waste valuable seconds.

The next moment, she sprinted forward, screaming.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Sol tossed a coin to a beggar child sitting in front of the Water Gate of Vauxhall Gardens, then continued on to pay the fee and head inside. He immediately heard the high tinkle of a woman’s laugh coming from somewhere nearby, and in the distance were the strains from the orchestra. The walkways were lit by colored lamps that, rather than giving illumination, seemed to make the shadows darker.

He was alone, swathed in a luxurious but dark evening cloak, with a wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his head to hide his face. Mr. Rosmont had already entered the gardens a few minutes before Mr. Coulton-Jones, who was gallantly escorting a young prostitute in a gown made of fabric much too thin for the cool air. Sol had waited a minute, and then followed the pair inside.

He cast his gaze around, and while he saw the back of Mr. Coulton-Jones and his young ladybird, he could not find Mr. Rosmont at all in the evening crowd. He had seen Calvin at the Water Gate—the beggar child—and trusted that he would be following, keeping out of sight in the trees. But even though he had been searching for her, he had seen nothing of Lady Aymer—le petit prince.

Although he did not often attend society functions, Mr. Coulton-Jones always cut a dashing figure, with his charming smile, dark-brown hair and light green eyes. He turned the full force of his smile upon the young woman with him, leaning close to whisper something in her ear. She laughed at him, looking nearer to her probable age of seventeen or eighteen years old.

Mr. Coulton-Jones had hired her a few blocks away from Vauxhall Gardens, and she had accepted with alacrity. Sol doubted any woman would consider it a hardship to stroll arm-in-arm with this handsome young man. Once he was contacted, Mr. Coulton-Jones would give her the message to relay to Septimus, waiting by the Coach Gate, who would pay her double her fee when she delivered it.

It was obvious that, while she was not shabbily dressed, she was not a young lady of quality, and the two of them blended in perfectly with many of the other couples walking along the avenue in Vauxhall. Mr. Coulton-Jones very subtly guided her out of the way when a party of noblewomen, escorted by various richly dressed men, passed them. His actions seemed to be aimed at protecting her from the disapproval of the respectable women, but in truth, it was mostly to keep anyone from recognizing his own face.

Sol followed the two as they traversed through Vauxhall, going up and down both well-lit and darker walks. As the time stretched, so did his nerves. They passed some of the supper boxes at one point, and the smell of the food made him first hungry, then irritated as he wondered how long until the Gentians contacted Mr. Coulton-Jones.

It was nearly ten o’clock before an older prostitute approached the two of them. Sol assumed she was a prostitute, since her low-cut gown was gaudily colored and nearly had her bosom spilling out.

Sol paused and leaned against a tree several yards away. He could not hear the threesome, but the shadows hid his figure from their view.

The young prostitute whom Mr. Coulton-Jones had hired was attempting to shoo away the other woman in a possessive manner. But then the second prostitute said something that made Mr. Coulton-Jones’s face harden. She beckoned to the two of them, and then walked away. Mr. Coulton-Jones did not hesitate before following, dragging his reluctant companion with him. Her magical evening with her handsome knight was over.

The old woman led them along a dark, winding path. But even when they were out of sight of the more populated areas of the garden, the woman did not stop. Sol began to feel that queasiness in his stomach, which always indicated that something was about to go very wrong. However, he could not draw closer to Mr. Coulton-Jones without revealing his presence.

In the note that Septimus had given to them from the pale-eyed man, Mr. Coulton-Jones would be approached and told Dr. Shokes’s location. His companion would take that information while Mr. Coulton-Jones would be led away. But he had not relinquished the young prostitute he had hired. Which meant that he did not yet know where Dr. Shokes was. Where was the older woman leading them?

Sol’s vision was abruptly blocked by a fan of peacock feathers. He blinked, but then realized the feathers were stuck into the coiffure of a short woman who had stopped directly in front of him, blocking his path.

She smiled at him, revealing a gap between her two front teeth. “Here now, you look quite lonely there, sir.” She tilted her head coquettishly, while her too-tight gown revealed she wore no petticoat.

Sol was about to brush her off when three more women emerged from the darkness to circle around him. He tensed at first, but they did not appear to be attempting something suspicious. Their postures were lithe and boneless, trying to snag his interest.

The first woman frowned at the other three. “You’re interrupting our party.”

“Parties are better with more people,” one of the other woman said, smiling at Sol as she sashayed another step closer. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

“Wouldn’t you like a lively party tonight?” another woman asked.

One of the Cyprians wore perfume that made Sol’s eyes water while yet another seemed to smell quite strongly of peas. “I apologize, ladies, but I am here meeting someone very special.”

“I could be very special to you,” the last prostitute said, her voice dropping to a seductive murmur as she stepped right up against him and placed her hand on his chest.

Sol backed away as if she had burned him. She was the one who smelled of peas. “No, I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m in a bit of a hurry …”

The first woman forcefully elbowed aside two of the others who were trying to crowd her out. “Well then, wherever you must go, why don’t we come with you?” She had apparently given up on trying to claim him all for herself.

“A larger party would be even more fun,” another woman said.

All of them were now trying to touch him or to latch onto his arms. If they continued, Sol would need to more aggressively prevent them from grabbing him, and they might raise their voices in protest. While arguments among bawds were not uncommon here, he did not wish to attract any more attention.

Suddenly a young, high-pitched voice yowled like an angry cat, “Hey! You! Mister!”

Sol was profoundly relieved as he recognized the voice and turned towards it.

Calvin ran up to him, somehow giving the impression that he was stomping. He easily swatted the women’s hands away from Sol and started tugging at the man’s arm. “I caught you!”

“Is this your son?” asked one of the women before giving a loud peal of laughter.

“Go find another man to be your father,” the first prostitute said, trying to wave Calvin away.

Calvin locked onto Sol’s arm. “The madam is very upset at you! You left without paying.”

All four prostitutes froze, and then they abruptly disappeared, melting away into the darkness.

Sol allowed himself to be dragged away by Calvin. However, he had lost sight of Mr. Coulton-Jones while he was dealing with the women. “Good job, lad,” he murmured. “Where is he?”

“He’s down that way,” Calvin said, his voice too low to be heard by anyone else.

Calvin finally released his arm, and the two of them hurried down the path. As soon as Sol turned a curve, he once again spotted Mr. Coulton-Jones, the young prostitute, and the older woman.

“I think they’re heading toward the Coach Gate,” Calvin said.

“Are you certain?”

Calvin paused a moment before answering, “We used to come to Vauxhall a lot.”

Before they had entered Lady Wynwood’s service, Calvin and Clara had been clever—and deadly—pickpockets, doing odd jobs for their mother.

“Run ahead,” Sol ordered. “Tell Septimus they’re coming.”

Calvin took off.

After he exited the Coach Gate, Sol glanced around, but saw no sign of Septimus or Calvin. Ahead of him was Mr. Coulton-Jones and the two women.

Sol followed as the older woman led them down a series of streets. The queasiness in his guts had become painful cramps. This was wrong. This was all wrong.

The trio turned down a side street, and at the corner, Sol paused before peeking around. There was a carriage parked there.

Sol could not follow any closer without being seen, so he stayed at the corner and watched. Mr. Coulton-Jones said something to the older woman, who gestured toward the carriage. Sol could see now that it was a hackney.

“What are you playing at?” Mr. Coulton-Jones shouted, the words reaching Sol’s ears clearly.

The younger woman looked confused, but the older woman was suddenly fearful, hunching her shoulders and seeming to shrink in front of Mr. Coulton-Jones.

The young man only hesitated a moment before yanking open the carriage door. He stared inside, then began yelling at the coachman, but Sol couldn’t hear the words.

The driver stiffened, then suddenly leaped down on the other side of the carriage and raced away. Mr. Coulton-Jones yelled after him and gave chase, but because he had to circle around the horses, he was too far behind.

Sol started forward. They couldn’t let the man escape.

A small object flashed, flying in a silver line toward the running man’s leg. He stumbled and hit the ground. As he did so, Sol could see the outline of the throwing knife sticking out of the driver’s calf.

Despite the wound on his leg, he tried to scramble to his feet, but a tall, hulking figure came rushing toward him from the other direction. It was Mr. Rosmont.

While the two women had only stood there in shock when Calvin threw a knife at the cab driver, the sight of Mr. Rosmont caused them to start screaming. Mr. Coulton-Jones grabbed at the older woman, keeping her from escaping. The young prostitute screeched, “I want my money!”

Sol finally reached the coach and, since Mr. Coulton-Jones had the women in hand, peered inside.

At first the inside looked pitch black, but then Sol moved a step to the right and the lamplight fell upon Dr. Shokes’s frightened face. He had been beaten. Both of his eyes, his nose, and his jaw were purple and black with bruises. However, he looked relieved to see Sol.

Mr. Rosmont had hauled the cab driver to his feet and was forcing him to limp back toward the carriage. He asked the man something which Sol didn’t hear, but the man replied, “I was only told to drive the cab here and wait. That’s all! I’ve got nothing else to tell you.”

Mr. Rosmont frowned deeply, then slammed him face-first into the side of the carriage. Sol winced at the hollow thud.

“That’s all?” Mr. Rosmont prompted.

“A-another passenger would come and tell me where to go,” the cab driver stammered.

“Who told you to do this?” Sol asked.

The man suddenly stilled. “Dunno,” he mumbled. “Some chap. He could have been anyone. He weren’t memorable.”

Mr. Rosmont was about to try to jar his memory, but Sol stopped him. The driver obviously knew exactly who had asked this of him—and he was deathly afraid of the man.

“And you?” Mr. Coulton-Jones asked the older woman, whose arm he held fast in his grip.

The woman was shaking. “I was supposed to lead you all around the gardens, then out the Coach Gate to the hackney.”

Her words made Sol freeze. “Were you paid already?” he asked.

Mr. Coulton-Jones glanced at Sol curiously, but then shook the woman to get her to answer.

“I was already paid,” the woman squeaked.

“By whom?” Sol demanded.

“Some man. Plain. I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of the crowd.”

“Hair? Eyes?” Sol asked.

“Pale hair, pale eyes.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “… And terrifying.”

The pale-eyed man. And the woman had been paid to lead them along a roundabout route in Vauxhall.

They had never intended to take Mr. Coulton-Jones at all.

Sol slammed the heel of his hand into the side of the carriage door with a dull crack. His hand hurt, but he immediately began pacing in a tight circle, thinking.

Why had they been lured here? For what purpose? He looked all around. The two prostitutes, the coachman, Dr. Shokes, barely visible inside the coach. The two young men, and Calvin.

Where was Septimus?

Even when Mr. Coulton-Jones had exited the Coach Gate, Septimus hadn’t appeared. He was missing.

Sol turned to Calvin. “Where is Septimus?”

Calvin shook his head. “When you sent me ahead, I couldn’t find him. I searched all around the Coach Gate.”

Did the Gentians take him? Was Septimus the real target? But if he had been, the pale-eyed man could have taken him when he surprised Septimus at his costuming room and told him about Dr. Shokes.

They had to act quickly. Sol shoved the women toward the cab. Gesturing toward the driver, he told Mr. Rosmont, “Get him inside and stay here to guard them. The rest of you, come with me back to Vauxhall.”

The prostitute’s screeching reminded Mr. Coulton-Jones to pay her, then he and Sol raced back toward Vauxhall, with Calvin following them.

They had reached the Coach Gate when a young boy barreled into Sol. He automatically reached out to grab the boy’s shoulders, but it was Lady Aymer’s dirty face who looked up at him. When she saw that he had recognized her, she darted away like the urchin she was disguised as.

Playing his role, Sol yelled after the urchin and gave chase, followed by Calvin and Mr. Coulton-Jones.

Lady Aymer did not lead them far. Just as Sol turned the corner and saw her standing there, waiting for him, he became aware that another boy was following them. He turned to confront the stranger, and instead met Phoebe’s sunken eyes.

She had dressed in breeches that were too short for her and a coat too wide across the shoulders. She had smeared dirt and something that smelled like wet dog all over her face and clothes, and stuffed her hair under a shapeless hat. But it had been a hasty disguise, and anyone who managed a close look at her face would notice that she was not a young man.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed at her.

“Uncle Sol … Mr. Drydale …” Her voice was strangely ragged and weak. She swallowed and tried to speak again, but she was breathing too hard and too fast, and she couldn’t catch her breath.

Mr. Coulton-Jones touched her shoulder and forced her to look at him. “Breathe,” he said in a calm voice. “Just breathe.”

She nodded, but it was obviously difficult and painful for her.

Sol turned to Lady Aymer. “What happened?”

“She arrived at the Water Gate and found me,” Lady Aymer said. “She was nearly hysterical. She said she had to find you, and I’d happened to see Thorne from a distance when he exited the gardens, so I led her here.”

“She’s gone,” Phoebe sobbed. “It’s been at least an hour, it took too long for me to get across the river.”

The cramping in Sol’s stomach turned into acid burning a hole in his body. “Who is gone?”

“Aunt Laura,” Phoebe said, tears streaking the mud on her face. “Mr. Ackett took Aunt Laura.”

***

Sol stopped in front of the lone door of a narrow building nestled amongst a variety of other shops on the dim street. The door had no number, and there were no windows on the ground floor, while the windows of the floors above were shaded with dark blue curtains pulled tight.

Sol rapped on the dark brown door, since it had no knocker. After a moment, it cracked open, and warm but dim lamplight spilled onto the front stoop. An instant later, an enormous wall of muscle filled the doorway. Sol glanced up at the face of the man, who was a good head taller than himself and nearly twice as wide.

Sol tipped down the wide-brimmed hat so that he would not reveal his face to the guard. “Mr. Kirby-Judson.”

It was all he needed to say. The man opened the door the rest of the way, and Sol stepped inside the entrance hall, which was hardly larger than a closet. A closed door lay to the right and a narrow, twisting staircase rose directly ahead. Despite being a brothel, there was only the faintest scent of a woman’s perfume that decorated the air, and the stairs, although finely crafted, only boasted a single carpet running up its first flight. But the perfume had that indefinable quality that marked it as French, and the rug was intricate and expensive.

The large man closed the door behind Sol and bowed to him. He would have looked a perfect butler but for his size, which was closer to a mountain than a man.

Sol climbed the stairs, his boots softened by the expensive rug. This brothel specialized in renting rooms to distinguished guests. Women could be provided, if requested, and there were several popular high flyers available, but one had to make reservations in advance. The entire business was discreet, but opulent.

He didn’t know the particulars, but the Ramparts had a special arrangement with the unknown owner of this establishment and several others throughout London. All of the staff were aware that if a room was reserved for “Mr. Kirby-Judson,” any strangers who gave the name—either at the front door or the back—would be allowed inside the building and access to the reserved room. The servants had been told that Mr. Kirby-Judson was a highly eccentric and very wealthy businessman who preferred to conduct his meetings in a room in this brothel.

Sol climbed to the third-floor landing, which held only two doors. He entered the door on the right, which was unlocked.

He was not the first to arrive, nor was he the last. Mr. Rosmont accompanied Lady Aymer, but she had managed to clean her face and dress in the frock coat of a pageboy.

“Dr. Shokes, Mr. Havner, and Calvin?” he asked crisply.

“Downstairs in the kitchen,” Mr. Rosmont replied. “When I arrived, I paid for them to be fed and watered.”

Last to arrive would be Mr. Coulton-Jones with Phoebe, and Sol went to the fireplace to wait. Mr. Rosmont and Lady Aymer said nothing, but it was apparent they were confused and worried at what Phoebe had said.

Sol turned to stare into the fireplace, unable to fully comprehend what was occurring. Laura, gone. Taken by Septimus. How could this be?

Simply the thought of her being taken made his vision begin to darken around the edges. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned harder against the mantle. He knew he must somehow rescue her. He must think of what to do, but there was a sort of panic in his throat and a buzzing in his head that made it difficult for him to concentrate.

He squeezed his hand tight, the pain of popping knuckles helping him to set aside his fears for Laura and focus on the events at hand. There had not seemed to be any holes in Septimus’s story about being approached by the pale-eyed man. But had Sol simply brushed aside any slight twinges of doubt, simply because this was the son of an old friend? Simply because Septimus had been the one to bring to him the information about the Root and its dangerous implications for the war?

He had been feeling more confident in his abilities when they had successfully completed the raid on Dr. Heddetch’s laboratory, but had he been mistaken all this while? This mistake would be nearly as disastrous as when he had overlooked Mrs. Bianca Jadis over ten years ago.

“They’re late.” Mr. Rosmont was the first to break the silence.

“Be patient,” Lady Aymer replied. “Phoebe looked utterly distraught. She likely needs a moment to collect herself so that she may better explain what has happened.”

Soon the door opened, and Mr. Coulton-Jones appeared. He noted everyone in the room, then stepped aside so that Phoebe could enter.

She looked worse than she had before, if it were possible. In the light from the fireplace and a lamp on the table near Lady Aymer, her eyes were swollen but dry. Her drawn features reminded him of men he’d seen who had just been flogged.

“We were questioned by the man at the door,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. He gave Phoebe an apologetic look. “He was concerned that she looked … unwilling.”

“For some reason, he didn’t believe me when I said I was in perfect spirits,” she said with some of her old sarcasm, but her voice was higher pitched and bordering on hysterical.

Sol approached Phoebe, not wanting to upset her further, and tried to grasp her shoulders in a warm clasp. But she flinched and pulled away, which alarmed him.

She then looked up at him, meeting his gaze directly. Her eyes were red, but fierce and determined. “It is my fault, Mr. Drydale.” Her voice shook, but he understood the implications when she called him by his surname instead of “Uncle Sol.”

“Come, sit.” Sol gestured to the seats in front of the fireplace. Phoebe walked stiffly, as if all her joints were in pain. She had never been one to be meek when admitting her wrongdoings—she always faced her mistakes with head up and chin high. But now, she looked as though her heart had been scooped out of her and her strength was merely a thread keeping her body together.

“Tell me what has happened,” Sol said.

“Keriah and I were late in returning to the hotel,” she said. The lines on her face suddenly grew deep and dark, as if drawn with charcoal. “What I relate is from Aunt Laura’s maid, Aya, who told me what happened in the hotel room …”

***

Aya was alarmed when she opened the door to Lady Wynwood’s suite and saw Mr. Ackett standing there. It was just past nine o’clock, and while she didn’t know what was planned, she knew that he was supposed to be at an important event tonight. What was more, his face was pale and haggard, as though he had aged ten years in a day.

“Mr. Ackett?” Lady Wynwood said from behind Aya. She pulled her apricot-colored shawl closer around her. “Whatever is the matter? Has something happened?”

“My lady, I must speak with you,” he said. There was strain in his voice to match his face.

Aya stepped aside to allow him to enter. She didn’t know what prompted her to look out at the hallway, but a small black shape caught her attention.

Looking more closely, she realized it was a man’s boot, lying on the floor of the hallway. With the man’s foot still inside it.

Aya gasped and moved toward it. But she had taken no more than a step when a hand clamped upon her arm and yanked her back into the suite. She was flung across the room, and the edge of the fireplace mantel hit her hard in the shoulder.

“Mr. Ackett!”

At the sound of her mistress’s voice, Aya looked up to see her struggling against Mr. Ackett, who had gripped both of her arms.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was so low that Aya wasn’t certain she heard him correctly, but there was torment and regret in his expression as he dragged her toward the open doorway.

The scene reminded her of other evenings when the master had arrived at home, sometimes drunk, sometimes not. Sometimes she had wished her mistress would simply be meek and submissive, because then he wouldn’t become so violent toward her. Lord Wynwood would grab at the mistress in the same way Mr. Ackett did now.

In those dark days long past, Aya had not stood by and done nothing. And she refused to stand by and do nothing now. She reached down and wrapped her hand around the poker leaning against the fireplace.

She had not the agility she used to have when she was younger, before the master had savagely broken her leg. But she leaped forward with all the strength she had left in her weakened muscles, raising the poker high and bringing it down in a swift diagonal arc.

She had not wanted to harm her mistress, so she had aimed at the back of his torso, and it thumped into the thick fabric of his coat. He flinched.

She raised the poker again, but she was not fast enough. Mr. Ackett blocked the second swing and ripped the poker from her hands.

However, she had accomplished her purpose of causing him to release Lady Wynwood. She saw her mistress stumble toward the door, calling for help.

Mr. Ackett surprised Aya by coming in close to her and wrapping his arms around her body. Aya struggled in his hold, but he had trapped her arms against her body. He was more than strong enough to hoist her up and carry her to the open door to the bedroom. He flung her inside, and she fell against the foot of the bed.

She tried to get to her feet quickly, but he had already closed the bedroom door. She heard the sound of metal against wood. She rushed to the door, yanking at the handle, but the door was barred from the other side. She guessed he had slid the poker into the handle to prevent her from opening the door.

Aya banged on the door, even as her limbs felt heavy with despair. She was just a woman, a weak, crippled woman, against a man who had worked as an agent for the Crown for many years.

She pressed her ear to the door, but heard only muffles. She moved to the bedroom wall shared with the hallway and could hear grunts. Aya had hoped that while Mr. Ackett dealt with her, Lady Wynwood would have had time to escape, but apparently she had not.

“Why are you doing this?” Lady Wynwood’s voice was odd—high-pitched and louder than normal. Was she was trying to send a signal to Aya?

“The pale-eyed man threatened to kill Dr. Shokes if I didn’t do as he said,” Mr. Ackett replied.

“That’s a lie,” Lady Wynwood said, but her tone was not accusing. She was confused and concerned. “Why would you lie to me?”

Aya wondered the same thing. Mr. Ackett knew by now that Lady Wynwood could read a lie as easily as reading a letter. And yet he had lied directly to her face. Why would he do that?

Unless, perhaps it was deliberate?

“You told them where I was hiding,” Lady Wynwood said, again abnormally loud. She sounded more like one of those tragic heroines from the sordid novels that she occasionally liked to read. There was a pause, then she asked, “What else have you told them?”

Surprisingly, Mr. Ackett answered her, but his voice was harsh, as though he were in terrible pain. “I have not told them anything else, about anyone or anything else.”

Aya suddenly realized that Lady Wynwood must have guessed that Mr. Ackett was not working for the Gentians willingly. And she was encouraging him to tell them what he could so that Aya would hear. The sound of footsteps grew distant.

She went to the door and yanked ineffectually. She couldn’t allow him to take her mistress. She cast her eyes about the bedroom, landing on the fireplace that matched the one in the sitting room—including the poker.

It took her too long to stab the metal point through the wood paneling of the door, but she managed to open a hole large enough to reach out and remove the identical poker that was holding the door closed. She burst out of the bedroom and hurried as fast as she could. Out in the hallway, she cast barely a glance at the figures of the two guards lying on the ground. Mr. Ackett had apparently surprised them and knocked them both unconscious.

She stumbled on the stairs and nearly fell head over heels, but caught herself by grabbing the banister. A sharp pain jabbed into her wrist as she stopped a tumble down the steep steps. And yet, she did not slow down as she hurried after Lady Wynwood and Mr. Ackett.

She exited the back door of the hotel and spotted them. Mr. Ackett had tied Lady Wynwood’s hands together and was dragging her toward the carriage that was parked at the entrance to the stable yard. It was a small vehicle, shabby and possibly hired.

Aya didn’t hesitate. She took a running leap and launched herself onto Mr. Ackett’s back. Lady Wynwood saw her and used the moment of distraction to try to yank her hands away from him, but he held fast.

He swung around slightly and Aya caught a glimpse inside the open door of the carriage. She saw the boots and breaches of a man sitting inside, but his face and torso were in shadow.

Suddenly she was flying through the air. She didn’t feel the impact with the ground, but heartbeats later, she became aware that there was a stabbing pain at the base of her head. Her vision swam.

Get up! She tried to will herself to her feet, despite the heaviness of her limbs, the dizziness and nausea that suddenly boiled up in her stomach. She saw Mr. Ackett shove Lady Wynwood into the carriage, and a pair of man’s hands—no, two pairs of men’s hands reached out to grab her and draw her inside.

Aya suddenly heard a woman screaming, and at first thought it was Lady Wynwood. Then, through blurry vision, she saw Miss Phoebe racing toward them. Her horrified face was simply a white circle with black splotches.

Mr. Ackett saw her and hesitated. Then a man’s voice from inside the carriage barked, “Get in.”

He entered the carriage just as it jerked into motion, and the door slammed shut behind him. Miss Phoebe arrived too late to catch the coach, but she kept running after it, skirts hiked up indecently so she could take advantage of her long legs.

Before the vehicle had pulled away completely out of her sight, Aya suddenly saw a flash of light from inside and heard a sharp bang!

For a heartbeat, Aya couldn’t breathe. That had been a gunshot. But who—?

Then Lady Wynwood began to scream.

The only thoughts in her head were that she was relieved. If her mistress had been shot, she wouldn’t be screaming. But that meant that Mr. Ackett …

Aya slid into darkness.

***

As Phoebe finished telling Aya’s account, Sol felt physically faint. There was a roaring in his ears. His heart was still beating, but it thudded sluggishly, as if fighting to keep beating.

Laura had indeed been taken, if Aya’s and Phoebe’s accounts could be believed. Sol had utterly failed her.

And if that had been a gunshot, then Septimus was …

In that black moment, he sat there, unable to think of what he could do. The room began to spin around him, and he put his face in his hands.

“Sep …” Mr. Coulton-Jones breathed. “She’s certain this was Sep? But he was at the Coach Gate at nine o’clock.”

“We last saw him when we met at eight o’clock,” Mr. Rosmont said harshly, “before we each moved to our assigned posts. He must have never gone to Vauxhall but immediately traveled back to Mayfair.”

“Lady Wynwood’s maid said that he seemed reluctant,” Lady Aymer said, although her voice wavered.

“He lied about Dr. Shokes,” Mr. Rosmont said.

At that, Sol raised his eyes from his hands to look at them. Yes, he realized, that had been a lie. “But did the pale-eyed man lie to Septimus, or did Septimus lie to Laura?” he wondered softly.

“By now, he could have told the Gentians our names and the names of our family members,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“I cannot believe Sep would work willingly for the Gentians,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

“Nor can I,” Lady Aymer said, her face and voice more determined now. “He would have told them about the prisoners. He and Michael were guarding them all day. It would have been child’s play to rescue them.”

“It could simply mean that those men hold no value for Apothecary Jack,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“He would also have told Jack that we possess his Goldensuit plants,” Lady Aymer said. “And yet you were with Phoebe and Keriah at Stapytton House all day, which would also have been the perfect time to reclaim his property.”

Mr. Rosmont grunted in reluctant agreement.

There were long minutes of silence in the room. Finally Mr. Coulton-Jones said in a quiet voice, “Miss Sauber, why did you say it was your fault? Did you know what Septimus was going to do?”

She shook her head, but her face crumpled in a mask of anguish before she covered her face with her hands. She took a quick breath, then looked up at them all. “I should have been there. But I wasn’t. I had gone to Keriah’s house that afternoon, but there were men stationed outside of Lady Stoude’s residence. I think they were men hired by my father. I wasn’t paying attention, and they saw me.” Her voice broke. “I only escaped from them because I convinced Miss Tolberton to give me a ride in her carriage.”

“Miss Tolberton?” Sol’s voice was harsher than he intended. “What did you tell her?”

She flinched at his tone, but wet her lips and replied, “I told her about the marriage contract, and how my father was desperate to bring me back home to fulfill it. She accepted my explanation without question, because her father has a similar view of … daughters.”

This was another problem piling on top of everything that happened tonight. Sol felt he would be crushed by the weight of it all.

“But you didn’t return to the hotel?” Lady Aymer asked.

Phoebe explained about being persuaded to take dinner with Miss Tolberton, then her trick with the hackney so that they could lose the men tailing them on their way to the hotel.

“It took too long,” she said, her voice almost a moan. “We were hurrying, but I also felt that since we had nothing to do, there was no real need for us to be there on time. It was past nine o’clock when we arrived at the stable yard. We were just in time to see …” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment then opened them to stare at Sol, regret burning in them like molten steel. “I should have been there. I left Aunt Laura to walk to Keriah’s home because I was still upset about my father, and it caused me to fail to notice the men waiting outside.”

Sol himself knew that stress caused agents to become restless and careless. He should have realized that Phoebe’s frame of mind would have only been further depressed by being excluded from the operation tonight.

She continued, “If I had been there, I have no illusions that I could have bested Mr. Ackett in a fight, but I might have managed to cut him with a sedative knife to slow him down while Aunt Laura barricaded herself in the bedroom or Aya went for help.”

“It was not your fault,” Sol said. “It was mine. I made the decision about the agents in place tonight. I let the pale-eyed man fool me completely.” The cleverness and foresight he had been so proud to possess had been useless against the Gentians. He had always thought himself so intelligent. In reality, he was as easily fooled as a stripling being fleeced at a card game.

Phoebe rubbed her forehead. “My thoughts have been all a-jumble because of my father—no, because of my own anger. If only I’d been more clear-headed …”

“You were not entirely confused,” Lady Aymer said gently. “You thought to change into a disguise before coming here.”

Sol didn’t want to even consider what kind of danger Phoebe might have faced had she not changed into boy’s clothes and dirtied her appearance before entering Vauxhall, of all places. “Where is Miss Gardinier?” he asked.

“At the hotel, caring for Aya and the two guard agents.”

He would have to answer for their injuries, as well. If he weren’t sick with worry, he would be nursing a raging headache.

The Gentians had never wanted Mr. Coulton-Jones. They had wanted Laura. But pretending to trade for Mr. Coulton-Jones had been the perfect way to lure his team away from her, leaving her vulnerable. And they had guaranteed their success in using Septimus, who had been able to neutralize the guards easily.

“Sir, how will we rescue her?” Mr. Coulton-Jones asked.

Sol looked around the room, at the faces looking to him for answers. He felt so inadequate.

But he was in charge, and he needed to make the decisions that would give Laura her best chance at survival.

“We won’t,” he replied. He had made his decision. “We’re going to need help.”

EPILOGUE

The carriage rocked terribly as it raced away from the hotel. Maxham glanced down at Lady Wynwood’s still form, grateful that she had fainted after he had shot Mr. Ackett. If she had continued screaming, Maxham would have had to do something to knock her out, or else the carriage would have attracted attention on its way to the coaching inn. Now, the driver twisted his way through the streets. He doubted they were being followed, but he had instructed the coachman to take precautions anyway.

Sitting across from them, Dr. Heddetch cursed up a storm as he tried to staunch the bleeding from Mr. Ackett’s abdomen. He had passed out only a few seconds after he had been shot, but even in repose, his face somehow still held that shocked expression.

Dr. Heddetch turned to look at Maxham, and even in the dark, he could feel the heat of the man’s glare. “Why did you have to shoot him?”

“He looked as though he was about to change his mind about following instructions.”

“You weren’t supposed to kill him. Dr. Ward said nothing about—”

Maxham had had enough of hearing about Dr. Ward. “This way, we will get everything we want.” He deliberately said “we” to fool Heddetch into thinking that he was included.

It worked, for he calmed down even as he continued to press rags to the bleeding wound. But he still sounded slightly irritable as he asked, “How will we get everything we want? He’s so badly hurt that he won’t survive even with the Root.”

“Well, just do your best for now.” Maxham reached into his coat and pulled out a glass vial, handing it to Heddetch. “Wake him up and make him drink some of this.”

The doctor snatched at the vial. “If you had this, why didn’t you bring this out sooner?”

Heddetch slapped Mr. Ackett’s face several times. Eventually, the young man roused enough to be able to swallow the liquid that the doctor poured down his throat.

Maxham had deliberately waited until they were traversing an especially dark street before he handed Heddetch the liquid. It was the same glass container that Jack used for his Root elixir, but in the dark, Heddetch did not notice that the color was different. This will be a good opportunity to test this new batch from America, he thought.

“If he doesn’t live,” Maxham said, “I’ll take care of his body later.”

That seemed to appease the doctor somewhat. Maxham had more resources than he did for making a body disappear, and more experience in it.

Lady Wynwood finally roused herself when they entered the stable yard of the coaching inn. Maxham was glad, because he didn’t particularly want to have to carry her out of the carriage, which might have attracted attention. He had found that it was more difficult than expected to make a deadweight body look like it was merely sleeping.

Maxham exited the carriage before it had even stopped, and he yanked at the rope around Lady Wynwood’s hands to force her to follow him out. She stumbled up against him, and he bent his head to say in a low voice, “If you scream, I shall kill you, and not just you, but I will kill a random person in the stable yard as well.” For most people, the threat of death was enough for compliance, but he had observed the prowess of her little team and wasn’t entirely certain if it would be enough.

He was right, because she showed no fear at his threat. She yanked back on her hands, not to escape but to make the point that she wasn’t cowed by him. “Let me see to Mr. Ackett,” she demanded.

“I shall take care of him as soon as I deal with you.” He jerked his head at Heddetch to indicate he should follow them.

Maxham pulled at her wrists and dragged her across to an old traveling coach standing by at the side of the yard, right where he had arranged for it to be. He handed her to the doctor. “Hold her in the coach. I’ll be back.”

After returning to the carriage, Maxham looked with distaste at the blood soaked down the front of the unconscious men’s clothes, then sighed. He lifted Mr. Ackett over his shoulder easily, then hurried inside the coaching Inn.

The innkeeper looked up at him and his burden in surprise, but Maxham gave him the cool gaze that always guaranteed obedience from lesser men. “I wish a room for this man.”

The innkeeper stuttered for a moment, then immediately led him up the stairs to a room at the back of the Inn. Maxham laid Mr. Ackett down on the bed.

“Do not disturb him, no matter what you may hear from inside the room,” he told the innkeeper. “Make any excuses you like to your guests. This should cover the room and the inconvenience.” He handed him a small leather pouch filled with coins.

The innkeeper hefted the weight of the pouch and then nodded, looking a bit dazed.

“Do you have a man you can send as a courier?”

The innkeeper nodded again.

Maxham turned from the bed and pulled some paper and a short pencil from his coat. He scribbled a note, folded it and wrote the address on the back, then handed it to the man. “Have someone deliver this. Once you do, another man will come quickly to take care of this one.” At least, he hoped Jack would be quick. One never knew with him.

Maxham left the inn swiftly. He was rarely noticed, but he had made his arrangements with the innkeeper while in the room to ensure that the business would not be overheard.

He stopped the hired coachman from climbing onto the box of the coach and slipped him a small leather pouch with his fee. “Take care of the carriage, please. We have no more need for your services.”

Maxham turned to Heddetch. “You and I will trade off driving.” He had no wish for anyone else to know where they were headed.

“I’m not a—” Heddetch began to object, but Maxham ignored him and simply entered the coach. After a few minutes while Heddetch fumed, he finally climbed up to take the reins. Soon they were off.

Only once they had left London behind did Lady Wynwood speak. “What do you want with me?” Her voice was stony and likely her expression was, also, but Maxham couldn’t see it in the darkness.

“I saw your men raid the laboratory,” he said. “I was hiding on the roof.”

She twitched in surprise, but when she spoke, her voice was strangely flat. “Why didn’t you kill them?”

Maxham found himself smiling. Why had he not seen years earlier what kind of woman this was? He had sadly underestimated her. “Because I was there to listen. They spoke of you, did you know that?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“They mentioned that ‘she’ had found the key they used on the back door.”

“That is hardly proof that they were referring to me.”

“No, they didn’t mention you by name, but I knew they were talking about you. You see, the doctor told me what he’d heard from your servants—that you were looking through the house for more things Lord Wynwood may have hidden.” If Heddetch had been here, Maxham would have had to resist the urge to slam a fist into his face. All this had been precipitated because of his mistake over that watch. Maxham was merely cleaning up the mess.

“Yes, he quite enjoyed taunting me with it when he beat me,” she said coolly.

“Ah.” He hadn’t been certain in the darkness, but he thought he could see the traces of bruising and slightly swollen appearance of her face. She had perhaps hidden it with rice powder, which was why it hadn’t been apparent at first.

“Did you send him to do that?”

“I apologize for his actions. But they did cause your friends to raid the laboratory, which was why I was on the roof listening. Until I overheard them talking about the back door key, we hadn’t realized that Bianca had asked Wynwood to hide things for her.” Remembering that enlightening morsel made him smile thinly. Perhaps Heddetch’s blunders hadn’t been entirely useless. He wouldn’t have discovered it otherwise.

“What you mean?” She had grown defensive, agitated.

“We couldn’t find Bianca’s keys to the laboratory after she died. But after the raid, we found out that it was because your husband had hidden them for her.”

She drew in a long, slow breath. “That laboratory did not belong to Dr. Heddetch. That laboratory was hers.”

Maxham was delighted. She was far more clever than the sweet, innocent face she presented to society. “When we learned that tidbit about Bianca and Wynwood, you suddenly became much more important to us than all the rest of your little band of Merry Men.”

“Why would I be important? Surely you already know that I searched the entire house and only found the pocket watch and keys. There is nowhere else to look.”

Maxham stilled. “Oh, so you did find something else besides the pocket watch and keys. Interesting.”

Lady Wynwood looked away from him to stare out at the darkness beyond the window. He had not expected her to be quite so terrible at lying, but he was grateful for it. It would make everything else go much more smoothly.

“So you see, you are quite important,” Maxham said. “While Dr. Heddetch’s attack did spur you to raid the laboratory, unfortunately, it also made you go into hiding. I had some difficulty in trying to find you. But luckily I discovered Mr. Ackett’s name and where to find him.”

“Where is he?” She turned back to look at him. “You must take him to a doctor immediately.”

“You should think more about your own predicament. We would like to know what else you found.”

She sat back in the seat. “I would think that directly after Wynwood died, you would have already managed to search the house, rather than waiting ten years for me to stumble upon your dirty little secrets.”

“Oh, we did search the house, but it’s a large house.”

She huffed and looked out the window, pulling her shawl closer about her.

Maxham stared at her. She hadn’t lied to him—she hadn’t spoken at all—but there was something about her reaction that bothered him a little. But then the feeling passed, and he decided he’d only imagined it.

“You see,” Maxham said, “the things Bianca hid in Wynwood’s home are very valuable to us. They might look like useless trinkets or papers to you, but they mean something quite different to us. Did you find anything like that?”

She didn’t answer, just continued looking out the window and said nothing.

Strangely, her silence made Maxham impatient. He normally kept a firm lid upon petty emotions, but something about this woman made him want to shake her. “I could make you answer.”

Lady Wynwood faced him and lifted her chin. “You can do to me what you like, but I know none of Wynwood’s other hiding places. Nothing you do can make me suddenly create another one into existence.”

“You are still the best person to guess where your husband might have stashed things that Bianca gave to him to hide. We only wish to know before you find them yourself. Or if you’ve found something, we shall be glad to take it off your hands.”

“You are only going to kill me, so why should I tell you anything?”

Her obstinate spirit was wonderfully entertaining. He regretted the necessity of lying to her. “I have no intention of killing you unless you give me reason to.”

She remained silent, and he still couldn’t see her face clearly, but he had the impression that her expression had flattened, indicating that she obviously did not believe him.

A part of him did wonder if he was wasting his time with her. But something else inside him told Maxham that Lady Wynwood was the key to everything.

She knew Bianca’s greatest secret. And he intended to rattle her around until it fell out.

CONNECT WITH CAMY

I hope you enjoyed Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 4: Betrayer. I’m sorry for ending it on such a cliffhanger, but to make up for it, the next book, Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 5: Prisoner, will be on sale within a month. By now you’ve figured out who the “prisoner” is, and I promise to also reveal what happened to Septimus.

I also apologize that I have once again taken liberties with the city of London and created a few streets used in this book. I needed certain types of streets for specific purposes in an area close to Mayfair, but after some time digging into spotty records about what streets were actually in use and what they were used for, I was coming up dry, so I simply made up my own. I figured that my readers wouldn’t mind too much—after all, you’re reading a series about secret spies and an elixir that gives supernatural strength, so I’m assuming that suspending belief over my geography isn’t too much of a stretch.

I have a tendency to come up with knitted items that my characters might use and then write those items into my books. In this volume, I wrote about several of them—Laura’s apricot-colored Scollop Shell Shawl, Phoebe’s Blue Lupine Shawl, Phoebe’s (rather deadly) Muffatees.

Laura was wearing her apricot-colored Scollop Shell Shawl at the end of Betrayer, so it will make an appearance in the next book, Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 5: Prisoner. I’ll be posting the knitting patterns (with lots of pictures) on my blog in the coming months and putting the links in my newsletter.

I also was suffering from rather bad IBS during the writing of this book (which is why it’s been over a year since Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 3: Aggressor released). My diet became incredibly bland, and I think it affected my writing because as I was editing, I realized I wrote about a plethora of yummy things that my characters are eating, all recipes from cookbooks published in the Georgian and Regency period. The fun part is that I’ll be posting the recipes on my blog (most of them are incredibly easy) and linking to them in my newsletter.

So if you haven’t yet, I invite you to sign up for my email newsletter. After a few welcome emails, I send out newsletters about once a month with a sale on one of my books, a freebie, or news about when my latest release is available.

Camy

***

Read on for an excerpt from Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 5: Prisoner

LADY WYNWOOD'S SPIES, VOLUME 5: PRISONER

A Christian Historical Adventure set in Regency England with romance and a supernatural twist

Part five in an epic-length serial novel

Lady Wynwood’s team of aristocrat spies is shocked at the betrayal by one of their teammates and the kidnapping of a second. In a race against time, they must find the hiding place of the treasonous group that they call the Gentians in order to save one of their own.

However, they also face the threat of mysterious agendas within the secret government department, the Ramparts. The team is split apart by the Ramparts’ leaders, who seem overly interested in using the mysterious Root elixir for their own purposes.

While knowing that each day brings more suffering and torture for the prisoner, Lady Wynwood’s spies scramble to uncover any clues left behind as to where the Gentians have gone. But with their resources and abilities limited by the Ramparts, can they make it in time before the enemy accomplishes its perplexing goal?

PLEASE NOTE: Like the novels published in Jane Austen’s time, this is a novel in multiple parts. Each volume has a completed story arc, but this is NOT a stand-alone novel and the story continues in volume 6.

CHAPTER ONE

Miss Phoebe Sauber rode her aunt’s unmarked carriage back to the hotel in Mayfair feeling sick the entire way. Not from the moving of the coach, but from the dread of what had happened to her aunt.

It was all her fault. If she hadn’t been so distracted by her rage at her father, she would not have left her aunt’s side. She would have been there when Mr. Ackett arrived.

And yet, what could she have done? She had some training in fisticuffs, but she did not have the years of experience that Mr. Ackett did. She could not have stopped him.

And what had happened to him? Did that gunshot mean that he had been killed? She shivered.

She had never seen Uncle Sol so upset before. She knew that he and her aunt were close friends, but the crazed look in his eyes made her wonder if perhaps his feelings ran deeper than even he realized.

If he was distraught with worry, as she was, would he be able to set aside his emotions and plan some way to rescue Aunt Laura? She could only hope that the people he had gone to speak to would be able to help. There was little that the team could do until he had spoken to his superior officer at the Ramparts, so he had sent Phoebe to the hotel with Dr. Shokes and Mr. Coulton-Jones, along with Calvin and Mr. Havner, who were on the box of the carriage.

After dropping them off at the hotel, Mr. Havner left with Calvin to take them back to Aunt Laura’s townhouse to tell the servants what had happened. Uncle Sol had also said that he didn’t wish for the Ramparts agents to be aware that Laura’s servants had helped them, so he had instructed them not to go inside the hotel. Phoebe told them that she would send word about how Aya was doing.

Both of the Ramparts agents were standing guard in the hallway when Phoebe arrived, much to her surprise. She would have thought they looked cupshot if she hadn’t known that their pallor was not from drink, but from Mr. Ackett’s attacks.

Unlike before, the guard at the head of the stairs stood in their way. “State your name and business.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones said with irritation, “What’s the meaning of this, Flemming?”

Phoebe, who had seen him only an hour or two earlier, stared at him with eyebrows raised, but said nothing.

Under the weight of her stare, Mr. Flemming pursed his lips, and his eyes sidled away. “Please wait.” He twisted around to see the other guard still standing at the head of the other stairwell. “What are you doing? Knock on the door,” he hissed at him.

The other man started, then walked to the door of Aunt Laura’s suite and knocked. Keriah peeked out, saw them, and immediately rushed over. “Dr. Shokes! Are you well?”

“I am well enough,” he said gruffly. He seemed to be embarrassed at the attention. “I heard that Aya was injured. Where is she?”

“You should lie down, Dr. Shokes,” Keriah said, her eyes scanning the bruising on his face.

“Not whilst there are people more injured than myself.” He eyed the two guards from the Ramparts. “The two of you look worse for wear.”

However, it was Keriah who answered with calm efficiency. “Mr. Swan had a nasty knock on the back of the head. Mr. Flemming was choked from behind and has bruising on his throat. I bandaged them up as best I could. Aya hit the back of her head on the stone ground, and although she has a large bump, she insists she feels fine. However, I have forced her to lie down in the bedroom.”

“I’ll look at her first.”

The three of them entered Aunt Laura’s suite. Mr. Coulton-Jones closed the door behind them and remained there to act as guard.

Phoebe followed Dr. Shokes into the bedroom, where he took a look at the back of Aya’s head. There had been some blood, but Keriah had cleaned most of it off.

“I did not have any herbs or tinctures with me,” Keriah said, “so I had to beg for things from the hotel kitchens. They had most of what I needed.”

“You did well,” Dr. Shokes grunted. “The wound does not look too serious …”

“I have a terrible headache,” Aya snapped.

“… aside from putting Aya in a temper.” Dr. Shokes tried to hide his smile. “I’m afraid I have nothing for your headache. I was taken from my new office without my doctor’s bag, and since those men kidnapped me from there, it’s probably too dangerous for me to return.”

“I have a stillroom,” Keriah said, although she carefully did not mention where it was. “I can travel there in the morning and fetch whatever you need.”

Dr. Shokes nodded. “I shall make a list.” He went back to examining Aya.

Phoebe and Keriah moved out into the sitting room. “Do we know what has happened with Mr. Ackett? And Lady Wynwood?” Keriah demanded. She was pale, and her voice trembled slightly. “What are we to do?”

“Mr. Drydale is going to ask the help of the Ramparts,” Phoebe said. “We can do nothing but wait until he contacts us.”

Keriah’s face crumpled, and she turned away to hide her tears. Phoebe rubbed her back. They had both been shocked by what they had witnessed in the stable yard, but Phoebe had left as soon as she could in order to tell Uncle Sol what had happened, leaving Keriah here to care for Aya and the two agents all by herself. Her nerves were probably stretched taut.

After a moment, she dashed away her tears and turned back to them. “Where is everyone else? Was anyone injured?”

“Mr. Drydale has gone to the Ramparts,” Phoebe said in a low voice. “He will arrange for another safe place for Aya and myself to stay. He said that he will also send new agents to replace the two men outside.”

Keriah nodded. “I’m glad of that. They are doing their best to stand guard, but they are as shaky on their feet as newborn foals.”

“Mr. Rosmont has gone to check on the prisoners,” Phoebe said. “If all is well, he will remain tonight with the two agents sent to the ice house as guards. The Ramparts will send replacements later.”

“And Lady Aymer?”

“Isabella was sent home,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “None of the other agents can know about her, so we thought it best. She was unhappy about it, and will likely come to check on both of you tomorrow, if she is able.”

“Miss Keriah?” Dr. Shokes suddenly called to her from the bedroom doorway. “Could I ask for your help?”

Keriah hurried into the bedroom.

Phoebe stood there in the middle of the room, suddenly unsure of what she ought to be doing. And then, in a rush, she realized how tired she was. She tottered toward the sofa and collapsed into it.

Mr. Coulton-Jones immediately came up to her. “Miss Sauber, are you well? Shall I call for Dr. Shokes?”

“I am …” She didn’t know how to answer him. Without warning, her eyes filled with tears. She fumbled for a handkerchief, but realized that she was still in boy’s clothing and had nothing in her pockets.

Then a handkerchief was pressed into her hand. She buried her face in it. Despite her runny nose, she was aware of the scent of laundry soap, and fir leaves, and a hint of woodsmoke.

She didn’t know how long she sat like that, but when she at last wiped her eyes and blew her nose, she realized Mr. Coulton-Jones was sitting beside her on the sofa, looking at her with worry in his eyes.

“I beg your pardon.” She found herself apologizing, although she didn’t know why. “I was trying to be strong.”

“You are strong. You needn’t …” His mouth flopped open and closed like a goldfish, as if he were trying to figure out what else to say.

Phoebe had the hysterical urge to giggle. She looked away from him, embarrassed at her crying and her flippant thoughts.

There was a stilted silence between them, then he quietly said, “It’s not your fault.”

She stared at him. It was as if he had read her mind. “It is my fault,” she said. “I was so upset that I left the hotel. I was so careless that I was almost kidnapped. I had to rely upon a stranger to prevent from being taken by the men my father hired.”

“You couldn’t have known that Septimus would come to the hotel.”

“But if I had been here, I might have been able to save Aunt Laura. I have sedative knives with me at all times, and I would only have needed to cut him once.”

“You had every reason to trust that your aunt was safe here,” he said. “None of us suspected that Septimus would act for them.”

“He might be dead,” she said in a whisper.

He said nothing for long minutes, then he said slowly, “I know what you must be feeling.”

She was about to snap that he didn’t know, but then, she remembered that he did.

“Isabella and I both feel guilt over Richard,” he said. “It was strange, but we both told each other that it was not each other’s fault. I’m not certain I can believe that yet, but somehow, the guilt is no longer crushing me and making me feel as though I cannot breathe.” He reached out and tentatively touched her hand. “So believe me when I tell you that it is not your fault, and you must try to believe it.”

Phoebe could see in his face that he seemed slightly less burdened than he did when he confessed to her about his guilt over his brother’s death. She was glad he seemed to be feeling better. If anyone could understand what she was going through, it would be him.

“I will try.” She was about to return his snot-covered handkerchief to him, then thought better of it. “I shall have this laundered and return it to you.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “I would appreciate that.”

She wanted to hide her face from him, for she was surely as splotchy as an overripe plum. She rose and excused herself to change out of her boy’s attire.

Phoebe had brought only one dress that she could do up herself without help, and it hung on her frame like a potato sack with pretensions. She sighed as she shook it out, but then scolded herself that Mr. Coulton-Jones wouldn’t notice even if she appeared in her most flattering ballgown.

When she returned to her aunt’s room, Keriah was still helping Dr. Shokes in the bedroom. She had just closed the door behind her when Mr. Coulton-Jones suddenly stiffened. Phoebe was about to ask him what the matter was when she also heard it.

Pounding footsteps, running up the stairs. They were not approaching on the main stairs, but the servants’ stairwell that she most often used when entering and exiting the hotel.

It could have nothing to do with them. But somehow, Phoebe and Mr. Coulton-Jones both knew that something was coming. They needed to prepare themselves and protect the others.

He raced to the bedroom door. Dr. Shokes had closed it partway, but he knocked brusquely and pushed it open. “All of you, remain in here. Lock the door.”

He was about to shut the door behind him, when Keriah called out. “Wait!”

She exited and pulled the bedroom door closed. There was still a hole in the paneling where Aya had broken through, but they heard the sound of the bolt being slid into place inside.

Keriah held a narrow leather belt, which was dotted with leather sheaths for small, slim blades. “Aya gave these to me. These belong to Lady Wynwood. She had brought them with her in case they were needed.” She straightened her shoulders. “I shall stay here at the door to protect Aya and Dr. Shokes.”

“You would do better to protect them inside,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

Keriah shook her head. “These are throwing knives. My aim is not as good as Phoebe, but I have had some practice thanks to Mr. Armstrong’s training.” She swallowed and winced, as if the action pained her, then added, “He told me that since I am … not suited for close-quarters fighting, it would be preferable for me to stand with my back to a wall and a clear line of sight within a room.”

“She’s right,” Phoebe told him. “We have a gypsy teacher who trained us in knife fighting side by side, in tandem, but it is only possible when we have plenty of room for me to move. This room is too full of furniture.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones nodded at Keriah. “Then stay there and offer support from a distance.”

“Where do you wish me to be?” Phoebe drew out a small knife from one of her muffatees. It was not as large as the fighting knife she wore in a leather sheath that sat at the small of her back, strapped to her body with leather thongs, when she was dressed in breeches. That knife was now sitting in her room, and she regretted that she had changed out of boy’s clothing.

“There, in front of the sofa.” He pointed. “Distract them.”

He moved swiftly toward the door, but instead of opening it, he stood against the wall on the other side of the hinges.

The footsteps had reached the hallway outside, heading directly toward the room. The door was locked, but the intruders didn’t bother to knock. Instead, she heard the click of the key in the lock.

Phoebe stiffened. The only other person with the key was one of the two Ramparts guards. And they would not allow someone inside, much less open the door unless …

The door was flung open, and it hid Mr. Coulton-Jones from the three men who stormed in.

Phoebe made her voice strident. “What do you think you are doing?!”

The first man into the room spotted Keriah at the entrance to the bedroom, and headed toward her. The second man approached Phoebe.

“I demand you tell me what you are doing!” she shouted.

She had hoped that she could also distract the third man, but he was the only one who thought to look more thoroughly around the room. He turned and peeked behind the open door.

Phoebe didn’t see what happened, because the man approaching her suddenly attacked without warning.

He pulled his arm back as if to slap or punch Phoebe, but he moved much more slowly than Mr. Armstrong. She easily ducked and slashed outward with her knife, which up until that moment she had hidden in the folds of her skirt.

Phoebe had surprised him, but his reflexes were too quick—he bowed his body backward and her cut was too shallow. He grunted as he grabbed her left wrist.

She tried to jerk away but was too late. Mr. Armstrong had told her to keep her arms closer to her body when she swung the knife, but she had forgotten.

So, she jerked her arm closer to her torso, which pulled him within inches of her. Then she quickly punched him in the throat with her hand clenched around the knife hilt, which helped project more power into her jab. The man released her wrist and staggered back, choking.

Mr. Armstrong had repeatedly told her that her legs delivered the hardest and most powerful blows. As the man retreated, stumbling, she rushed toward him. She was tall enough that she could easily grab the back of his head and yank it down as she snapped up with her knee as far as her skirts would allow.

She missed slightly and didn’t hit him square in the jaw, but she knocked his head hard enough that he stiffened for a moment, then fell to the floor, dazed.

Phoebe anxiously turned toward Keriah and the man who had approached her. Keriah had managed to hit him in the shoulder with the knife that she had thrown, but it had only slowed him down, and he continued rushing toward her with his fist drawn back to hit her.

Phoebe started forward, but then suddenly Mr. Coulton-Jones raced ahead with his supernatural speed. He must have taken care of the third man quickly.

He punched the man in the back of his injured shoulder, causing him to cry out and trip as he stepped forward. Mr. Coulton-Jones quickly spun him around and punched him in the face. He dropped backward stiffly and lay unmoving on the floor.

“What is going on here?”

The authoritative voice had come from the open doorway. Phoebe saw a man swaggering into the room, his face red with outrage. “Stand down!” he barked.

Phoebe froze at the men’s strict tone.

He was of average height for a man, and Phoebe was able to look him directly in the eye. He had a paunch under his elaborately embroidered waistcoat, and a round face with deep jowls. His eyes might have been merry, except that there were traces of cruelty threaded in the blue, as though he enjoyed watching others suffer. He had not removed his hat, but the thinning hair around the sides of his head was a pale blond.

Mr. Coulton-Jones had also stiffened and stood warily. “Mr. Uppleby,” he said.

Phoebe remembered that name. Uncle Sol had mentioned the superior officer who had sent agents to the prison and to the laboratory. What was he doing here, in her aunt’s hotel room? She would have been alarmed at any stranger who had entered, but the fact that this man had tried to undermine Uncle Sol made her entire body tense as she wondered what would happen next.

Mr. Uppleby glared at Mr. Coulton-Jones with a frown. “I don’t recall your name,” he said rudely, “but I know you work for Drydale.”

“I am Mr. Villager, sir.” Mr. Coulton-Jones’s voice was cool.

“What are you doing to my agents? They were sent to bring the civilians to a safer location.”

Phoebe’s jaw tightened and she had to force herself to relax it so that she could speak without snarling. She managed to sound like an irate young lady of quality. “If they were here to escort us to a safer location, why did they attack us instead? I thought they were going to kill us!” she added for dramatic measure.

“You are mistaken,” he said dismissively. “The men were probably only trying to take your arm to escort you out. Is that not right?” he asked of the man closest to him.

It was the man that Phoebe had hit. She had not knocked him out, and he had shakily risen to his feet when Mr. Uppleby entered the room. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“I felt gravely threatened,” Phoebe said. “Your agents are quite poorly trained if they are not even aware of proper behavior with a lady.” She ignored the fact that she had countered with a hidden knife, which she had surreptitiously replaced in her muffatee when Mr. Uppleby appeared.

Uppleby turned those cruel blue eyes to the man. “Well? Apologize to the lady.”

The man bowed to her. “I apologize, miss.” But his face was set and hard. “We were in a hurry because we had been told it was of utmost importance for you to be moved as soon as possible.”

“We haven’t the time to be standing here and talking,” Mr. Uppleby said. “Collect your things. Who else is here with you?”

Phoebe glanced at Mr. Coulton-Jones, who gave her the barest of nods.

She answered Mr. Uppleby, “My aunt’s maid, my friend, Miss Gardinier, and our physician, Dr. Shokes.”

Uppleby’s mouth turned into a deeper frown. “There was only supposed to be one woman. We hardly have room for you all.”

“If you will tell me where they are to be taken, sir,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said in a neutral voice, “I would be happy to escort them instead.”

Mr. Uppleby sniffed in his direction. “No need. I suppose we’ll take all of them, if we must.” He flapped a peremptory hand at Phoebe. “Well, go, go—collect your things, gel. I haven’t got all day.”

Phoebe wanted to snap at him to mind his tone, but remembered in time that this man was superior in rank to Uncle Sol. She headed out the door to go to her room, but as she did so, Mr. Uppleby was looking with interest around the room—no, not with interest, but with avarice. As though he expected there to be something that would warrant his attention.

She was surprised to find Mr. Coulton-Jones shadowing her. He waited until they were in her room, with the door cracked open, then leaned so close that she could smell again his unique musk that reminded her of a curl of woodsmoke and fir trees in winter.

In a low voice only she could hear, he said, “I didn’t wish to leave you alone.”

She nodded. Of course that was all it was. He obviously distrusted these men as much as she did.

“Why do you think they attacked us?” she whispered. “In Keriah’s case, she attacked him first—although he looked like a bull about to trample her. And you were hiding behind the door, which might look suspicious. But the man who came at me had been intending to hit me, not grab my arm.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones’s face suddenly grew thunderous. “Did he harm you?”

“No,” she said. “But I think he intended to knock me unconscious. Did you notice how Mr. Uppleby looked about the room? As if he was eager to search it.”

“I noticed that.”

“What should we do?”

He hesitated, thinking. He finally looked up at her, concern shading his eyes. “Obey whatever they tell you, so long as they don’t attempt to harm you.”

“And what of you?”

“I will remain close to you.” Then he leaned closer and added, in a soft voice, “But you should not trust anyone.”

CHAPTER TWO

The inky darkness of the forest around Thorne Rosmont felt thick, as though he were wading through a black sea. Small animals that were more active in the evening scurried in the underbrush. Their scratching sounds followed him as he walked deeper through the trees.

He led his horse, holding his lantern aloft. The trail was narrow, and he didn’t wish the horse to stumble. The lantern gave barely any light, but he didn’t dare use a larger, brighter one, else he would be more easily seen.

Thorne tried to walk as quickly as he could, but the unfamiliar path in the darkness had slowed him down too much. He needed to reach the prison as soon as possible. The urgency was scratching in his gut, not unlike the soft sounds of the wildlife all around him.

He admitted that he had been glad that his childhood friend, Isabella, had been forced to return home and excuse herself from anything further to do with this mission. Once he realized that they had been betrayed, he had worried about her safety. Perhaps it was simply habit, since he had spent two or three years guarding le petit prince on various missions, both in France and on English soil.

The high-level secrecy of her identity and her role in various vital missions had caused the need for her to disappear once more of the Ramparts agents were to be brought in. But since she was not with them, Thorne also felt incomplete, as though he were missing a finger. It was not simply her ability to assume any role. He missed knowing she was there, watching over him just as he was tasked with protecting her.

A strange moan rose from the depth of the darkness, and Thorne halted. The horse whickered, and he automatically laid a hand over its nose to soothe it. The sound had not sounded like an animal, nor like a human.

He waited, his ears straining, but the moan did not repeat itself. It had been almost otherworldly …

Thorne continued on his way. He could not believe he was being so chicken-hearted. There were no such things as ghosts.

But if there were … would Septimus be one of them? Or was he still alive?

He fully admitted that compared to Michael and Isabella, he was the most cynical and suspicious of other people, but even he had been shocked to discover Sep’s actions. How could he have done this? What would cause him to do this?

If he had been truly reluctant, what could have induced him to obey the pale-eyed man’s orders to kidnap Lady Wynwood? Thorne could think of any number of things, and all of them made him shiver.

And if Sep was not reluctant, how had they all been so completely fooled? Thorne felt a veritable half-wit at being duped and allowing an innocent woman to be taken. Even though it had not seemed to have been anything he could have prevented, he was too used to internalizing his feelings. The habit had been beaten into him by his father and could not be removed.

He squinted above at the fragments of night sky visible through the tree branches. Judging the time, he thought it might be closer to midnight.

He supposed he should be grateful that they had been alerted about the kidnapping so quickly. If Miss Sauber had not witnessed it, if she had not had the presence of mind to change into boy’s clothing and hurry to inform them right away, they may not have discovered the kidnapping until several hours later.

Thorne’s immediate reaction had been to try to chase down the carriage. But he knew they had no trail to follow. The carriage had disappeared on a London street and could have gone anywhere.

His entire team was devastated. Miss Sauber had looked terrified for her aunt. Even Mr. Drydale had been staggered.

Thorne had had many other superior officers, but few whom he respected more than Mr. Drydale, whose decisions so far had been sound, and whose trust in the team was obvious. But it had also caused him to be confounded when Sep had turned on them.

Remembering Mr. Drydale’s face, the shaking of his hands, Thorne felt a niggle of discomfort. It was unusual to see any sort of emotion in a superior officer—except perhaps rage at a subordinate’s failings—but Mr. Drydale had been truly horrified. This glimpse of vulnerability had made Thorne desperate to do something—anything—to fix the situation.

Except that there was nothing he could do but follow orders.

Thorne started recognizing certain trees, certain landmarks, despite the dark. He was nearing the prison.

He suddenly shivered. After everything that had happened, he had a bad feeling about the prisoners.

No, he scolded himself. Things should be fine. He had no reason to think otherwise.

As he drew closer, he saw light shining through the trees, and he became irritated. Mr. Drydale had arranged for two Ramparts agents to travel to the prison before the operation tonight, where the situation could be thoroughly explained to them before Michael and Sep had left. But even raw recruits were supposed to have been trained in the proper procedures.

The gamekeeper’s hut and the icehouse were made so that no light would show once the doors and windows were closed. Thorne should not be seeing light right now.

The two guards were probably sitting in the gamekeeper’s hut, playing cards or dice, with the window open since the hut was small and close. Thorne had been an agent for many years, but he had worked for the Foreign Office, not the Alien Office, so he wasn’t certain if he was entitled to let them feel the lash of his tongue when he had only been working for the Ramparts for a few weeks.

But as he drew closer, he grew alarmed. The light was not coming from the gamekeeper’s hut, but from the icehouse. That meant that the door was open. He dropped the reins of his horse and ran.

He nearly collided with a huge, hulking form that rose in the darkness. He lifted the lantern higher and let the light spill over the shape of a prisoner transport cart. However, there was no horse attached to it.

The agents who had come to take Michael’s and Septimus’s place in guarding the prisoners had not brought this cart with them. That meant that it had arrived afterward. His alarm became tinged with anger, and at the same time his nerves were pulled tight. They had already fought with Uppleby over the transport of the prisoners. What had happened?

Thorne skirted the prisoner transporter, which was nothing more than a sturdy cart with a closed wooden box that locked from the outside. As he passed the driver’s seat, he saw there were no lanterns.

Strangely, he began to smell smoke and copper—gunpowder and blood. He paused at the gamekeeper’s hut, but realized the smell was coming from the open door of the icehouse.

The door had been flung open, but there was supposed to be a dark curtain over the base of the stairs to block any light from inside. Now, the curtain had been ripped down and light streamed out, limning the trees in sickly yellow.

Thorne approached slowly, sliding out a knife from the sheath strapped to his leg. Mr. Drydale had decided that they should not carry pistols in Vauxhall, but now Thorne regretted the loss.

At the top of the stairs, he was able to look down and see the curtain rumpled at the base. But then he looked closer and realized that the fabric was wrapped around a body.

His first instinct was to rush down to check, but he forced himself to pause and listen. He heard nothing from inside.

He looked more closely at the body. The curtain had been ripped from its rings when the man had likely grabbed at it as he fell. Thorne also recognized the man—Mr. Silcox, one of the Ramparts agents from the other night, who had arrived at the laboratory to help them transport the prisoners to this icehouse.

Michael had mentioned to Thorne that Mr. Silcox was one of the two agents who had come to take their place in guarding the prison tonight. Michael had admitted to being uncomfortable with Silcox because he’d asked many questions about the prisoners. When Michael told him that they couldn’t disclose that information, Silcox had been disappointed and disdainful.

From the unnatural angle of the man’s neck and his frozen, open eyes, Thorne could tell that Mr. Silcox was dead.

Thorne’s Goldensuit-enchanced strength had returned almost to normal, but his hearing and sense of smell were both still a bit sensitive, even though it had been over two weeks since he’d last breathed in the pollen. He crouched down at the top of the stairs into the underground icehouse, steadied his breathing and strained his ears.

There was one man inside of the icehouse, breathing quickly, as if he was in pain. Thorne remained perfectly still and listened as intently as he could, but he could hear nothing else.

He crept down the stairs slowly, as quietly as he could. He paused at the bottom, glancing at Mr. Silcox’s body, then quickly popped his head out around the corner before ducking back again.

The brief glimpse he had seen was enough to make the anger boil in his gut at the same time that his feet froze with fear. The doors to the two cells were wide open. There was a man—he guessed a Ramparts agent—sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, bleeding from a cut in his torso, although Thorne couldn’t tell if it was from his stomach, his chest, or if his throat had been cut and the blood had run down his shirt.

He waited a heartbeat, then five. There was no reaction to his quick peek around the corner, so he hastened forward.

The door to one of the cells where the prisoners had been kept still had the key in the lock. It had been unlocked, and not forced open.

The eyes of the injured man were half-lidded and unfocused, and it took him a while to realize that Thorne was there. When he saw him, his breathing quickened. Thorne could see that the man had been slashed across the stomach, and fluids were leaking out of the wound, soaking his shirt and coat.

Berating himself for his thoughtlessness, Thorne returned to the curtain and tugged it free from the body. He began tearing it into strips, and then he knelt and pressed the rags to the man’s wound.

He also saw that there was a third man lying dead on the floor beyond the injured one. Thorne couldn’t see his face, but he lay perfectly still in a huge pool of blood, and he didn’t look to be breathing.

The man was becoming more agitated, his breath coming in light gasps. To try to calm him, Thorne asked, “What is your name?”

“Hobkins,” the man wheezed.

It was probably not his true name, since most agents at the Ramparts used a false name, and their true identities were only known to their superior officers.

“I had to do what I was told,” Hobkins said in a weak voice.

Thorne pressed more of the rags to the wound, but it made the man moan in pain.

“What were you told?” Thorne asked.

The man blinked as his eyes slid into focus for a moment. There was a slyness in his gaze. “The prisoners grabbed my knife and threatened me through the window to open the door.”

He didn’t need Lady Wynwood’s ability to know that the man was lying. The prison door was solid wood with only a small barred window near the top and a slit near the bottom for trays of food.

They were in danger every moment they were here in the icehouse, with those prisoners somewhere outside. He gave the man a hard look. “What really happened?”

The man coughed, which was cut short as he winced in pain. “I had to do what I was told,” he said again.

“What was that?”

The man hesitated, and Thorne began to wonder if he would bleed out his lifeblood before answering. But finally the man said in a weak voice, “We were to say that a prisoner had tried to escape.”

If Thorne understood the man correctly, then that meant … “You let one of them go?” His voice came out harsh and loud.

“The escape attempt would prove the prison isn’t secure … We would be justified in moving the prisoners to London.”

“There were four prisoners,” Thorne said incredulously. “There were only two of you …” He looked at the other body. “Who is that?”

“He arrived with the cart after Mr. Hamlet and Mr. Villager left,” he said, referring to Septimus and Michael by their Ramparts pseudonyms. “That’s Mr. Pear,” he said, his head weakly indicating the body closest to him.

So the third man and the prison cart had arrived after Michael and Sep had left the prison to meet them all in Southwark. “Who told you to let the prisoners escape?” Thorne demanded. “Weren’t you told that these prisoners had been given a drug to make them stronger than a normal man?”

The man’s eyes had become even more unfocused. He didn’t answer Thorne’s question. “We decided to release one of the prisoners and then recapture him so that we wouldn’t be lying. But we underestimated their strength.” He stared off into the distance and seemed to be reliving the events, because his face slowly melted into one of horror. “It was only one man… Just one man … We had pistols trained on him when he opened the door, but it was no use. He attacked us.”

“Why didn’t you shoot him?”

“He was too fast. He attacked me and knocked away my gun so that it fired into the wall. He took my own knife and stabbed me with it, then he killed Mr. Silcox and Mr. Pear.” His eyes moved toward one of the open cells. “He also killed one of the other prisoners.”

There had been four prisoners, but one had an injury to his spine from Miss Sauber’s arrow. Thorne followed his gaze and saw the legs of another body in the cell.

They had likely taken the two horses ridden by the two agents and the lone horse from the transport cart. They probably also took the lanterns that had been hanging on the cart. Thorne could only hope they were far away and not waiting nearby to see who else would come to the icehouse. He would be no match for one of them, much less three.

The man’s breathing was becoming labored and slower. Thorne slapped his face. “Who ordered you to do this?”

The man didn’t answer. Thorne slapped him again, and his eyes fluttered open.

“Who ordered you to do this?”

“… Uppleby …”

Thorne came back to his senses when he heard the sound of his teeth grinding together. Mr. Uppleby was the superior agent who had sent Mr. Clay and the other agent to the icehouse yesterday to demand that the prisoners be moved to London. He had caused this utter mess—two agents and one prisoner dead, one agent badly wounded, and three prisoners escaped. The icehouse was no longer safe, and the Ramparts would not be able to use it again—as soon as the prisoners returned to Jack, they would tell him where they’d been held.

He had to get Hobkins out of here, even though the three men on the Root may be out in the woods somewhere. The agent was badly injured and would die without medical treatment.

Thorne made his way to Hobkins’ side and slid an arm around his torso, under his arms. “We must leave.”

Hobkins understood his unspoken warning. Squeezing his eyes tight, he took several quick breaths, then firmed his mouth. Thorne heaved him upward.

The man’s cry was long and splintering like slivers of wood. He gasped for air, and the pain was so great that his legs trembled. Thorne had to bear the brunt of his weight.

It seemed to take too long to stagger up the stairs with Hobkins and shuffle toward the cart. The ride in the unsprung cart would be terrible for him, but Thorne had no other means to get him to a doctor.

He was gratified to see that his horse had obediently followed the track and now stood quietly beside the cart. But the smell of blood from Hobkins’ body made the animal’s eyes begin to roll in alarm.

At last, he left Hobkins moaning in the driver’s seat. He had asked him if he would rather ride in the back, but Hobkins had refused.

Thorne then went back to the icehouse, and he began the distasteful and awkward process of carrying the bodies of the three men up the stairs and into the back of the cart. It seemed wrong to leave them there when he had the means to transport them. He did not think that Jack’s men would return to the icehouse and desecrate the bodies of the agents, but he didn’t want to take a chance. The bodies were still warm, indicating they had died not long before Thorne arrived.

He took one last check around the icehouse and picked up a sackful of odds and ends from the gamekeeper’s hut. There weren’t any objects connected to the Ramparts, but he took everything, just to be sure.

He hitched his poor horse up to the cart and led it rather than sitting on the box and driving. Since he was a large man, his horse was also a big-boned, rangy fellow, and while it had some trouble getting the cart to move at first, it managed to pull it once it was underway. Thorne felt bad for the animal, since he had hurried from London and it hadn’t had time to rest before being forced to act as carriage horse to a heavy vehicle weighed down by four men.

“Good boy,” he said to the beast, patting its neck as he walked alongside it, holding the reins. “I promise you a big trough of oats at the nearest coaching Inn.” He would also hire another horse to take him back to London at all speed.

It was slow going through the trees and the dark, since the only lantern Thorne possessed was the small one he had brought with him. He also kept his senses alert in case the escaped prisoners tried to attack him. However, if three men on the Root were going to attack, he doubted they would bother with an ambush when their only opponent would be Thorne alone.

He wanted to rush the horse, even though it was already straining to pull the cart. He estimated that not enough time had passed for the prisoners to have raced to London, told Jack, and returned here, but it was still safer to vacate this forest.

But Thorne wanted to hurry to tell Mr. Drydale about this as soon as possible. He was concerned how his superior officer would react to this news on top of Lady Wynwood’s abduction and Septimus’s betrayal and possible death.

How had everything gone so wrong so quickly?

CHAPTER THREE

“I’m taking over the investigation personally.”

Sol stared in shock at his superior officer, Sir Derrick Bayberry. He hadn’t taken over an investigation in years.

But it had also been many years since the Ramparts had had an agent betray them in quite so obvious a manner.

“I interviewed Mr. Ackett myself,” Sir Derrick groused. In the dimness of his office, his swarthy skin had an even darker cast than normal, making the whites of his large, slightly protuberant eyes stand out even more starkly. He glared up at Sol where he stood before the desk. “Why would he have done this?”

Sol shook his head. “I have been asking myself since I heard it.”

“It’s not how agents are trained to act,” Sir Derrick said. “If these Daisies—”

“Er … I believe you mean Gentians, sir.”

“Gentians, daisies, lilies, whatever we call them. If they contacted Mr. Ackett, he should have told you, and then you could have made the decision about what he should do.”

Sol could say nothing except, “Septimus knows this.” Or knew this. Was he still alive? Sol’s heart clenched.

Sir Derrick rested his elbows on the desk and his chin in his folded hands. “In my experience, when an agent fails to report these things, it’s because he believes that the Ramparts won’t prioritize the captured civilian and try to rescue them, but will instead allow them to be killed. Mr. Ackett may have thought the same thing.”

Sol shook his head. “Septimus would have known that I would try to rescue the hostage, especially since, in this case, we owe Dr. Shokes a great deal. His actions are inexplicable to me. There must have been another reason why Septimus betrayed us.”

“If that’s the case, then we must discover what it is.” Sir Derrick sat up in his chair. “Go to search Mr. Ackett’s home and his costuming room. Do it now, as soon as you can.”

“But sir, we must try to follow the carriage—”

“We have no idea where it would have gone. We don’t even know where they are headed, if they will leave London or if they will remain within.”

Sol was about to protest that they had been in a carriage, not a traveling coach, but stopped himself. They could have easily switched to a coach at some point.

He knew all this. He had thought this through before coming to Sir Derrick. But he could not stop himself from wanting to chase after Laura, no matter how foolish and useless it would be.

“We must take advantage of the fact that they were discovered quickly,” Sir Derrick said. “You are a friend of the family and will have easy access to the house and to Mr. Ackett’s bedroom. So search it now, before the servants clean it, to see if there’s anything you may discover about what he was involved with.”

Sol reined in his desire to be doing something else. He knew Sir Derrick was correct. “I’ll see to that, sir. How will we go about searching for Lady Wynwood?”

“I will need to summon Uppleby and Antingham, since we will need help from their agents. There may also be something from their intelligence reports.” He hesitated and shot Sol with a narrow look. “I would also like to question the women about what happened.”

For some reason, Sol stiffened. “They are at the hotel with Mr. Coulton-Jones. I shall need to fetch them.”

Sir Derrick waved a hand. “There is no need for you to go yourself. Since they are with Mr. Coulton-Jones, I will send an agent to escort them here.”

“Are you certain you wish to bring civilians to the Ramparts?” It wasn’t unusual, but something in Sir Derrick’s manner made Sol feel uneasy, as though he wanted more from the women than simply to speak to them.

“I need to question them regardless, and the safest place for them would be here.”

Sol understood his logic, but there was something about it that he disliked. However, there was nothing objectionable, surely, in bringing the women into the security of the Ramparts. He departed from Sir Derrick’s office.

He hurried to Lord Ammler’s townhouse. It was growing late, even for the ton, and the streets were mostly quiet. But the silence was loud in his ears as each heartbeat seemed to be pounding at him, pounding into him.

When Septimus had told him that the pale-eyed man had met with him, there had been something in the young man’s face that had niggled at him, just the barest whisper of a suspicion that Septimus was keeping something from him. But he had dismissed it because he had known he could trust Septimus.

He still wanted to trust him now, despite all that he had done. He had said he hadn’t told the Gentians about any of them, or about Stayptton House. Was that the truth?

How could it be the truth? He’d taken Lady Wynwood.

Laura. The thought of her in danger was a physical ache in his belly, and he curled over in the saddle. He should have foreseen this, somehow. He should have been prepared for it.

He had completely failed her.

He took several gulps of air. He couldn’t fail her any more than he already had. He must do his job.

The first two floors of Lord Ammler’s townhouse were dark, but there were lights shining through curtains on the second floor, where the family bedrooms were situated.

His rap on the front door was answered with alacrity. The butler bowed and welcomed Sol into the house, even as he said, “I am afraid that only Miss Octavia is home at the moment.”

But then light footsteps pattered down the staircase and Septimus’s youngest sister, Octavia, appeared. “Mr. Drydale, how lovely to see you.”

“Octavia, my dear, I would have thought you would be out dancing your shoes to shreds at a ball.”

Her mouth curled into a half smile. “Do not tease me so, Mr. Drydale. My luckiest dancing partners are the ones who have sat out a dance with me rather than taking our places in a set. Septimus still complains about the toe I broke the last time we danced together.”

“Your brother needs a paddling,” Sol said, although his irritation was more real than mocking. “He is a young man now, and should know that one never mentions an injury done to him by a young lady.”

“But I am not a young lady, Mr. Drydale. I am his sister. In his eyes, I am the same as the cats keeping the stables free of mice.” But she gave him a full smile, indicating she was joking. “What brings you here tonight? I’m afraid all of my family is out this evening.”

“Why are you home alone? I hope you are not ill?”

“Oh no. My parents were invited to a party tonight, but I was a trifle tired and did not wish to attend.”

Sol cursed his poor luck. Most nights during the Season, the entire family, including the sickly Curtis, who really should be resting in the country, would be out of the house. Now he would need to explain himself. He gave her the affable smile of an old family friend. “In all honesty, I had been hoping to sneak in and out of the house like a thief. I believe I dropped a cravat pin in Septimus’s room the last time I visited.”

“Please come up and take a look around his bedroom.” She turned and began leading the way up the stairs.

As he followed her, she suddenly turned to him with a face of concern. “Do you perhaps know where Septimus is tonight? I am the last person to nag him, but I admit to being a bit concerned about him.”

“Oh?” Sol made his voice mildly curious, but inside, his heart was thudding. What if Septimus was indeed dead? How could he stand here and pretend not to know about it?

“It is not unusual for him to stay out all night, but he will usually leave a note for me or for my mother. The last time I saw him was last night, and yet we have not heard from him since.”

Last night. Septimus had ridden to London from the prison to fetch Sol. He shouldn’t have gone home at all last evening. “My dear girl, what has you all atwitter? Did anything appear odd when you saw him?”

“Not odd, precisely … He must have arrived sometime while we were seated at dinner, but he did not come in to greet us in the dining room. He usually only does that when he is trying to avoid our parents.” She made a face. “Mother is concerned that he has not been to many social events this Season, and father has been ranting that it is past time he was wed.”

Sol tried to make his voice seem jovial. “I would avoid your parents too, if I were facing a firing squad like that.”

She laughed as they reached the second floor landing. “I would not have seen him at all if I had not happened to catch him as he was leaving the house.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Sol looked away from her, idly gazing at the family portraits on the walls of the hallway, trying not to indicate how desperately he wanted to hear her answer.

“You know how Sep is. He will rarely give two words when nothing will do.” She grinned at him. “I did ask him why he was in such a hurry, but he only gave a brief answer and said that he would explain more later.”

“So did he say why he had arrived at home?”

“He had a sheathed knife in his hand, and he said that he had forgotten it in his room.”

They were walking down the hallway of the family wing of the house, but Sol caught his toe on the rich carpet and stumbled to step. “A knife?”

“Yes, although I admit I have rarely seen him with a knife. I don’t know how he might have used it.”

Septimus had said he had gone to his costuming room to collect his extra knife last night. No … He had said he had gone to his costuming room, but had he actually said that the pale-eyed man had met him there? Now Sol couldn’t remember.

“I’m certain I don’t know why he would need the knife, either,” he said, his voice sounding faint even in his own ears.

“Oh, but he did for me a great favor. I had been missing my amethyst ring. The stone came loose at a party, and I thought I placed it in my reticule, but my maid and I turned my room upside down trying to find it. When I saw Sep, he pulled it out of his pocket and gave it to me, still wrapped in my handkerchief. I had not realized that I had left it in his bedroom.”

For some reason, Sol grew cold. Although he himself was using the excuse that he had left a cravat pin in Septimus’s bedroom, and there was nothing unusual in returning her ring to her, the fact that he did so after retrieving his knife made something twist in his guts. That same queasiness told him something was wrong.

They had reached Septimus’s door. “When you have found your pin, will you take tea with me in the drawing room?” Octavia asked.

He cast a gentle smile at her. “I would love to, but I regret that I am promised to a friend tonight.”

“A friend? Perhaps Lady Wynwood?”

The question was innocent, and yet the sound of her name felt like a hammer striking his breastbone. “No, my dear. I am meeting a gentleman at my club. But I promise to stay and take tea with you another time.”

“I shall hold you to that,” she said. “And I shall be even more charitably disposed toward you if you manage to bring for me some chocolate biscuits from Lady Wynwood’s chef.”

“You scamp! Lady Wynwood’s home is hardly a bakery.”

“I am not so close to her as you, Mr. Drydale, and have only visited her once or twice this Season—formal calls with my mother. How else am I to get my fill of her chef’s marvelous pastries?”

“You shameless chit.” Sol smiled at her as he tweaked her chin, as he used to when she was younger. “You needn’t stay while I search. I shall let myself out, if you wish.”

“Oh yes, I was in the middle of the most thrilling novel about a mad monk who kidnapped a young lady and was holding her prisoner beneath his haunted abbey.”

Sol shuddered. “What delightful evening entertainment.”

Octavia smiled, curtsied, and left him to return to her own bedroom.

Sol entered Septimus’s room, which was dark. He found a taper on the fireplace and lit it.

The room looked much as usual when he first cast his gaze around it. It was neat, the bed made. Sol realized that if something had happened here last night, it was likely that the maids had already tidied up his room and may have put away clues as to what had happened.

But then his eyes fell on the small table in front of the fireplace. There was a folded piece of paper, and he picked it up to open it.

His hand jerked as if it had burned him, and he nearly dropped it. It was a charcoal sketch of Septimus’s face.

Septimus had mentioned that the pale-eyed man had found him because he had drawn a picture of him. But he had not met him in his costuming room—he had met Septimus in his bedroom, in his parents’ home.

He had implied that the pale-eyed man had merely shown his face around the Long Glades and been directed to the boarding house where he rented a room. He had not mentioned that the pale-eyed man had discovered his name and his residence.

Sol thought back to what Octavia had told him. If Septimus had arrived here at the house around the time the family finished dinner last night, then he must have gone first to his costuming room and then come here. He had been holding his knife, so perhaps the knife had not been at his costuming room after all, and he had left it in his bedroom instead. From here, Septimus had gone to Laura’s hotel to tell Sol about the pale-eyed man.

He now understood why Septimus had betrayed them. He had not been afraid for Dr. Shokes’s life. The pale-eyed man had given Septimus Octavia’s ring to demonstrate the ease with which he’d taken it from his sister’s room.

Septimus and Octavia were very close, closer than they were to their other older siblings. When his sister’s life was threatened, Septimus would do anything to protect her.

And he had.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sol checked Septimus’s costuming room in the Long Glades and finally returned to the Ramparts, but he was surprised to find it abuzz like a gossipy ballroom. There were more agents than usual at this time of night, and several of them stood in small clusters, speaking to each other in low voices.

Sol strode up to a group of three young men, barely more than boys. “What has happened?” he demanded.

The young men immediately straightened upon seeing him. “Nothing, sir.”

Sol sighed. “I don’t have patience for this tonight, lads. Tell me.”

The tallest boy flinched at his testiness, but he answered, “Mr. Uppleby brought in some civilians, sir.”

“Yes, and? That is not so unusual.”

The young man’s head sunk into his shoulders and his voice grew softer. “They say that one of the young ladies gave Mr. Parker a right drubbing.”

“That cannot be true,” one of the other young men said. “A young woman taking down a man twice her size?”

“He wasn’t twice her size,” the third boy said. “She’s a Long Meg, she is. She could almost look him in the eye.”

Sol couldn’t help himself, and let out a groan.

The three boys looked at him with wide eyes.

“Nothing, lads,” he said. “I must needs look into it. Where are they being held?”

“In the Sparrow Room, sir.”

The Sparrow Room was called a waiting room, but in actuality it was a room for interrogations. There was a hidden room next door and a special panel in the wall between so that the conversation in the Sparrow Room could be overheard.

Sol expected to see Mr. Coulton-Jones guarding the door and was surprised to find a different agent, Mr. Ferrant.

The man would not move aside when Sol stopped in front of him.

He frowned. “Move,” he said rudely, with the full confidence of a superior officer.

Mr. Ferrant looked uncomfortable, but would not do as bid. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr. Uppleby—”

“Mr. Uppleby is not in charge of this investigation,” Sol bit out. “Sir Derrick Bayberry is in charge of this investigation and I report directly to him. Now step aside.” If his glare was a pair of icepicks, they would have stabbed Mr. Ferrant’s eyes out.

Perhaps Sol’s rattled emotions gave his physical presence more power than usual, for the agent visibly gulped and stepped away. Sol opened the door without knocking.

Dr. Shokes was seated in one of the chairs around a small rectangular table. Miss Gardinier was attempting to coax Aya to do the same, and she was refusing. Clara stood to the side, also trying to urge the injured maid to sit, while Phoebe paused where she had been pacing along the far wall of the room. She rushed toward him. “Uncle S—Mr. Drydale,” she began.

Sol held up a hand to silence her. His eyes flicked toward Mr. Coulton-Jones, who had been standing near the door. His posture was relaxed, likely because he had overheard Sol speaking outside the room, and so had not been alarmed when the door opened.

“Who instructed you to wait here?” Sol asked him.

“Mr. Uppleby.”

Of course it would be Uppleby. “This room is for prisoners, which you are not.” Some of his irritation bled into his tone, and he cleared his throat. “If you will all come with me, please.”

He led them down the hallway to a different waiting room, the Canary Room, this one without a listening closet next door. Mr. Ferrant tried to follow him, but Sol gave him a steady look. “Your services are no longer required, Agent,” he said.

“But sir…” Sol would have expected Mr. Ferrant to look slightly panicked at being caught between two supervisors, but instead the man looked stubborn.

“If Mr. Uppleby has an objection, he is welcome to speak to Sir Derrick about how he decides to situate the witnesses of his investigation.” Sol shut the door firmly in the man’s face.

The Canary Room was a great deal larger than the other one, with comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace. Miss Gardinier was helping Dr. Shokes into an overstuffed chair, while Clara was pulling at Aya’s hand to try to force her to sit across from him. Aya was resisting, but her face was so pale that it was obvious that the eleven-year-old would win that battle. Phoebe and Mr. Coulton-Jones remained standing, looking to Sol.

“Mr. Coulton-Jones, report.”

When he heard the full story of how the three agents attacked them as soon as they entered Laura’s hotel room, Sol was alarmed but not as shocked as he would have otherwise been. But he was surprised to hear that Uppleby himself had arrived at the scene. He asked for more details about the men whom they had soundly trounced, and he was partly proud of them and partly worried about how Uppleby was going to react.

“Sir,” Phoebe said, “do you know the reason why they attacked us as soon as they entered the room? Mr. Coulton-Jones said that they would not do so unless ordered.”

“He is correct,” Sol said. “Normally they would at least explain their presence.”

“One man apologized and said it was a misunderstanding when Mr. Uppleby chastised him,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, “but we noticed that Mr. Uppleby was all too interested in the contents of Lady Wynwood’s hotel room.”

“I don’t believe it was a misunderstanding,” Phoebe said, “nor do I believe that they were reacting aggressively because of the urgency of the situation, which is the excuse that they gave.”

“Yes,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, “they were ready to attack the moment they opened the door. They had not bothered to knock, nor did they try to speak.”

“Did you leave anything about our investigation in the hotel room?” Sol asked.

“Aya and I packed everything,” Phoebe said. She lowered her voice to add, “Everything that is of importance is at Stapytton House.”

Sol also lowered his voice. “Tell no one except Sir Derrick about Stapytton House, the plants, and the Root.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones looked uncomfortable. “It may be difficult if Mr. Uppleby attempts to question any of us.”

“Too much has happened in the past few days,” Sol said. “It is not simply what the agents did at the hotel, but the fact that Mr. Uppleby tried to transfer the prisoners to London, and even before that, Lady Aymer’s suspicions about Mr. Clay. I am beginning to suspect that for some reason, Mr. Uppleby is intent upon discovering where the work on the investigation is being done.”

“Could you please explain Mr. Uppleby’s position in the Ramparts?” Phoebe asked. “Mr. Coulton-Jones said that his authority is second only to Sir Derrick.”

“Sir Derrick leads the Ramparts,” Sol said. “Beneath him, of equal seniority, are Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham. They are senior to me. However, I answer directly to Sir Derrick, so I am an unusual case.”

“Why would he be so interested in Stapytton House?” Phoebe asked.

“I’m worried because I do not know,” Sol said. “The investigation has become quite dangerous because of the Root—because Jack makes it and Mr. Uppleby might want it. I wish for only certain men to know where the plants and Miss Gardinier’s research notes are being stored.”

“But sir,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, “Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham may have read all your reports already, if they are indeed interested in your investigation.”

“They had not shown interest before, and Sir Derrick had been trying to keep them from sticking their noses in. But now that Laura has been taken, Sir Derrick has taken charge of the operation.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones blinked in surprise.

Sol continued, “Sir Derrick is informing Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham about the circumstances and will ask them for help, but I do not know what Sir Derrick will choose to reveal to them. In light of that, do not reveal anything unless I am there to give my consent.”

Miss Gardinier had joined them now, and Sol winced at the dreadful news he was about to deliver to her. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the drawing. “I found this, not in Septimus’s costuming room, but in his bedroom at his family home.”

The three looked at the drawing, and their faces colored with various shades of surprise and worry.

Mr. Coulton-Jones looked the most alarmed. “Sep’s family …”

“I spoke with Octavia, and I believe the pale-eyed man threatened her safety in order to force Septimus to do as he was told.” Sol explained what he had found and his suspicions about what had happened the night before in Septimus’s bedroom.

Phoebe looked pained, but Miss Gardinier looked slightly relieved. “I cannot believe he would have betrayed us for anything less important,” she said.

“We could have protected Miss Ackett,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

Surprisingly, it was Phoebe who answered him. “Possibly, but there are many ways that the Gentians could sneak one of their men on the Root close to an unsuspecting young woman. A quick stab with a knife on a busy street or in a crowded ballroom, perhaps a woman—or a man dressed as a woman—bumping into her, which would not be remarked upon.”

“It would also be simple for someone to place poison in her makeup or her perfume,” Miss Gardinier said, “a gift of fragrant flowers laced with poisonous or toxic powder. Jack would probably prefer that method.”

“If they care not for the attention but wish a means of certain success that would be almost untraceable, an archer aiming at her bedroom window, waiting for just the right moment for her to appear,” Phoebe added. “One or even two men to guard her wouldn’t be enough.”

Sol wasn’t certain if he ought to be appalled or admiring that they had thought of so many different ways to kill a young woman of society. He had not thought of even half of those methods.

Mr. Coulton-Jones regarded the two women seriously. “I see … Your perspective as women help you to see things that men cannot.”

There was a sudden knock at the door, and an agent entered the room. Thankfully, it was not Mr. Ferrant, but this man was out of breath and looked both relieved and annoyed to find them.

“Mr. Drydale,” the agent said, “I have been searching all over. I would not have known you were here if I hadn’t happened upon Mr. Ferrant.”

Sol frowned at the implied complaint. “What is your point, agent?”

He was brought up short at Sol’s tone, and said more respectfully, “Sir Derrick is ready for you, sir.”

Sol hesitated, glancing at Mr. Coulton-Jones. He was tempted to bring him along, but then decided against it. The agent’s presence would upset Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, and he also felt it might be best to have him remain here.

“None of you are to be moved or questioned without my approval.” His eyes lingered on Mr. Coulton-Jones. “Mr. Villager, I trust you to guard the women in case of another ‘misunderstanding.’”

***

Sir Derrick’s small office seemed even more cramped with Mr. Antingham’s tall frame and Mr. Uppleby’s rotund one sitting in the two chairs in front of his desk. Sol stood behind them.

Mr. Uppleby twisted around to glare at Sol. “Lord, man, did you stop to take tea before joining us?”

“The agent had difficulty finding me since I had moved the women to a different room.” Sol deliberately kept his voice mild. “May I ask, why were they put in a room only used for prisoners and interrogations?”

Mr. Uppleby frowned at him, but it was Mr. Antingham who answered. “Merely a precaution. It is unbecoming of you to be so touchy about it,” he said in his usual blunt manner.

“Now that you are all here,” Sir Derrick said, his voice cutting loudly through the tension in the air. “As I’ve explained to Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, Lady Wynwood was taken tonight by a revolutionary group with whom Lord Wynwood was known to have been involved. We call them the Gentians since we do not know what they call themselves.”

“Lady Wynwood?” Mr. Antingham asked. “I thought all the hubble-bubble was because an agent has been compromised.”

“An agent has been compromised. Mr. Hamlet, one of Mr. Drydale’s, was able to kidnap her because she trusted him.”

Uppleby smacked the wooden armrest of his chair. “Betrayed by one of our own!” He jabbed an angry finger at Sol. “I would’ve expected you to have more control over your agents.”

“We believe he is dead,” Sir Derrick said. “Shot.”

“Do you have any clues as to where they may have taken her?” Mr. Antingham asked.

“Not yet,” Sir Derrick said. “Her family is here and cooperating, and they will not spread the news all over London.”

“Then we may have a chance,” Mr. Antingham said. “Does the revolutionary group know that we are aware she has been taken?”

“Possibly not,” Sir Derrick said. “They had not expected her disappearance to be noticed until several hours later.”

“Gossip isn’t the real problem,” Uppleby said. “The real problem is that this agent may have been working for the revolutionary group this entire time. Sir Derrick, I do not understand why you aren’t more alarmed about this.”

Sol cleared his throat. “A maid was a witness to the kidnapping. Mr. Hamlet indicated that he was not betraying them willingly, and he said he did not reveal anything else to the Gentians.”

Mr. Antingham only frowned more deeply, while Mr. Uppleby made a scoffing sound.

“If Mr. Hamlet had been working cooperatively with these Gentians, he would not have stopped with kidnapping Lady Wynwood,” Sir Derrick said. “He could have very easily led them to kidnap Mr. Drydale, who was participating in an operation tonight. It would have been easy to separate him from his team.” Sir Derrick’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham. “I think you can agree with me that Mr. Drydale is of more strategic value than Lady Wynwood.”

Mr. Uppleby harrumphed, but Mr. Antingham was silent.

“I agree with Mr. Drydale that it’s unlikely Mr. Hamlet was working for them willingly,” Sir Derrick said. “It also appears that way because he’s possibly dead, shot after he was forced into the carriage with Lady Wynwood.”

“What do you intend to do?” Mr. Uppleby asked.

“That will depend upon why she was taken,” Sir Derrick said.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Mr. Uppleby asked. “She was probably involved with the Gentians along with her husband, and now the group wants to know what secrets were kept from them.”

Mr. Antingham looked scornfully at Mr. Uppleby. “It was common knowledge among Wynwood’s acquaintance that he despised his wife. He barely deigned to share supper with her.”

“The Gentians are likely the ones who poisoned Wynwood, but then they left her alone for more than ten years,” Sol said.

“Which means they’re interested in her now because Heddetch told them that she found the pocket watch,” Sir Derrick said.

“Heddetch?” Mr. Antingham asked. “Pocket watch?”

However, Sol noticed that Mr. Uppleby had not displayed confusion. He had gone out of his way to read Sol’s reports.

Sir Derrick explained briefly about the pocket watch and the symbol found engraved inside. The two men were already aware of the symbol because of the letter to Napoleon about the Root.

But Sol noted that he didn’t mention the piece of paper with the initials inside the watch. That information had been in his reports—but had Sir Derrick struck it from them? What was his reason for keeping the information from Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham?

“But kidnapping Lady Wynwood wouldn’t ensure the Gentians acquired the watch,” Mr. Antingham said. “Their actions make little sense.”

“Assuming they know that she found it in the townhouse, taking her also wouldn’t prevent her servants or Phoebe from finding other things that Wynwood might have hidden,” Sol said. “It must not be because of the watch.”

“Ransom, maybe?” Sir Derrick asked.

“No demands have been made when last I spoke with her servants,” Sol said, “but since we would not have become aware of the kidnapping until later, the Gentians may wait until morning.”

Mr. Uppleby waved a dismissive hand. “Why would they take Lady Wynwood when there are far wealthier targets? No, this must have something to do with the investigation into these Gentians and her late husband’s involvement with them.”

“I am inclined to agree,” Mr. Antingham said. “While it seems unlikely she was involved in the group, what other explanation could there be?”

“I do not believe she was involved with the Gentians,” Sol said staunchly. “She may have found her husband’s pocket watch, but she had no interest in it. She professed to know nothing about the symbol and gave the watch to me willingly when I asked to look into it.”

Mr. Antingham smirked at Sol. “How lucky that you remained close to the widow all these years, even though your original mission had simply been to ascertain if she knew anything about her husband’s revolutionary ties.”

Sol’s hand involuntarily clenched at the same time that the muscles in his shoulders tightened. It took all his control not to punch that smirk off of Antingham’s face, superior officer or not.

Sir Derrick eyed Sol grimly, and he could hear his superior’s unspoken order: Keep your temper in check, or I will check it for you.

“As if you would do any better on such a mission,” Mr. Uppleby said snidely to Mr. Antingham.

Both Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby lacked any experience in clandestine operations, nor did either of them have a military background. They had originally been supervising agents for the Foreign Office, but they had happened to be assigned to manage missions in which it was required that they be informed of the existence of the Ramparts. When the Ramparts needed more superior officers a few years ago, Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby were transferred. Privately, Sol felt that their reassignment was solely because they already knew about the Ramparts and no one wanted to go through the effort to scrutinize the backgrounds of other supervisors.

“If the pocket watch has other secrets,” Sir Derrick said, “it would only have some meaning to the Gentians. I have looked into the watch, and found nothing of value.”

“Only an expert would truly know if there is anything amiss,” Mr. Uppleby said. “I know an excellent jeweler.”

“We had a jeweler look at it,” Sir Derrick said. “There was nothing unusual in the mechanisms when he opened it.”

“You allowed the jeweler to see the symbol on the inside of the watch?” Mr. Antingham asked, aghast.

“Of course not,” Sir Derrick said with disdain. “I removed the outer casing, which was where the symbol was engraved. I gave him the plain watch encased inside of it.”

“Who else knows about this symbol?” Mr. Uppleby asked.

“The four of us,” Sir Derrick said, “and the members of Mr. Drydale’s team.” He gave a hard look to Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby. “Unless, of course, one of the two of you spread the news about.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” Mr. Uppleby asked in a disbelieving tone.

In contrast, Mr. Antingham gripped the armrests of his chair. “What are you implying, sirrah?” he ground out.

“Nothing,” Sir Derrick said blandly. “The only ones who know about the symbol are those with seniority enough to know about the letter in the desk of Napoleon’s aide that Mr. Hamlet found last year.”

“Aha! That’s right, Mr. Hamlet discovered that note,” Mr. Uppleby said. “How do we even know that note was real?”

“If the Gentians had wished to keep their Root elixir a secret, telling us about the note would hardly accomplish their objectives,” Sir Derrick said dryly.

“Neither would taking Lady Wynwood,” Sol said. “In fact, they would know that we’d immediately assume that the kidnapping was prompted by the discovery of the watch, which would only bring more attention to it.”

“Yes, they would have tried to find the watch instead,” Sir Derrick added.

“They have been particularly secretive,” Sol said. “If Lord Wynwood was indeed one of their number, they have kept quiet for over ten years. This action of taking Lady Wynwood only brings them into the light.”

“Did Lady Wynwood find something else of Wynwood’s that they’d want?” Mr. Uppleby asked.

“A set of keys, a seal of the symbol, and a list of books,” Sol said, reluctant to admit it. “But the Gentians are unaware we have found them.”

“They must have heard about them from Mr. Hamlet,” Mr. Uppleby said.

Sol wanted to object, but found he could not. Sep could very well have told the Gentians about the keys, seal, and list.

“They wouldn’t kidnap the woman for a reason like that,” Mr. Antingham told Mr. Uppleby with irritation, “for the same reason they wouldn’t have taken her because of the watch. It isn’t as if they knew she had the objects with her when they took her.”

Mr. Uppleby scowled at Mr. Antingham, but didn’t refute him.

“What do the keys unlock?” Mr. Antingham asked. “And what were the book titles?”

“The keys were to the laboratory that Mr. Drydale’s team raided,” Sir Derrick said. He passed a sheet across his desk. “This is a copy of the list.”

Only Mr. Antingham reached forward to take the paper. Mr. Uppleby exclaimed, “That must be the reason they took her—they want those things back. Mark my words, they will send a note demanding them back.”

“Are these items secure here at the Ramparts?” Mr. Antingham asked.

“I’ve taken charge of them personally,” Sir Derrick said.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Mr. Antingham said. “The items that Wynwood hid remained hidden for ten years, so why would the Gentians desire them now?”

“Wynwood had been with the Gentians,” Sir Derrick said. “He had no reason to hide things from them.”

Sol noted that Sir Derrick had not mentioned that Wynwood had perhaps not been part of the inner circle since he hadn’t had the superior strength of Jack or the pale-eyed man. He also did not mention Sol’s suspicion that Bianca was part of that inner circle, because of the woman’s perfume on the seal. “It appears that Wynwood secreted the items inside his house to hide them from Laura and the servants,” Sol said.

“The keys are useless since the Gentians can no longer use Dr. Heddetch’s lab,” Mr. Antingham said.

“The symbol on this seal has been seen around London, and on the letter to Heddetch,” Sir Derrick said. “I expect that the other Gentians obviously have their own seals. They may also have the same list of books. And if they had wanted the list, they would have asked Mr. Hamlet.”

“It may be possible that they simply wish to take back the seal,” Mr. Uppleby said. “They certainly wouldn’t want someone outside the group using it in their name. They may have taken Lady Wynwood to bargain for the items to be returned to them.”

Sir Derrick frowned slightly in thought. “That is a possibility. They may contact Drydale in order to get the items back. I could understand if they wanted the seal, but if they desired the keys and the list, it would indicate they were more important than they appear to be.”

Mr. Uppleby turned in his chair to look at Sol. “Was anything else taken from her room?”

“According to Phoebe and the maid, nothing was taken from the hotel room,” Sol said, “however it is unknown if anything was taken from her townhouse after she left it.” His gaze turned hard. “Phoebe says that when your agents came to collect her from the hotel, they appeared to be more eager to search the room than to escort her back to the Ramparts. Didn’t they find anything?” he asked facetiously.

Sir Derrick’s eyes narrowed at Mr. Uppleby. “What is this I hear? Your agents were only supposed to escort the women, not search the room.”

“I believed it was necessary that they search the hotel room as soon as the women vacated it,” he said, a trifle pompously, “in the event that Lady Wynwood had left something that would explain her kidnapping. I could hardly expect civilians to know what to look for. And I wished for the room to be searched before the maid or another stranger had an opportunity to move or take anything.”

Sir Derrick simply nodded and sat back in his chair, but Sol was inwardly fuming. He could understand his logic, but the fact that his agents had tried to attack Phoebe rather than escorting her was highly suspicious. He believed that Mr. Uppleby was hiding darker motives.

“She didn’t leave any type of message before Mr. Hamlet took her?” Sir Derrick asked.

“Not according to the maid,” Sol said. “However, she overheard Mr. Hamlet saying that he was doing this because they had threatened Dr. Shokes’s life.”

“A better trained agent would have known the proper procedure if a civilian was threatened,” Mr. Antingham said with a slight sneer in his voice.

Sol took a few seconds to clear his mind of thoughts of throttling Mr. Antingham from behind.

***

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 5: Prisoner: Click here to borrow on Kindle Unlimited or buy on Amazon

Lady Wynwood’s Spies series

The Spinster’s Christmas (prequel)

The Gentleman Thief (prequel novella)

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 1: Archer

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 2: Berserker

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 3: Aggressor

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 4: Betrayer

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 5: Prisoner

Standalone novels

Prelude for a Lord

The Gentleman’s Quest

Devotional

Who I Want to Be

Copyright © 2022 Camy Tang

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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 4: Betrayer/ Camille Elliot. — 1st ed.

eBook: ISBN-13: 978-1-942225-28-7

Print book: ISBN-13: 978-1-942225-32-4