Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 5: Prisoner

A Christian Regency Romantic Adventure serial novel

Camille Elliot

Praise for Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 4: Betrayer

“As with the earlier volumes, I had a hard time putting this one down. There’s an interesting mix of slow development of relationships and personal growth of the characters at the same time as the characters are involved in events and situations full of action, chaos, plot twists and suspense. Some readers may not like such a mix, but I have enjoyed it. Elliot does a great job of portraying followers of Christ who are trying to live out their faith in very stressful and chaotic situations, and/or dealing with dysfunctional family members. I’m ready for the next book!”

—Margaret, BookBub reviewer

“I loved this book. It is not a simple, linear book, but one with many layers. The various characters are involved with the main plot and also with various sub-plots. The writing is excellent and the action is non-stop.”

—Kathy Redfern, Amazon reviewer

“We need to remember that God is in control and directing everything around us and trust Him. This serial story is sure to grab your attention and not let go.”

—Betti Mace, Goodreads 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

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 6: Martyr (coming soon)

Standalone novels

Prelude for a Lord

The Gentleman’s Quest

Devotional

Who I Want to Be

As far as the east is from the west,

so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.

Psalms 103:12

And, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.

Matthew 28:20b

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

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. “I believe Mr. Hamlet was threatened in some other way than what he said.” He went on to explain about what he had found at Septimus’s house, the drawing and Octavia’s ring.

“So why didn’t he tell you that his sister was threatened?” Mr. Antingham demanded. “You could have worked to protect her.”

“I believe it has been explained to you that the Root that Apothecary Jack is spreading around London gives men extraordinary strength?” Sir Derrick asked.

Because Sol was sitting behind them, he could clearly see that Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby both stiffened.

“Yes, I may have heard about it,” Mr. Uppleby said.

Sol was beginning to suspect that they may have seen enough of the Root to know that it did indeed do as the Gentians claimed.

“That is likely the reason why Mr. Hamlet didn’t trust the Ramparts to protect his sister,” Sir Derrick said.

“It’s still not for Mr. Hamlet to decide,” Mr. Antingham said. “He should have told his superior officer anyway. I thought you trained your agents well, Drydale?”

Thankfully, Sir Derrick put an end to the verbal sparring. “We simply do not know enough to understand why Mr. Hamlet acted the way he did and why Lady Wynwood was taken in the first place.” He placed an elbow on his desk, cupping his face in his hand. “Let us instead focus on the men who took her. I believe it is safe to assume that the kidnapping involves Dr. Heddetch somehow. What do we know about him?”

“We did a search of Dr. Heddetch’s house directly after he attacked Lady Wynwood,” Sol said. “We did not do a thorough job of it because we were attempting to hide the fact that we had gone through his things. We found nothing out of place, but at the time we did not know that the Gentians might kidnap Laura.”

“Let us search his rooms again,” Sir Derrick said, “but this time, I don’t care that he knows we were there. Antingham, agents under you have spent months posing as Bow Street Runners for one of your other missions, isn’t that so?”

Mr. Antingham nodded. “I will send them to Heddetch’s house, saying that someone hired them to investigate the doctor. They’ll be able to ask more questions of the servants, and they will be very thorough when they search.”

“Now, Apothecary Jack …” Sir Derrick frowned. “We’ve been trying to uncover more about him for a while, but he is as slippery as an eel.” He looked at Sol. “Have you found anything about him besides his greenhouse?”

Both Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby turned to look at Sol.

“What?” Mr. Uppleby asked. “You found his greenhouse?”

“Did you capture it?” Mr. Antingham asked. “Did you take any of the plants?”

Sol kept his mouth shut and Sir Derrick neatly cut off their questions by saying, “I can assure you the plants are in a secure location.”

“Who’s caring for them?” Mr. Uppleby asked. “They are valuable, and someone knowledgeable should be studying them. They should not be cared for by someone untrained. I know a botanist—”

Sir Derrick gave a slight grimace, but then confessed, “Miss Phoebe Sauber, who is Lady Wynwood’s niece and one of the women who was at the hotel with her, is taking care of them because she has experience in species similar to Jack’s plants.”

It was a slight exaggeration, but Sol didn’t correct him.

Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby both exploded with loud objections.

“A mere woman?!”

“Not even a botanist by profession, and she is caring for the plants?”

“One of my wife’s nephews is a reputable gardener and would be more appropriate,” Mr. Uppleby said.

“Miss Sauber is entirely knowledgeable and, what is more, she is already intimately involved in the investigation,” Sir Derrick said. “Furthermore, she has proven herself entirely trustworthy and capable of the high level of discretion needed.” He gave Mr. Uppleby a hard look. “The last expert you recommended sold the information to thieves who stole the jewelry the agents had acquired as part of their investigation.”

“I remember that mess,” Mr. Antingham said. “It took even more time to track them down and recover the necklace.”

Mr. Uppleby’s face grew as red as an apple, but he remained quiet in his seat.

“What do you mean that this girl is already intimately involved in the investigation?” Mr. Antingham asked. “Don’t tell me that those three women that were brought in are part of Drysdale’s team? Petticoat rule, indeed.” He sneered at Sol.

“One of the women is Lady Wynwood’s maid,” Sir Derrick said. “But the other two women have been helping Mr. Drydale—Miss Sauber with the plants, and Miss Gardinier as a nurse and chemist.”

“I demand to know why Mr. Drydale is having civilians help him with this investigation,” Mr. Antingham said. “Why could he not have found other agents instead?”

“They are there in a professional capacity,” Sol said in a tight voice, “and may I remind you that any other specialist brought in would also be a civilian.”

“You know Jack is dangerous,” Mr. Antingham said. “You should have instead looked for agents who could have handled the plants and acted as doctor for your team. The women are not only physically weak, they wouldn’t be able to defend the plants.”

“They are hardly weak,” Sol said. “They have been training with Mr. Armstrong, and they incapacitated Mr. Uppleby’s agents when they tried to attack them.”

“That was a misunderstanding—” Mr. Uppleby objected.

Mr. Antingham shifted his seat to sneer at Mr. Uppleby. “So your agents were so incompetent that they were taken out by two women?”

“Enough,” Sir Derrick said, putting a stop to the argument. “I approved these women personally. They became involved because Miss Sauber was the one who found the pocket watch. Lady Wynwood had seen the symbol in relation to the Allinton affair earlier this year, so she was aware that the symbol in the watch was not simply an oddity. Because Mr. Drydale was a family friend, and because she knew he had acquaintances within the government, she brought the watch to him. As for Miss Gardinier, she was trained in medical procedures under her uncle, Dr. Gardinier, who worked as a London physician before moving to the country. She also trained as a chemist under her aunt, and recently under a chemist up in Scotland, and so she was able to analyze a single drop of the Root potion and develop a sedative to be used against the Berserkers.”

Sir Derrick related the information to them about the tainted batch of the Root. Sir Derrick had reassured him that he had removed from Sol’s reports the mention of how Mr. Coulton-Jones had been dosed and survived, but Sol was still relieved he neglected to tell the two supervising officers now.

“It does not surprise me that she could do nothing except create a sedative when you had a young, inexperienced woman to analyze the Root sample,” Mr. Uppleby said. “I demand we confiscate her notes and hire a professional chemist.”

“Lowald and Brady are two scientists we have used numerous times,” Mr. Antingham said. “They have been entrusted with other cases and were hired because of their discretion. Surely they would be more qualified.”

“Why was this information kept from us?” Mr. Uppleby asked.

Sir Derrick answered tartly, “While you both have the seniority to read Mr. Drydale’s reports, he does not report to you. There is no reason for me to go out of my way to inform you about his operation.”

“I read Mr. Drydale’s reports, just out of idle curiosity,” Mr. Uppleby said. “This information about the women and the Root sample wasn’t included in them.”

Sol knew that Sir Derrick had removed parts of his reports, but he hadn’t known that he had also hidden the fact that Phoebe and Miss Gardinier were working for him.

“The portions relating to the Root, and therefore the women who analyzed it, are confidential because this is an ongoing investigation involving more than just the Ramparts. Or have you forgotten that we originally started down this road because we suspected Mr. Farrimond of being a mole in the Foreign Office?”

“I assumed that the matter was closed when Farrimond was obviously cut loose by the Gentians,” Mr. Antingham said.

“I still believe that we must find more qualified people to do the analysis and secure the plants,” Sir Uppleby said.

Sir Derrick sighed, his eyes rolling upward to look somewhere above their heads. His long-suffering face told Sol that he hadn’t told Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby for just this reason, because he knew that they would demand he find someone else.

“I made the decision,” Sir Derrick said in a hard voice, “because like Miss Sauber, Miss Gardinier is the only chemist I know who will not be tempted to use the chemical analysis of the Root for her own purposes. Mr. Lowald and Mr. Brady are good scientists, but can you honestly say for a certainty that they would keep the information about the Root within the Ramparts? Most chemists would analyze the Root and then wish to reproduce it. I don’t trust either Lowald or Brady to not desire to make more of the stuff and sell it.”

“This is all your fault,” Mr. Antingham said, jabbing a finger at Mr. Uppleby. “It’s because you keep recommending experts who might be qualified in their fields, but they have self-serving personalities and are undisciplined, and they do not abide by the Ramparts requirements of secrecy.”

“This is hardly my fault—”

“The issue no longer concerns us,” Sir Derrick said. “The Root sample deteriorated within a couple of days, and it was barely a drop to begin with.”

“Have any new samples been found?” Mr. Uppleby asked.

“No,” Sol said.

“As you are asking for our help with Mr. Drydale’s operation,” Mr. Antingham said, “I assume that we are now qualified to be informed the next time a new Root sample is discovered.”

“Of course,” Sir Derrick said.

Sol would have wished it otherwise, but he could not argue.

“I will take it upon myself to find a more appropriate chemist and botanist,” Mr. Antingham said. His lip curled as he turned to Sol and said, “You are free to keep your female doctor, since you prefer her so much.”

Sol’s jaw clenched.

“Back to the original topic,” Sir Derrick barked, “which is Jack. How can we find more information about him?”

“I have a few agents working in the Long Glades,” Mr. Uppleby said, “I will have them ask questions.”

“That may be very dangerous,” Sol objected. “If Jack hears that we are asking about him, how do you think he will respond? Remember that his men are on the Root. Our agents may be captured and tortured or killed.”

“My agents are much better trained,” Mr. Antingham said, “and it is not your business to worry about them. I also will task my agents with the job of inquiring about Apothecary Jack.”

Ignoring the dig, Mr. Uppleby added, “The Long Glades and Jem Town have been relatively quiet in terms of revolutionary sentiment. My agents have been more focused on rumors of gatherings elsewhere in London.”

“Sir Derrick,” Sol said, “do you truly believe this is the best course of action?”

His superior thought long and hard. Finally he said, “As soon as I hear if an agent was killed or disappears, we shall instruct all the agents to pull back.”

Sol considered arguing. He didn’t like the fact that an agent would have to be killed before he would be believed about the dangers of stirring up Jack’s hornet’s nest. But the decision was Sir Derrick’s.

“I had thought that this investigation was about finding Lady Wynwood,” Sol said.

“That, too,” Sir Derrick said.

Sol had a bad feeling about this. Whether overtly or secretly searching out more information about Jack, it would bring his attention to be focused on the Ramparts. Few people had interacted personally with Apothecary Jack besides Septimus and Mr. Coulton-Jones, and from what they had described of him, he was unpredictable and insane. Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, and even Sir Derrick seemed to be vastly underestimating his propensity for violence.

Sir Derrick rose from his seat. “I would like to speak to the women. In which room have they been placed?”

“The Canary Room,” Sol said.

“That is too small for all of us,” Mr. Uppleby said.

“You should move them to the Sparrow Room,” Mr. Antingham said.

“That is even smaller—” Sol began, but Sir Derrick held a hand up to quiet him.

“Very well,” Sir Derrick said.

Mr. Antingham gave Sol a smirk.

***

The Sparrow Room quickly grew crowded as Phoebe, Miss Gardinier, and Dr. Shokes sat at the table across from Mr. Antingham, Mr. Uppleby, and Sir Derrick. Mr. Coulton-Jones volunteered to remain outside to guard the door, and so Sol stood in the corner next to Clara and Aya, although he would have wished there were enough chairs so that the injured maid could sit down.

“There are too many people here,” Mr. Uppleby complained. “Drydale, you must leave.”

“I wish for Mr. Drydale to remain,” Phoebe said, giving Mr. Uppleby a glare saturated with rancor. “I declare, I have no wish to speak with Mr. Uppleby after his agents attacked us.”

“I told you before, it was a misunderstanding,” he blustered at her.

“Uppleby,” Sir Derrick said, “if your presence is making the young lady uncomfortable, it would be best for you to leave.”

“This is preposterous,” Mr. Uppleby said. “Mr. Antingham has had hardly any involvement in this investigation.”

“Antingham, I would like to ask you to leave also,” Sir Derrick said promptly.

Mr. Antingham scowled at Mr. Uppleby, but rose from his seat. Mr. Uppleby reluctantly followed him out of the room.

Sol caught Phoebe’s eye, and then glanced toward a panel on the wall next to him. She did not nod, but she blinked slowly at him once. Apparently Mr. Coulton-Jones had already told her about the adjoining room where others could listen in on the conversation.

“Please wait a moment before we begin, Sir Derrick,” Sol said. He turned to Aya and took her gently by the elbow. “Do sit down, Aya.”

“There is no need, sir,” she said.

However, Sol needed only to put a little pressure on her elbow to get her to walk forward and gratefully sit on a chair at the table. Sol remained standing with Clara.

Sir Derrick began questioning Phoebe, Miss Gardinier, Aya, and Dr. Shokes about what had happened. However, Sol noticed that his questions focused more on the pale-eyed man and Jack. It was as though he was more interested in the Gentians than in finding Laura.

“I believe we could discover why Aunt Laura was taken if we could be allowed to search Dr. Heddetch’s laboratory,” Phoebe said.

Sir Derrick shook his head. “The laboratory was searched by Mr. Antingham’s agents tonight. They found nothing.”

Sol had to mask his surprise. He had not known that Sir Derrick had sent agents to the laboratory. Had that been why he had sent Sol off to search Septimus’s home and costuming room?

“Sir Derrick, I wish to go to the laboratory myself with Keriah since she is a chemist,” Phoebe said. “She might notice something that the agents did not.”

Sir Derrick shook his head again. “I’m afraid it is too dangerous.” He moved to questioning Dr. Shokes.

Sol was only half-listening, since he had already heard what had happened from the doctor. Now that Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham had left the room, taking their antagonism with them, he began to feel the weight of Laura’s disappearance again. His guilt burned with bitterness and reminded him of how helpless he felt.

How could he have fallen for such a trap? Why had he not acted on the brief flash of concern he had felt when Septimus came with the pale-eyed man’s demands? He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his hand.

He was surprised by a touch to his arm, and looked down to see Aya had reached out for him. Sol leaned toward her. Sir Derrick was still speaking to Dr. Shokes and didn’t pay attention to them.

“I wish to say something to you, sir,” she said too quietly for anyone but Sol to hear. “I am used to blunt speaking with my lady, so I fear it will displease you, but I must say it.”

“Go ahead,” Sol said.

“Sir, you must stop moping and figure out a solution.”

He blinked at her moment, wondering if he had heard her correctly.

“Sir,” she said, “you are the only one who has the knowledge and resources to do this. The rest of your team cannot follow if you do not lead. My lady is depending upon you. Unlike an agent, she cannot extricate herself from her dire situation.”

Aya’s words were like a kick in his stomach. He had always known Laura was very close to her maid, but now he had an understanding of why she valued her so deeply.

Yes, he realized, he had been wallowing. Had been drowning in the anguish that he hadn’t protected her, that he hadn’t predicted these events, that he had trusted Septimus and been betrayed.

But it was past time for his training to emerge. He gathered his thoughts, along with the vestiges of his confidence in himself, in order to try to think of a plan for how to save her.

During the meeting with Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, and during Sir Derrick’s questioning of the others, Sol had been feeling more and more uneasy about the direction of this investigation. He understood the reasoning—in their eyes, one dowager noblewoman did not have as much weight as a secretive revolutionary group who could sell Napoleon a potion that would enable him to crash over England like a wave. Jack and the Gentians were very dangerous. Lady Wynwood would be the key to finding them, but if she wasn’t, they would choose the option that enabled them to protect England.

In contrast, Sol was the one senior officer at the Ramparts who cared about Laura. His resources—his team—were skilled, and only he could allocate them in the best way, because he knew their individual strengths.

He glanced at the closed door, where Mr. Coulton-Jones stood guard outside (but likely could hear everything within due to his enhanced senses). His eyes turned toward Phoebe and Miss Gardinier. Phoebe’s eyes were flashing, and he could tell that she was attempting not to argue with Sir Derrick, but to instead be respectful. However, her hands clenched and unclenched on top of the desk, showing her worry about her aunt. She kept attempting to turn the conversation back to Laura.

But with his superior focusing on the security of England over one woman, what could Sol do? The full brunt of the Ramparts would go towards finding Dr. Heddetch, Jack, or his hiding hole. But Sol knew that Jack would not take Laura to one of his common places. He had taken her for a reason that Sol could not fathom, which meant that he would have questions he wanted to ask her. He would take her someplace where he would not be disturbed.

Simply the thought of Laura alone with Jack made his body shake and his insides feel as though they had frozen. His mind scattered into a million pieces again, and he had to breathe to try to bring his thoughts back together.

And it was at that moment that he realized how much he cared about her. Not simply as a friend, not simply because he had been tasked with growing close to her.

He stopped that thought in its tracks. He could not afford to think of her that way. Not while she was missing, and not even when he found her again.

If he found her again.

He sighed. Today had truly been a terrible day, not only because of her kidnapping but also piled up with the conflict with his superior officers. The day could not possibly become worse …

At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and Mr. Coulton-Jones entered. “I deeply apologize, but something has happened.”

Sir Derrick shot to his feet. “What is it?” he barked.

“There is a commotion at the end of the hallway.” Mr. Coulton-Jones’s eyes found Sol, and they were wide with alarm. “Mr. Rosmont has arrived, and there is blood on his shirt.”

Sol realized he spoke too soon.

CHAPTER FIVE

The rage had been building inside of Phoebe the more she listened to Sir Derrick’s questions. She had not had a very good first impression of Mr. Uppleby, and Mr. Antingham appeared to be quite similar, looking down his nose at her during the brief minute that he had been in the room.

Aunt Laura had always said that her title did not grant her special privileges before God, but Phoebe realized she had grown used to her aunt’s title granting her accommodations with people. Sir Derrick was certainly respectful, but it was also very clear that her aunt’s safety was not at the forefront of his mind.

She understood that Jack and his group were a threat to the nation, but she would have liked perhaps a little more consideration for the fact that her aunt had just been kidnapped.

What was more, the outrage was building inside of her. She had thought that the shock of her aunt’s abduction and the sight of Aya’s injury would have cured her of her selfishness, but apparently that was not so.

Here was another male figure in her life, in control of her actions, while she felt helpless. She fully knew that she was mixing her feelings toward her father with her feelings toward Sir Derrick, and she knew that it was unreasonable of her. That was the only thing that kept her from reaching across the table, grabbing his throat in her hands, and shaking him back and forth in her frustration.

But then Mr. Coulton-Jones had entered with the news about Mr. Rosmont. A knot twisted in her stomach as she watched Uncle Sol immediately leave the room.

At first, Sir Derrick remained standing at the table, his eyes on the open doorway. Phoebe felt she needed to remain seated while he was there, but as soon as he strode toward the door, she leapt to her feet and followed, Keriah trailing behind her.

This room was at the end of a long hallway, and several agents were staring at an altercation at the other end. Among several raised voices, she recognized Mr. Rosmont’s voice.

“I must speak with Mr. Drydale or Sir Derrick immediately,” Mr. Rosmont demanded.

“Sir Derrick is busy and cannot be disturbed,” said an agent.

Phoebe had paused at the doorway, but … no one had told her she couldn’t leave. She headed down the hallway.

Mr. Rosmont had been physically restrained by two agents. There was indeed blood on his shirt, and his face was also flushed with indignation. He tried to jerk away from the two men holding his arms, but they held fast.

“I have important information that Sir Derrick and Mr. Drydale must hear,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“First explain why there is blood upon your shirt which is not yours,” another agent said in a suspicious voice.

At that moment, Mr. Rosmont spotted Uncle Sol, who was heading toward him. He stopped struggling.

“Release him,” Uncle Sol said. When the agents did not immediately comply, he stopped and planted his fists on his hips, staring silently at them. Phoebe did not know what his face looked like, but the agents reluctantly released Mr. Rosmont’s arms.

Uncle Sol motioned to Mr. Rosmont and turned back down the hallway, spotting Phoebe standing there.

“We can speak in my office,” Sir Derrick said.

However, Uncle Sol shook his head. “I would like to speak to my man in the Sparrow Room,” he said.

Phoebe wondered if he had wanted to ensure that she and Keriah also heard what Mr. Rosmont had to say, but she then realized that Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby would be able to hear the conversation. She glanced behind her and saw that they had exited the small connected room, but had not moved further down the hallway. The two men returned to the listening room as the rest of them moved back inside the Sparrow Room.

Mr. Coulton-Jones also entered the Sparrow Room this time rather than remaining outside to guard it, so the space was even more crowded than it had been before.

Dr. Shokes was alarmed upon seeing Mr. Rosmont and wanted him to sit down, but he shook his head. “The blood is not mine,” he said.

“Sir Derrick has personally taken over the investigation into Lady Wynwood’s kidnapping,” Uncle Sol told Mr. Rosmont. “Mr. Parish, report.”

Phoebe realized that in using the name by which Mr. Rosmont was known at the Ramparts, he was indicating that there were other ears listening, for Sir Derrick already knew Mr. Rosmont’s true name.

Mr. Rosmont’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded before he began. “I went to the prison to assist the two agents who had been guarding the prisoners. I discovered a transport cart waiting there. I went inside and found two dead bodies. Mr. Hobkins was severely injured. The cell doors were open, the key in the lock, and the prisoners escaped, except for one man whom the prisoners had killed themselves.”

“Transport cart?” Uncle Sol asked. His eyes slid to Sir Derrick, but his superior officer shook his head, not knowing anything about it.

“I questioned Mr. Hobkins,” Mr. Rosmont said. “He said that one of the dead men, Mr. Pear, had been sent by Mr. Uppleby with a transport cart to move the prisoners to London.”

“I put a stop to that nonsense,” Uncle Sol said. “Sir Derrick himself approved the decision for the prisoners to remain there.”

“Mr. Hobkins said that they were instructed to say that one of the prisoners tried to escape, thus proving that the prison was not secure, in which case they were obligated to return them to London.”

There was a banging of doors from outside, and suddenly the door to the Sparrow Room burst open and Mr. Uppleby appeared, followed by Mr. Antingham. Even with so many people standing, the room was quite crowded by this point.

“I protest this lot of nonsense,” Mr. Uppleby said.

Mr. Rosmont said nothing. Phoebe wondered if he was unable to speak because of the clenching of his jaw.

In contrast, Uncle Sol asked Mr. Rosmont in a mild voice, “The agent told this to you? Mr. Hobkins, was it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Uncle Sol turned to Mr. Uppleby. “Are you accusing my agent of lying, Mr. Uppleby? Or was it perhaps your agent who was lying?”

“What did Mr. Hobkins say had happened, exactly?” Sir Derrick asked.

“They opened one of the cells, to let one of the prisoners attempt to escape. However, he overpowered them and killed two of the agents while injuring Mr. Hobkins.”

“Mr. Parish must be confused,” Mr. Uppleby said to Uncle Sol. “My agents would not do such a thing. The prisoner probably escaped from the cell himself.”

“The key was in the cell door,” Mr. Rosmont said. “There is no indication that either of the cells doors had been broken or the lock forced.”

“Where is Mr. Hobkins?” Mr. Uppleby demanded. “I want to hear this from his own mouth.”

“I left him at a coaching inn in the village closest to the prison,” Mr. Rosmont said. “I arranged for the local surgeon to take care of him. He was gravely injured, and I worried that the trip to London might be too much for him.”

“You left him at a coaching inn?” Mr. Uppleby said in an accusatory tone. “Just dumped him there before rushing back here with accusations about him and his two dead fellows? It shows a lack of consideration and delicacy.” He turned to Uncle Sol. “I object to the priorities of your agents.”

“May I remind you, sir,” Mr. Rosmont said, his teeth clenched, “I was not present when these events occurred. I arrived in the aftermath, and I related what Mr. Hobkins told me had happened.”

“Uppleby, can you explain why your agent, Mr. Pear, was present at the prison?” Uncle Sol asked. “He had no reason to be there.”

“It was my understanding that Mr. Uppleby is not part of this investigation,” Mr. Rosmont said, “and yet, because of his orders, two agents are dead.”

Phoebe gasped at the insolence of his words, but surprisingly, it was Uncle Sol who snapped, “Mr. Parish, you are out of line.”

Mr. Uppleby’s face looked like a raspberry. “I demand Mr. Parish be arrested and imprisoned for insubordination.”

Phoebe then noticed a strange thing. Uncle Sol did not look directly at Mr. Rosmont, but he had partially turned toward him, looking down at the ground. His lips moved, not loudly enough for her to even hear his voice.

After a time, Uncle Sol turned back to the other men. “Mr. Uppleby, Sir Derrick, I apologize for my agent. I will send him away, and he will not be part of this investigation any longer.”

Sir Derrick did not agree immediately, but stood there with a thoughtful look on his face. Finally he said, “Very well.”

“This man should not be let loose,” Mr. Uppleby squawked. “He ought to be imprisoned.”

Mr. Rosmont’s face was still as hard as granite, but he gave them a tight nod and swiftly left the room.

“Uppleby,” Sir Derrick said, “arrange for one of the Ramparts doctors to go see Mr. Hobkins at the inn. See if he can be moved.”

“What?” Mr. Uppleby said distractedly, then seemed to refocus. “Oh, of course. I will do so.”

“As for the rest of you,” Sir Derrick said to the women, Dr. Shokes, and Mr. Coulton-Jones, “return to the Canary Room. I may wish to speak to you later.” He and Uncle Sol then headed out the door.

“Sir Derrick!” Keriah called to him. Phoebe followed her out of the room.

He was already partway down the hallway—he moved remarkably fast for a man with his barrel-like girth—but he paused to look at Keriah.

“Would you allow me to join in the search of Dr. Heddetch’s house?” Keriah asked. “I have medical experience and might find something an ordinary agent may overlook.”

“Out of the question,” Sir Derrick said brusquely. “We possess agents who have been trained in physicking. We have no need of a civilian to join us.”

The two agents who had detained Mr. Rosmont earlier were nearby, and they overheard this snippet of conversation. When Sir Derrick strode away, they sneered at Keriah.

“You may know about a few poultices,” one of them said, “but the situation calls for trained agents.”

“Go back to playing doctor, little girl,” the other said.

Keriah’s face flushed so suddenly that she looked as though her head was going to explode. Phoebe reacted swiftly and took a firm hold of her arm as she surged forward. She hoped Keriah was not seriously considering attacking two agents within the Ramparts.

“Isn’t there something else you ought to be doing?” a sharp voice asked them. Mr. Coulton-Jones’s eyes were icy as he stared at the two agents. “Or is your job to stand around doing nothing but insulting women?”

The two men shifted their sneering expressions to Mr. Coulton-Jones, but then they turned and headed back down the hallway.

“We should return to the room,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said to them.

***

They returned to the Canary Room, which Mr. Coulton-Jones had told them did not have a listening closet attached. Aya was looking quite ill, with all the moving about that she had done and not enough time to rest, and Dr. Shokes had no need to argue too much to convince her to lie down upon the sofa in the room.

Mr. Coulton-Jones signaled to Phoebe and Keriah, and they separated themselves to stand closer to the corner.

“Keriah,” Phoebe said, “I suppose it was no harm to ask, but you must have known they would not allow you to join them.”

“I wanted to help because I feel useless,” she said despondently.

Phoebe also felt useless. But what could they do? Her thoughts again began spiraling with her remorse and regrets.

Her feelings must have shown on her face because Mr. Coulton-Jones’s gaze upon her sharpened. “If you had been there, there is nothing that you could have done. “

“I know I cannot have bested Mr. Ackett in a fight,” Phoebe said, “but I had a sedative knife—”

Keriah shook her head. “The sedative is too strong. Even a shallow slash might have killed him.”

“He has been injured for several weeks, but if he were to fight at full strength, the two of you may not have been able to cut him at all,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

“We could have hindered him so that Aya could help Aunt Laura escape,” Phoebe said.

“Miss Phoebe,” a weak voice said.

Phoebe started. She had not realized their voices had grown loud enough for Aya to hear where she lay upon the sofa. The maid’s eyes were earnest and her mouth moved as she tried to tell her something, so Phoebe went to kneel beside the sofa.

Aya reached for her hand. “It is useless to replay over and over about what could have been.”

Phoebe looked down at their clasped hands. Aya was right. She had been revisiting the same scene in her mind, as though that would somehow change what had happened.

“It has happened,” Aya said with a sigh. “If you continue thinking about it, your self-condemnation will only hinder your ability to do something about it now.”

Phoebe chewed on the inside of her lip. “I have been trying to focus my thoughts, but all I am able to think about is that Aunt Laura is in danger,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“Remember to pray, Miss Phoebe. Although you may make a mistake, it does not eliminate all hope for redemption. God forgives and is always there to guide you.” Aya sighed again, and it seemed as though it was a sigh of pain.

“Miss Aya,” Dr. Shokes said, “You must rest.”

“The Psalms,” she said softly, “chapter 103, verse 12.” Then she closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep.

Phoebe remained beside the sofa, holding Aya’s hand. Dr. Shokes moved away, closer to the fire.

She had no need to retrieve her Bible from their valises, which had been placed in the corner of the room. She had memorized the verse—had read it often, and yet she had still forgotten it.

“As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us,” she murmured.

In that moment, with no one’s eyes upon her, she had a moment to herself. She was glad of it, because she realized that her guilt was only cluttering up what God had already wiped clean away.

She had made a mistake. She had been distracted because she had been so upset at her father, and in the end, she had been late returning to the hotel because she had been with Miss Tolberton.

Lately, her sense of injustice at her father had made her more selfish, as she tried to ease her pain. It was why she felt rebellious against Uncle Sol, it was why she had become so upset at Sir Derrick. But in truth, she had only been thinking about herself.

She had forgotten that in times like this, she needed to turn to God for healing and help.

There had been moments when she had tried to maintain her equilibrium, and she had not been perfectly successful (as was abundantly clear). But her mistakes did not mean that God had forsaken her. Or her Aunt Laura.

She closed her eyes and silently prayed, Lord, please help me to surrender my guilt and my anger to You, my Heavenly Father. Please help me to trust that You are with my aunt, and that You will guide us to find her soon.

She remembered the verse in the book of James: “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.”

Please grant wisdom to Uncle Sol, to Sir Derrick, and to the other agents, she prayed.

But then she also added, Please also give wisdom to me.

She and Keriah were not helpless. God had enabled them to learn various things so that they would not be vulnerable. Why else had they been allowed to learn something so unconventional as knife fighting from gypsies? Why else had Phoebe become so proficient at archery, and Keriah so skilled in medicine and chemistry? As God had guided them in their pasts, He could guide them now, also.

She didn’t realize she still held Aya’s hand until she felt the fingers gently squeeze hers. But Aya’s face remained in repose.

Phoebe returned to where Mr. Coulton-Jones and Keriah were speaking softly.

“I still cannot fathom why they would have taken her,” Keriah was saying.

“Yes,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. He was staring hard at the floor, deep in thought. “Despite what Septimus said in the hotel room, he could very well have told the Gentians about myself and Mr. Drydale. But if he had, they would have certainly tried to take Mr. Drydale, because out of all of us, he had information that would affect the Gentians’ plans with Napoleon. He knows of the secret workings of the Ramparts.”

“But they took Lady Wynwood instead,” Keriah said.

Phoebe thought back to what Uncle Sol had discovered in Mr. Ackett’s bedroom. “But if the first time the pale-eyed man contacted Mr. Ackett was about the trade for Mr. Coulton-Jones, then it means that the Gentians had wanted Aunt Laura from the beginning. They threatened Mr. Ackett’s family merely to accomplish this.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones nodded. “They didn’t kill Lady Wynwood when they killed her husband, probably because at the time she was not a threat to them. So why now? Why would they take her now?”

Keriah swallowed. “If she was a threat to them, they would not have kidnapped her. Instead, they would have simply killed her.”

At the words, the panic squeezed Phoebe’s heart, but she forced herself to calm her breathing. “Keriah is right. She and I could think of many ways they would be able to kill her in a way that would seem like an accident.”

“Knowing Jack,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, “he will not care about making a scene, and would not bother to make it look like an accident. After all, we suspect him of poisoning Lord Wynwood’s brandy, which would surely have looked suspicious if he hadn’t fallen down the stairs.”

Phoebe inwardly shuddered at the reminder of that night, but she ruthlessly shoved the memory aside. “I believe they took her because they need her for something. But what in the world could she do for them? Or tell them?”

“Her only connection to the Gentians was her husband,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

“And his mistress,” Keriah said.

“Uncle Wynwood and Bianca had been part of the Gentians, but Aunt Laura was not.”

“Perhaps after she found the pocket watch, the Gentians wanted to know what she knows about them, and whom she might have told about them,” Keriah suggested.

She didn’t say it, but Phoebe knew that if that was their aim, they would merely kill her after discovering what she knew. “But the Gentians were aware that she had others working with her—Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Ackett.”

“Even if Sep told them about Lady Wynwood,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, “her involvement in this investigation is not on the same level as myself or Sep. And yet they took her specifically.”

“They took her because of Dr. Heddetch,” Keriah said.

“Dr. Heddetch had been a quiet spy for ten years,” Phoebe said slowly, “and yet he suddenly attacked her when he discovered that she had found the pocket watch. He taunted her about looking for other things that belonged to Uncle Wynwood. But the Gentians did not attempt to take her then, even though they had a few days.”

“Lady Wynwood herself thought that Dr. Heddetch would not tell Jack about the watch right away,” Keriah said.

“Heddetch might have been forced to tell them about the pocket watch when he went to Jack to beg for a dose of the Root,” Phoebe said. “And yet they did not immediately try to take her. They would not have succeeded, for we had left the townhouse for the hotel, but they did not even attempt it.”

“They may have used Dr. Heddetch as bait,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said slowly.

“To lead us to the laboratory?” Phoebe asked.

“Why would they have wanted us to attack it?” Keriah asked.

“They might have suspected that the four guards would have been able to easily subdue us,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “We may not have succeeded if not for the key.”

At his words, Phoebe suddenly knew they had found the answer. “That is what it was. The pale-eyed man did not approach Mr. Ackett when Aunt Laura found the pocket watch. They did that after she had found the keys to the laboratory.”

“The Gentians would have known we found the key when we entered through the back door,” Keriah said, “but how would they have known that Lady Wynwood had found it?”

Phoebe shook her head. “That, I do not know. Perhaps they knew already that Uncle Wynwood had possession of the key—it was among other things belonging to Bianca, so she had perhaps used the laboratory along with Heddetch.”

“And perhaps,” Mr. Coulton-Jones added, “because the key has appeared, the Gentians suspect Lady Wynwood found other items belonging to Bianca.”

“Mayhap they are concerned about the fact that she is finding items with a connection to them,” Phoebe said.

“I hope that is not the case,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said in a low voice. “Now that they have taken her, once they are able to discover everything she has found, they may feel that in order to protect themselves, the most logical course of action would be to kill her.”

Phoebe needed to do all she could to ensure that did not happen. “We can do nothing if we are here in the Ramparts,” she said.

“We must go back to Sir Derrick and try to convince him to allow us to search the laboratory again,” Keriah said.

Mr. Coulton-Jones grimaced at her. “Sir Derrick is not the type of man to change his mind simply because you asked multiple times.”

“But he may not have realized that the Gentians are perhaps interested in Lady Wynwood because she found the key,” Keriah said. “If that’s true, what is so special about that laboratory?”

Phoebe had to admit that Keriah had a very good point. A part of her balked at attempting to convince Sir Derrick yet again to allow them to search the laboratory, but her other option was to remain here and wait while others searched for her aunt—risking the possibility that they would be so focused on searching for Jack and the Root that her aunt’s kidnapping would fall by the wayside.

“We should try,” Phoebe said. “I am desperate enough that I would try anything. If he grows angry at me, what is that compared to my aunt’s safety?”

Before her courage failed her, she turned and left the Canary Room.

“Wait, Miss Sauber—” Mr. Coulton-Jones called after her.

She hurried down the hallway, and was not surprised to find Keriah close at her elbow. She was not certain at first where to go, for she did not know where Sir Derrick had been heading when he left the room. However, she was in luck, for Sir Derrick was at the end of the hallway, speaking to Mr. Drydale and some other agents.

Phoebe approached cautiously, not wishing to interrupt them. Sir Derrick was giving instructions to the agents, but Uncle Sol noticed her and walked toward her.

She addressed him even as he clasped her elbow and led her a few steps farther from Sir Derrick and the agents. “Uncle Sol,” she said, then corrected herself, “Sir, we believe that Aunt Laura was taken because she had discovered the key to the laboratory. We think there may be something important there—”

But Uncle Sol finally stopped walking, glanced in Sir Derrick’s direction, then interrupted her. “Phoebe,” he said, disregarding her words, “I need you to trust me. I want you to—”

“Mr. Coulton-Jones,” Sir Derrick’s voice cut through the conversation. He had noticed him and now approached. “I wish you to go with the raid on Dr. Heddetch’s house, since you have been there before. It will take place in one hour.”

“Will not the servants be asleep at this hour?” Phoebe asked.

“Hang the servants,” Sir Derrick said. “We are searching for Dr. Heddetch and have no time to dawdle about.”

“I spoke to the servants a few days earlier,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “The cook may recognize me. Shall I go in disguise?”

“If you must. The other agents will be posing as Bow Street Runners.” Sir Derrick then turned to Phoebe and Keriah. “Miss Sauber, Miss Gardinier, I regret the distressing events that brought you here, but I believe it would be safest to send you to the hotel to rest. “

“Sir Derrick—” Phoebe began.

“I am afraid I must insist,” Sir Derrick said. “We shall be extremely busy in the next few hours, and I’m afraid it would be quite uncomfortable for you young ladies to remain here. This is a problem that must be solved by the department, and since you are not agents, I would like you to be out of harm’s way. I am afraid that I will not compromise on this.”

“Sir,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, “I believe that Miss Sauber and Miss Gardinier may be of value. Miss Sauber’s archery alone would be of use.”

Considering the deep frown on Sir Derrick’s face, Phoebe realized that Mr. Coulton-Jones was braving the man’s anger in order to defend her. His trust in her caused a warmth to spread in her chest.

But then Uncle Sol was suddenly standing in front of her. He clasped her shoulders. “Phoebe, I need you to trust me,” he said again. “I’m afraid you shall not be useful here.”

The shock of the rejection stole the breath from her lungs, and a blossom of hurt unfolded where the warmth had just been. But before it could turn into anger, she saw something in Uncle Sol’s eyes.

On the surface, his face was neutral, perhaps a bit more serious than his normal mask. But there was the strange way in which he stood himself directly in front of her, although it was rude to Sir Derrick. His hands on her shoulders squeezed slightly.

She realized that he was attempting to communicate with her but didn’t want Sir Derrick, standing directly behind him, to notice.

Phoebe thought she understood. “Very well, Uncle Sol. We shall go.”

Keriah drew in a breath to object, but Phoebe neatly stepped on her foot to silence her.

“Would it be possible to go to Lady Stoude’s home?” Phoebe asked. “I believe we shall be very safe there. We will also be able to take Aya and Dr. Shokes with us.”

“That will be fine,” Uncle Sol said. “Good girl.” He stepped aside, and Phoebe saw Sir Derrick’s satisfied face.

“Mr. Barker,” Sir Derrick said to the agent beside him, “please escort our visitors to the carriage.”

“Of course, sir,” the man said. It was the same agent who had made snide remarks toward Keriah, and his expression was sneering and triumphant at the same time.

Phoebe and Keriah returned to the Canary Room to inform Aya, Clara, and Dr. Shokes, but Mr. Coulton-Jones remained behind as Uncle Sol said something to him quietly.

They gathered their things, with Dr. Shokes helping Aya, who looked exhausted. Mr. Barker instructed them to wait until the carriage could be called for.

They sat quietly waiting, although Phoebe could tell that Keriah wanted to ask her why she had agreed so readily. But Mr. Barker remained in the room, and so she was forced to be silent.

There was a knock at the door, and expecting it to be the carriage, they all rose to their feet, but Phoebe was surprised to see Mr. Coulton-Jones appear.

He nodded curtly to Mr. Barker, who had been standing by the door, and approached them. “I have come to say goodbye.” He shook Dr. Shokes’s hand, and nodded to Aya and Clara.

“Thank you, Mr. Coulton-Jones,” Phoebe said.

“Of course. Farewell, Miss Gardinier.” He took Keriah’s hand and bowed slightly over it, then took Phoebe’s hand. “Miss Sauber.” But he leaned closer to her than was acceptable in polite society.

Her heartbeat quickened. He smelled pleasantly comforting to her, the dark, nostalgic scent of the curl of woodsmoke on a winter day, freshly cut fir leaves, and a hint of the rich coffee that he preferred to drink.

Then he utterly destroyed her rose-colored excitement with a single word whispered low: “Stall.”

The next moment, he had walked out the door.

***

As Mr. Coulton-Jones left, another agent arrived to say that the carriage was waiting.

They all exited the Canary Room, but Phoebe hesitated as she looked down the hallway. She could see Mr. Coulton-Jones’s back as he strode away. What had he meant by that? Well, she would do her best to obey him.

“Hurry it up,” Mr. Barker said in a growl.

It took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. Before she could respond, he impatiently grabbed her wrist.

His grip was painful, but Phoebe barely registered the discomfort as her body responded, almost without thought. She rapidly moved her arm in swift circular movements that Mr. Armstrong had taught her, which forced Mr. Barker to release her wrist and also pinned his arm painfully behind his back before he had time to blink.

“What are you doing?!” he snarled.

She held him for a moment, then released him. She folded her hands demurely in front of her in feigned innocence. “I do beg your pardon, I did that quite without thinking. It is a defensive move that Mr. Armstrong taught me, and it has become so ingrained in me that I did it without being aware of it. “

“Why should that move be so well-practiced?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder.

She gave him an even look. “It is a movement to defend myself against a man who would try to grab me as if I were an object and not a person they should be protecting.”

His face reddened. She expected him to grow angry, but instead, she thought perhaps he might have looked a little ashamed.

However, she was not certain. She may have been imagining it because she simply wanted to see it in his face.

She drew her arm through Keriah’s and slowed her pace considerably. It was so slow that Keriah gave her a questioning look, but said nothing. Aya, helped by Dr. Shokes, seemed to appreciate the slower pace.

Unfortunately, they were closer to the exit than she had realized. She recognized the door through which they had entered when they were first brought to the Ramparts, and she still had not seen Mr. Coulton-Jones again.

Turning to Keriah, she said in a loud, alarmed voice, “Keriah, have you injured your weak leg?”

Keriah blinked at her only once before quickly catching on. She took a step and exaggerated her limp. “It feels a bit sore,” she said.

Phoebe turned to Mr. Barker. “Might we sit in a room for a moment?”

His eyes narrowed. “The carriage is waiting …”

She drew herself up to her full height, which brought her much closer to the man’s eye level. “It would be quite impossible,” she said tartly, “for me to lift up Miss Gardinier’s skirt to check her leg out here in the hallway.”

He reddened again, but his eyes darted around and settled upon a nearby door. “This way.”

It was the cloakroom, which was convenient, since they could collect their outerwear at the same time. Keriah sat in a chair. As it was a small room, it was quite crowded with the five of them, and Mr. Barker remained standing outside.

“Would you mind closing the door?” Phoebe asked.

Mr. Barker frowned. “I’m not to leave guests unescorted in the building.”

Phoebe pretended indifference and shrugged. She turned toward Keriah. “Now dearest, let us take off your shoe and expose your leg …”

She might have said the last words a bit too loudly, but she had the satisfaction of hearing the door close.

In a whisper Phoebe told the rest of them, “Mr. Coulton-Jones has asked for me to buy him time.”

“Whatever for?” Keriah asked, but Phoebe shrugged.

“Well then, if that’s the case …” Dr. Shokes said, and he politely motioned for Phoebe to step aside in order for him to kneel in front of Keriah. He began gently probing her leg.

His touch seemed very gentle, but Keriah still winced at times. She said to Phoebe, “I have an idea. Please ask Mr. Barker to fetch a cane or crutch for me to use, just to help me to make my way out of the building to the carriage.”

Phoebe opened the door and did so. Mr. Barker scowled at her, but said, “Wait here, please.”

Left alone, Phoebe told Keriah, “I shall stand outside the room so that if Mr. Coulton-Jones returns, he will see me.”

“It will look odd for you to do it, Miss Phoebe,” Aya said, “and it will attract attention. I should do it.”

“I can do it,” Clara said quickly and left the cloakroom.

“After we leave, what will you do?” Keriah asked in a low voice.

“Even if we do not have the help of the Ramparts,” Phoebe said, “I feel somehow God is telling me that He will guide me.”

“Forgive me for being a bit skeptical of your blind faith,” Keriah said with her habitual irritation whenever Phoebe discussed spiritual matters.

“Then it is fortunate you are not the one who will be praying,” Phoebe snapped.

There was a tense silence, but Phoebe almost immediately felt contrite. She saw Keriah looking down and chewing at her lip.

“I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time.

“I’m sure you are both simply concerned for Lady Wynwood,” Dr. Shokes said.

At a firm knock on the door, Phoebe turned eagerly, hoping it was Mr. Coulton-Jones, but it was merely Mr. Barker. “Will this do?” he asked, holding out a gentleman’s cane.

He was too quick to find that! Phoebe thought as she took it from him. It was well-worn and old-fashioned but sturdy.

“I thank you,” Keriah said, gripping the cane and attempting to stand.

Keriah walked as slowly as she dared toward the doors, but there was no sight of Mr. Coulton-Jones. They passed through a passage that exited into the back of a fabric warehouse, dark and closed at the moment. They had entered the Ramparts this way, being a means of access where women would not be remarked upon. Mr. Barker had brought a lamp and accompanied them through the black, empty space.

There was suddenly a voice behind them, and Phoebe recognized Mr. Coulton-Jones. She turned with relief.

He ran to catch up to them. “Miss Sauber, you nearly left your scarf behind.” He looked rather intently into her eyes. “Mr. Drydale asked me to return it to you before you left.”

He handed her a gray woolen bundle that had been neatly folded, but it was heavier than it should be.

“Thank you, Mr. Coulton-Jones,” she said. “I should hate to have lost this.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, then he nodded and left.

Mr. Barker exited the fabric warehouse ahead of them and illuminated the short distance into the waiting carriage. He helped the ladies into the carriage, taking Keriah’s cane to return it.

When Phoebe entered the vehicle, she sat with her back to the coachman’s seat so that he would not be able to see her from the open slit, although she thought that he would be unlikely to see anything in the dark.

The carriage started moving, and she waited until they had reached a street where the street lamps illuminated the inside of the vehicle. She carefully unfolded the scarf.

The keys to the laboratory dropped into her lap.

CHAPTER SIX

Phoebe heard Keriah gasp when she caught sight of the keys, but she quickly clapped her hands over her mouth. Phoebe hoped the coachman had not heard.

On the night of the raid on the laboratory, before any of the Ramparts agents arrived, Phoebe had asked Uncle Sol what they would do with the keys. He had said that he would ensure the keys were locked in a safe box at the Ramparts.

A few minutes ago, Uncle Sol had spoken to Mr. Coulton-Jones in the hallway. He must have told him to steal those keys and deliver them to Phoebe. It meant that Uncle Sol was trusting them to investigate the laboratory on their own.

His harsh words to her came back to her: “I’m afraid you shall not be useful here.” He had emphasized the last word.

He was not telling her she was useless—he was telling her that she would be more useful away from the Ramparts.

Despite Phoebe’s mistake, he still trusted her. Hopefully, there would not be complications if the keys were discovered to be missing.

They arrived at Lady Stoude’s townhouse, which was dark. Keriah’s sister and brother-in-law were surely fast asleep at this hour, as well as the servants. The men who had been watching the house during the day had gone, and Keriah let them in the front door with the key.

Keriah played the part of hostess in her sister’s stead, installing Dr. Shokes in a guest bedroom. Aya insisted upon sleeping in Keriah’s dressing room, on the cot normally reserved for a lady’s maid. Since Keriah was sharing her sister’s maid during the Season, she had not brought one of her own, and the space was available. They gave Clara a pillow and blanket, and she curled up on the floor of the dressing room and was asleep within a few seconds.

Phoebe was tired, but she knew they must discuss what to do when dawn arrived, before the servants and Keriah’s sister awoke. As she was building up the fire in Keriah’s bedroom, they suddenly heard a series of sharp raps against the window.

Both young women jumped at the sound and froze in place.

The sharp raps repeated. Phoebe realized it was the sound of pebbles against the glass.

She gave Keriah an arch look. “You missed an assignation?”

In the candlelight, Keriah’s blush was dusky pink. “Of course not,” she said hotly.

Phoebe eased the window open so that it would not make much noise. It faced the back stone area behind the house, between the kitchen and the mews, a similar arrangement as her aunt’s townhouse. She thought she dimly saw a figure down below, but could not determine who it was.

“Miss Sauber,” a man hissed up at her. It was Mr. Rosmont’s voice.

She made her way downstairs and unlocked the back door, but had to take care lest she wake the cook and scullery maid, who slept in a room next to the kitchen. The two of them returned to Keriah’s bedroom.

It struck Phoebe as awkward, at first, to have a man in Keriah’s bedroom—it was past midnight, and there should be no reason for any man to be here, even if there were an army of maids accompanying him. But she knew Mr. Rosmont would not have come if it were not important.

“How did you know we would be here?” Keriah whispered as they sat in chairs in front of the fireplace.

“When Mr. Drydale told me to leave,” Mr. Rosmont said, “he also said that he was going to send the two of you away from the Ramparts also, although he didn’t know when. He asked me to watch over you.”

Phoebe recalled seeing Uncle Sol’s lips move, speaking too low for anyone but Mr. Rosmont to hear, and realized he had been planning this since then.

“There is only one exit from the Ramparts that is suitable for ladies,” he continued. “I hired a hackney and had them wait outside the front of the fabric warehouse, then followed you. To be truthful, when I returned to the Ramparts to inform Mr. Drydale about the escaped prisoners, I was surprised to see all of you there.”

Phoebe explained what had happened at the hotel, how Mr. Uppleby’s agents had attacked them. They also explained what they had overheard at the Ramparts, and the raid on Dr. Heddetch’s lab.

“I have a very poor opinion of the Ramparts,” Keriah said with a sniff. “Mr. Barker was quite condescending toward me when I asked to join the raid upon Dr. Heddetch’s house. He implied that I was not well trained and simply pretending to be a doctor.”

Mr. Rosmont’s face grew stormy. “Even though the agents do not know your capabilities, at the very least, women should be treated with respect, not insulted.”

“Perhaps it was to our advantage,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “It caused them to underestimate us. They never suspected us.”

“Suspected you?” Mr. Rosmont asked.

Phoebe pulled the keys from her reticule, and they softly clinked as she laid them upon the table. Mr. Rosmont blinked at them for a few moments before realizing what they were. “Did you steal—?”

“Mr. Coulton-Jones appropriated these for us,” Phoebe said.

Mr. Rosmont smiled. “Did he, now?”

Phoebe chewed on her lip as she stared down at the keys. “My only concern is that there will be guards at the laboratory.”

“If Mr. Drydale arranged for Michael to steal the keys for you, he will also make sure the guards are missing,” Mr. Rosmont said. “And if they are not …” He flexed his shoulders. “I’m still a bit stronger than a normal man. I could knock them unconscious.”

Phoebe breathed a sigh of relief. “Now I am doubly glad you are with us. We were going to wait until dawn, but since you can accompany us, we can leave right away. I’ll leave a note for Aya, asking her to explain everything to Lady Stoude when she awakes.” She hoped Aya would get enough rest after her ordeal of only a few hours ago.

“I wish to come too, miss,” Clara said, shuffling from the dressing room, rubbing her eyes.

The first thing Phoebe thought was that Aunt Laura wouldn’t be pleased. “You’ve slept barely thirty minutes.”

“You haven’t slept at all, miss.”

She would be glad for Clara’s help, but it seemed rather cruel to drag along a young girl. “You should remain here and get some sleep and some food in you.”

“I can’t sleep,” Clara said, her lip protruding and her cheeks puffed out in rebellion. “Not with my lady missing.”

Perhaps even moreso than the other servants in Aunt Laura’s household, the twins owed her the debt of their lives.

“I shall permit it,” Phoebe said.

“It wouldn’t be safe for her,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“Oh, I agree it wouldn’t be safe,” Phoebe said, “but Clara would also be likely to sneak out and make her own way to the Long Glades.”

“Oh, I would never do that, miss.” Clara tried to look innocent.

Mr. Rosmont groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Very well. But you—” He jabbed a meaty finger at Clara. “—shall do exactly as you are told, no whining and no questions. Is that clear?”

Clara smiled and nodded, looking like a perfect angel.

They discussed their plans, then Mr. Rosmont left to find a hackney. Phoebe walked him to the back door and locked it behind him as he exited the house. She had a tense moment when the cook gave a moan, but she did not wake, and Phoebe slipped back upstairs.

Back in the bedroom, Keriah asked, “Shall we dress in boys’ clothing?”

Phoebe shook her head. “I have only the ill-fitting set that I wore earlier tonight. Our outfits are at Aunt Laura’s townhouse. Also, it will be light soon enough, and I believe it may be too difficult to fool anyone into believing that we are boys in the light of day.”

“I have some old gowns that I took down from the attic,” Keriah said, digging through her wardrobe. “I believe we shall not look out of place in the Long Glades if we wore these.”

They picked the simplest and plainest of the older gowns, tearing off any ribbons and lace, and instead of the pelisses or cloaks, which were made of fine fabrics, they donned several dark-colored shawls for warmth. They also ruthlessly de-flowered two plain bonnets. They looked like maids who had been gifted with their mistress’s old things.

Phoebe also pulled out one of Keriah’s normal dresses and a spencer. “I’ll fold this and put it in a satchel.”

“Another dress?” Keriah asked.

“You can hardly return to your sister’s house dressed like this. What we shall do is return to Aunt Laura’s townhouse. We can change into more suitable dresses there.”

Keriah looked worried as they were gathering their weapons. “We have no sedative to lace the knives. I gave all of it to the others.”

“I have sedative,” Clara said, “but it is on small throwing knives, not fighting blades.”

“Mr. Rosmont has a sedative knife, also,” Phoebe said. “And it would be impossible for us to fight any men on the Root, anyway, much less a Berserker. It would be better for us to run or try to hide.” She pulled on her muffatees, securing the blades against her forearms. She also felt it would not look out of place for her to strap her larger knife sheath to the small of her back. From the front, the leather straps looked like a belt around the slightly lower waistline of the older-styled dress.

They snuck downstairs and through the cold, quiet kitchen. Clara locked the back door behind them, then slithered out from one of the kitchen windows. They exited the back of the house and walked to the corner, where Mr. Rosmont was already waiting with a hackney.

***

The city was quiet as they traveled, but they stopped the coach on the far edge of the Long Glades where it bordered Rasken Hill. They disembarked and walked the rest of the way with Mr. Rosmont.

The streets were eerily silent. Dawn was still two hours away, so the sky above was a dark gray. The fog had grown thick and clammy, with shadows and movement in every dark corner.

Phoebe tied her shawl firmly in a knot at her breast, like a fichu, to secure it. Her arms were colder, but she had more freedom of movement. Keriah copied her actions.

Her heart slowed as she focused her concentration, constantly searching her surroundings.

Clara moved through the darkness ahead while Phoebe remained close beside Keriah, enough to hear her quick breathing. She felt reassured with Mr. Rosmont behind them, to ensure that no one could sneak up on them.

The quiet of the night worked to their advantage. Mr. Rosmont suddenly whispered, “Stop. I hear something.”

“Where?” she whispered.

“Two behind us. Two in front of us on either side.”

He didn’t have time to say more because Phoebe heard the scrape of boots behind him and then suddenly the grunts and thuds of men fighting. She didn’t dare turn around to look, because she now saw shadows moving ahead of them. She had a flash of worry about where Clara was, but then she had to draw her large knife. She heard the soft slide of steel as Keriah drew hers also.

The two men in front had hesitated, likely thinking that the women would turn to look behind them. But when they didn’t, they attacked.

A man’s hand seemed to explode out of the dark fog, but Phoebe had been watching the movements of the shadows and knew when to duck.

In the same movement, she turned with her blade and slashed at another man’s hand that was trying to grab at Keriah, who had not reacted in time. He cried out and jerked backward.

But she did not turn back to the first man quickly enough. She had expected another attack with his fist, but wasn’t able to dodge as he swung with his opposite hand. She felt a burning across her arm.

Keriah quickly stabbed Phoebe’s attacker with her knife, reaching down to cut deeply at the tendons on his knee. He cried out and wobbled for a moment before crashing to the ground.

Phoebe switched places with her to engage the second man, who had recovered from her swipe to his hand and was grabbing his shoulder, from which a small throwing blade protruded. Clara’s handiwork.

But despite his injuries, he was moving toward them again. She lashed out with a hard jab to the second man’s face, but he bobbed backward, and the blow only grazed him. She followed up with an attack with her knife, but she misjudged the distance and her knife only created a shallow gash.

But she and Keriah had been training with Mr. Armstrong, who had praised their knife fighting skills and added to their repertoire. He also had not changed the way in which they fought—and therefore, Phoebe was not fighting the man to cause injury.

She was fighting him in order to distract him.

Keriah seemed to appear out of nowhere behind the man. Her stroke with the knife was accurate and confident, slashing his hamstring. He cried out.

Phoebe was about to move in to attack again, when suddenly there was a large shadow beside her. She nearly attacked it before she recognized Mr. Rosmont.

He stormed forward and sank a meaty fist into the man’s face. He dropped like a stone.

Mr. Rosmont took a step to the side and punched the head of the other man, who was still on his hands and knees on the ground. He also dropped limp.

“Quickly,” Mr. Rosmont said. “They cried out. They may have friends nearby.”

They scampered away, Mr. Rosmont remaining alert as he followed behind them, but none of them sheathed their weapons.

Phoebe’s breathing and heartbeat began to slow. And it was at that point that the stinging in her arm grew more insistent. She glanced down, and could tell that there was a darker spot on her sleeve. She thought she would simply ignore it, but then she felt the warmth of blood running down her hand.

Keriah noticed at the same time she did. “You’re bleeding!” she said.

They stopped at a street corner, with Mr. Rosmont standing guard over them. Phoebe put her knife away while Keriah wrapped a strip of cloth around her arm. “Are you injured anywhere else?” she asked.

“No. Mr. Rosmont? Clara?”

“Not a scratch,” he told them.

“No, miss.”

Under the tight bandage, Phoebe’s arm throbbed. Mr. Armstrong would be so disappointed in her. She had been able to evade the first man when he tried to grab her, but after blocking Keriah’s attacker, she had not been quick enough to avoid the first man’s unexpected slash with the knife. Perhaps she had become too confident from Mr. Armstrong’s praise. It was still a long journey before she became more competent.

“I am grateful you are with us, Mr. Rosmont,” she said as Keriah finished tying the cloth.

“I wish to help find Lady Wynwood and Septimus, also,” he said gruffly. “They are part of my team.”

It seemed a strange thing to say after Mr. Ackett had betrayed them, but Phoebe found that she wanted it to be true. That he was still part of the team. That he was still alive.

“The two of you fought well against men in a street fight,” Mr. Rosmont said, “men who intended to kill you. You impressed me.”

Phoebe knew that he was more impressed because they had been raised as wealthy young ladies, but it still felt encouraging to be accepted and praised by him.

They continued on and finally reached the laboratory building. Before, Phoebe had only seen it from the roof of the opposite building, and from the street level, it appeared larger than she had expected. However, they passed the two-story extension building to slip into the entrance of the ink factory.

It was almost pitch black inside, except for a few beams of dark-gray light from tiny windows just under the eaves. They made their way across the floor as quietly as they could, surrounded by the sharp scent of ink. They did not expect there to be anyone inside the building, but they tried to be silent all the same.

The stairs to the upper floor were narrow, smelling of mold. Phoebe placed her feet gingerly, wondering if one of the soft boards would break under her weight.

They reached the hallway at the top. The window at the end was still open and appeared as a lighter gray square.

They paused behind the back door, and Mr. Rosmont listened. He shook his head. “There’s no one inside. Mr. Drydale managed to have the guards leave, at least for a little while.”

“He probably knew we’d try to enter the laboratory tonight,” Phoebe said. There was barely enough light for her to insert the key and unlock the door.

Although the building had been aired out after the fight, she could still smell a faint trace of the acrid chemicals that Keriah had created for the attack. However, she had expected the room to smell more like Keriah’s stillroom, since Dr. Heddetch had used this space to make his tinctures. She was surprised to find that something about the musty smell reminded her of her gardening shed.

There were three skylights, but the cloudy sky let in very little illumination. Clara had been tasked with carrying small shielded lanterns, which they lit as soon as the door was closed and locked behind them.

Keriah headed directly for the large worktable in the center, so Phoebe looked through the cabinets and drawers along the edges. She could clearly feel the thick layer of dust over the knobs and handles. She tugged a drawer open and had difficulty as the warped wood stuck. Inside, she found only dirt and dust.

Keriah,” she said, “I don’t think this laboratory has been used in a very long time.”

“I agree,” Keriah said. “There is a small space here that has been used recently, but the rest of the table is coated with dust, and none of these instruments have been used in years. Although some of them are still serviceable.”

“What does that mean?” Mr. Rosmont asked. He had moved to the front door of the room and was looking at the hinges.

“This is not where Dr. Heddetch did his work,” Keriah said.

Phoebe returned to the drawer she had opened and searched in the back, surprised to find a very fine-bladed razor. She grimaced as she realized how fortunate she was to not have been cut by the rusted edge.

She began methodically—and carefully—searching each drawer and cabinet, blowing up clouds of dust as she yanked open doors long stuck. But she was surprised to find discarded tools that were very familiar to her, for they were used in gardening and botany—small pincers and pliers, several sizes of trowels, some broken forceps. She pulled out several of the trowels, and noted that they were a bit too small for her hands. They were almost the sizes of the ones she had used as a child.

This laboratory been used for botany. And it had not been used by a man.

She began opening and closing drawers and cabinets more quickly. It took her a few minutes before she realized that the cabinets were awkward for her to reach—they had been made for a much smaller person, someone much shorter than Dr. Heddetch.

In a small drawer she found a scattering of labels, but the handwriting was not Dr. Heddetch’s. It was a woman’s handwriting, and matched the handwriting of the list that they had found along with the key and the seal.

There were two drawers which had keyholes, but they opened easily. Looking closely, she could see that the locks had been forced open. She tried one of the smaller keys on the key ring and they fit in the keyhole. So someone had broken the lock in order to open the drawer because they had not had these keys.

The first broken drawer was empty, and the second looked empty also, but Phoebe gingerly reached into the back and her hand fell upon a small square of paper—no, it was the thickness of two pieces, possibly a paper packet like the ones Phoebe often used for seeds. She eagerly pulled it out.

It was indeed a paper packet. She was disappointed that it was empty, but on the front, in the same feminine handwriting as the labels, was the word, “Goldensuit.”

“Keriah, Mr. Rosmont,” Phoebe said. “This laboratory belonged to Bianca.”

“Are you certain?” Keriah asked, approaching her.

Phoebe explained about the small size of the gardening implements, the lower cabinets, and the labels in a woman’s handwriting. And finally the Goldensuit-labeled seed packet.

“I believe you are correct,” Keriah said. “There are some of the basic instruments of a chemist on the worktable, but there are still some things that I would expect to be present which are not. Perhaps Dr. Heddetch brought his instruments here at one point. Perhaps Bianca knew some chemistry. But this is not the laboratory of a chemist.”

“I think that, after the Gentians killed Bianca, they broke into her laboratory since they did not possess her keys,” Mr. Rosmont said from the front door. He pointed to the hinges. “These hinges are new. They broke the original door and replaced it because they couldn’t open it.”

Phoebe moved to stand beside him.

“That was why Michael had been able to easily kick in the hole.” Mr. Rosmont pointed to the hole in the wall to the side of the door. “This portion of the wall was old and weak because they had forced open the original front door.”

“They likely didn’t use the back door since they didn’t have the key,” Phoebe said. “It must have been inconvenient for them, but not enough for them to try to break the back door, also.”

Mr. Rosmont nodded. “It may not be as obvious now, but when Septimus and I first came to investigate, the floors were dusty and it was clear no one had used those back stairs and hallway in many years. It might have been in better condition if they’d closed the window at the end of the hallway.”

“All this means that Bianca kept things from the Gentians,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “She deliberately hid the key to her laboratory from them. That was the reason she gave the key and the seal to Uncle Wynwood to hide for her.”

“So she may have hidden other things with Lord Wynwood,” Keriah said, “and they may be important things that the Gentians desire to have.”

Phoebe nodded. “I believe they may want Aunt Laura to find those things for them, because they think Uncle Wynwood hid them for his mistress. That may be why the Gentians left Aunt Laura alone for so long. They didn’t think that Uncle Wynwood had possessed anything that they would want, but they didn’t realize that he had hidden things that were not his own, but that belonged to Bianca.”

“But then we raided the laboratory using the back door key,” Mr. Rosmont said, “and they knew we had found her keys.”

“Was it useless for us to search this laboratory?” Keriah asked. “All we found were a few old instruments.”

“You mentioned that Heddetch may have used the workbench?” Phoebe asked.

“I am certain of it, but he used it only briefly.” Keriah touched a stain on the wood of the bench. “There is evidence he moved some instruments from this building to somewhere else.”

“It would have been convenient if the laboratory had contained more hints about him,” Phoebe said. “Dr. Heddetch would have been involved in the kidnapping because he is most familiar with Aunt Laura. He likely told the Gentians that Aunt Laura had found the watch, and so she became their target.” She swallowed, then said in a rush, “I wish it had been me instead. I wish we had made it known to more than a few people that I was the one who found the watch.”

“Lady Wynwood would not have wished for that,” Mr. Rosmont said.

She knew he was right. Just as Phoebe would have traded places with Aunt Laura, she would have traded places for Phoebe.

“The Ramparts went to question Heddetch’s servants and search his house,” Mr. Rosmont said. “They are likely there right now. They may find things that will lead them to the whereabouts of Dr. Heddetch.”

“You searched his house yourself,” Keriah said. “And Mr. Coulton-Jones said that he had spoken to the cook. But is he certain she didn’t know where Dr. Heddetch had gone?”

“Aside from Lady Wynwood, I know no other agents better skilled at extracting information from someone than Michael,” Mr. Rosmont said, “so when the cook said that she knew nothing about Heddetch, then she doesn’t know.”

“I want to search Dr. Heddetch’s house also,” Phoebe said.

“But the Ramparts will have already searched Dr. Heddetch’s house by the time we get there,” Keriah said. “What can we find?”

“Perhaps nothing,” Phoebe said. “But there are things only you and I will notice because we are scientists. Just as there were things that only you and I noticed in this laboratory.”

“The Ramparts has a pair of scientists that they use often,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“Would they join the other agents in searching the house?” Phoebe asked.

“Probably not at first,” Mr. Rosmont said. “They might be brought back later.”

Phoebe straightened. “There are ways for women to find information that differ from the methods a man may use. I wish to go to Dr. Heddetch’s house and speak to the servants, and look around if possible. You’ll come with us?” she asked Mr. Rosmont.

He nodded. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

For the mission to Dr. Heddetch’s house, Michael had to attend in costume. However, since he would be actively searching the house and speaking to the servants, he merely stuck a wig upon his head and did not bother with many cosmetics. Instead, he utilized his abnormally malleable facial muscles and borrowed the face of Lady Wynwood’s cousin, Sir Cecil Belmoore, he of the flaring nostrils.

When the Ramparts agents posing as Bow Street Runners pounded on Heddetch’s door, since it still an hour or two before dawn, it took a good long while before the cook crawled out of bed and answered the door. She was at first irritated, then alarmed at the sight of all the men. She glanced at Michael but did not recognize him from when he had questioned her a few days earlier.

However, since Michael had already spoken with her, Sir Derrick had assigned another agent to question the cook, so Michael joined some of the other men in searching through the house.

The sound of breaking glass surprised him, and for a moment, his vision went white, then black. Surrounding him were the sounds of splintering wood and women’s screams, men’s shouts. His entire body felt like a boiling kettle, and the only thing keeping his mind anchored and sane was the pain in his hands as he struck and smashed objects … and people.

Michael.

The voice sounded almost like his brother Richard, and yet it wasn’t. Familiar, and yet not. It was soft, and deep, and tender. It cut through his unnatural rage and his fear, embracing him in strong arms that began to calm his heart.

He came back to himself with a shudder, his heart thundering, his breath coming in burning gasps. He stood alone on the landing to the stairs. No one had seen him.

Michael exhaled shakily. Would he always be tormented by that night? He had thought he was beginning to forget, but then something would remind him and send his mind spiraling out of control, drowning him in the memories.

He had been rescued by a touch of something outside of himself.

Perhaps it was because Miss Sauber had eased his heart with her words of faith, which sounded so much like his brother’s. Perhaps Michael had simply been thinking of religious things more often recently.

But he couldn’t deny that he felt soothed by the memory of that voice in his head, the feeling of being comforted.

He was interrupted by another crack of broken glass. Michael hurried down the stairs and to the front room on the ground floor, which Heddetch used as his examining room. Agents were flinging books from the shelves, and one of the wildly flying tomes had hit some of the glass vials on a nearby shelf, sending several tumbling to the floor.

“We’re here to search for evidence, not to demolish the house,” Michael objected. “You may be destroying the very things we were sent here to find.”

“What evidence?” one of the agents asked. “Your supervisor said that Heddetch came back and left with a packed valise a few days ago. He wouldn’t have left anything important behind.” He deliberately tipped another book off the shelf, his eyes challenging Michael. “This is a waste of time when I could have been sleeping.”

Michael could remember the irritation that came from being awoken in order to be called in for a mission, but the agents’ destructiveness and laziness appalled him.

However, because he was nearest to the front door, he was the first to hear the key turning in the lock.

At first he was confused, for there should have been a man stationed outside to guard the front door. But apparently no one had been assigned to that task.

Michael moved to stand against the wall next to the door and waited for it to swing open. The only person who entered was a young girl with a riot of tight brown curls.

He grabbed her arm, and she squealed. He looked out the door to ensure there was no one behind her, then shut it.

The agents who had been searching the examination room had a clear view of the front door and saw the young woman. One of them called, “Mr. Maghew!”

Within moments, the agent in charge, Mr. Maghew, strode into the entrance hall from the back of the house. He walked directly up to her, using his height to intimidate her as he demanded, “Who are you?”

The woman shrank back from him, her eyes wide with fear. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Mr. Maghew gripped her other arm and shook it. “Answer my question.”

“Ida Rummery,” she stammered. “I’m the maid. Where is Dr. Heddetch?”

Michael had never gone back to Heddetch’s house to speak to the maid because they had followed the doctor to his laboratory. He had also needed to prepare for the raid on the laboratory that night, and so he had thought it unnecessary to try to speak to her.

He tried to adopt a charming smile, but since he was also borrowing Sir Cecil’s face, he ended up doing a fair imitation of Beau Brummell. “Mr. Maghew, you are frightening the poor girl.” He grabbed Mr. Maghew’s wrist, which was still holding onto Ida’s arm, and squeezed. With his greater strength, he easily forced the agent to release her with a gasp of pain.

“I shall speak to Miss Rummery, shall I?” Michael smiled at Mr. Maghew, displaying too much teeth.

Rubbing his wrist, Mr. Maghew scowled at him, his mouth in a mulish cast. “I’ll be the one asking her questions.” He was about to reach for her arm again, but Michael gave him a flat look, and his hand retreated. “Bring her into the dining room,” he ordered.

Michael took the young woman’s hand and led her to the dining room, easing her into a chair. Mr. Maghew sat in the seat across from her, so Michael sat beside her.

“You said you’re the maid?” Mr. Maghew said roughly. “Where were you last night?”

“With my family,” she said meekly. “I live at home.”

“You come to the doctor’s house every day?”

“No, sir. Only three days a week.”

“You’re arriving at work a might early, aren’t you?” Mr. Maghew’s gaze narrowed upon her.

Ida looked confused. “I’m to be at work before five o’clock, sir. I’m to help the cook in the kitchen first.”

Both Michael and Mr. Maghew glanced at their pocket watches. They had arrived at the house a little after 3:30, and now it was 4:45.

Mr. Maghew looked like a disgruntled bowler who had been aiming for the wicket and instead bowled a wide. “Have you any idea where Dr. Heddetch has gone?”

“No, sir.”

Mr. Maghew waited a moment, but when it was obvious that Ida had nothing else to say, he banged his fist on the table, making her jump. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re his maid.”

“I don’t pay attention to the doctor’s comings and goings.” Her breath was fast. “Dr. Heddetch is always out at odd hours. People often call for him in the middle of the night.”

“He’s not out birthing a baby right now,” the agent said crudely. “Has he ever brought Apothecary Jack to his house?”

Ida’s face paled. “Do you mean Mr. Jack Dix? No, sir. I’ve never seen him here.”

“Don’t play the innocent. We know that Heddetch and Jack are like two peas in a pod. When did you see Jack?”

“No, sir, I’ve never seen him here.” Her voice had grown higher-pitched with her fear.

“Don’t lie to me.” Mr. Maghew brought his face close. “You must have seen Jack. Did he speak to Heddetch about anything? Did he give him anything?”

They were supposed to be here to investigate Heddetch in order to discover where Lady Wynwood was taken, not simply to investigate Jack. “Mr. Maghew,” Michael said, “I doubt the young lady knows anything about Apothecary Jack.”

“I asked the woman, not you,” Mr. Maghew snapped at him. “Where is Heddetch?”

“I don’t know!” the woman said.

Mr. Maghew’s expression was growing more and more fierce, and she was trembling violently.

Her terror seemed to only frustrate Mr. Maghew. He slammed his hand on the table. “We are not leaving until you tell me where Dr. Heddetch has gone.”

“I don’t know!” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Mr. Maghew suddenly surged forward. Ida cringed.

Moving more quickly, Michael stood and slammed his arm like a bar across Mr. Maghew’s chest. His face was very close to the agent’s, and he growled, “Lay a finger on her and I will break it.”

Mr. Maghew struggled against him, but Michael’s strength easily overpowered him. The agent’s face went red, but he reluctantly sank back down onto his chair.

Michael also resumed his seat beside the maid, angling himself so that he would be able to prevent Mr. Maghew from trying to attack her again.

The agent glared at Michael with eyes that glittered like black onyx. “I shall remember this.”

Michael said nothing, but held the man’s hate-filled gaze.

There was a sudden shout from the back of the house, then running footsteps. Through the open doorway of the dining room, Michael saw the figure of the cook racing toward the front door. He heard her fumbling with the latch, and then she was away.

Mr. Maghew shot to his feet and left the dining room. Other agents darted through the front entry hall, chasing the woman out the door.

Michael stayed with Ida, taking her hand in his and gently stroking it. “I do apologize for the rudeness my colleague has shown to you. Poor chap gets rather grouchy when he doesn’t get enough sleep.”

The young woman simply sat there all aquiver, unable to lift her eyes from her lap, quietly sobbing.

“I am Mr. Villager,” Michael said. “I’m afraid Dr. Heddetch has become involved in some bad business.”

Her eyes darted up to him, then back down.

“Do you perhaps know anything about what the doctor was about? Even a suspicion will do.” He leaned closer to her and said in a soft voice, “No one will know where this information came from, so you have no need to fear.”

But the girl’s quivering did not abate. She simply shook her head and pressed her lips closed.

Inwardly, Michael cursed Mr. Maghew’s brutality. Ida was too frightened to speak, but that brief look made him wonder if perhaps she did indeed know something. Unfortunately, her silence would only make Mr. Maghew more aggravated and menacing. Michael had to do all he could to protect her from the other agents.

He continued to sit there, stroking the back of her hand, but feeling very inadequate. He remembered the cool darkness of the attic room, and the warmth of Miss Sauber’s hand as it enveloped his. Her smile had been warm, her voice soothing. He knew that Miss Sauber would have easily been able to coax Ida into speaking to them.

Michael heard the tramping of footsteps, and soon Mr. Maghew returned. However, he was in a right temper, his face almost purple. He reached out to grab the girl again, but this time, Michael slapped his hand away and stood up.

The two men faced off against each other, chests out, eyes like two pistols primed and pointed toward each other. Michael was taller, and he also knew that his strength would easily overpower the agent.

He realized then why Jack’s men acted the way they did when they were on the Root. This feeling of superiority to other men, a knowledge that their strength would always enable them to get their own way. There were none who could compare to them, except their leader. To everyone else, their power enabled them to be almost like gods.

That suddenly made Michael feel ashamed. He had not wanted this strength, and he did not want to use it to bully others.

He stepped back but kept his body between Mr. Maghew and Ida. He might have backed down, but he made it clear he would do what he must to protect her.

Mr. Maghew was confused at first, and it helped to dim his anger. He stared at Michael, but then made a jerking motion in the direction of the young woman. “We’re bringing her with us. We’re going back.”

“What happened?” Michael asked.

Mr. Maghew’s eyes slid to Ida’s fragile figure, then grudgingly gestured out the door. He left the room, Michael following.

In the hallway, Mr. Maghew said in a low voice, “The cook got away.”

“How did she manage that? I thought there was an agent questioning her.”

“That idiot Mr. Barker hadn’t gotten anything from her, so he started scrounging around the kitchens, looking for something to eat. The cook took advantage of his inattention and scampered.”

“There should have been an agent guarding the front door.”

“Well, there wasn’t,” Mr. Maghew snapped. They both knew that it had been Mr. Maghew’s responsibility to assign someone to guard the front door. It was a standard task when searching a building.

“And yet you couldn’t catch her?” Michael asked. “She didn’t seem very fast.”

“She turned down an alleyway and lost the agents after her.”

Had the cook known something? Michael had questioned her and thought her ignorant of the doctor’s connections, but had he been mistaken?

“So we’re leaving,” Mr. Maghew said.

“Have your agents found anything in the house?” Michael thought that he already knew the answer.

“No,” Mr. Maghew said sullenly. He jerked his head in the direction of the dining room and Ida. “Right now, she’s the only lead we have.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

While Clara had that magical ability to find transportation almost anywhere in London, even she could not make a hackney appear in that particular area of Rasken Hill near the laboratory, so Phoebe, Keriah, Mr. Rosmont, and Clara had been forced to walk to Dr. Heddetch’s house. They trudged on despite a spittle of rain, but when it turned into a downpour, they took shelter until it had passed. Dawn was breaking by the time they had made their way to the doctor’s house by the river.

Phoebe knew something was wrong as soon as they turned onto the street. Unlike the neighboring houses, which were illuminated with the tiny glows of candles in the predawn, Dr. Heddetch’s building was dark.

“The Ramparts were to have searched the house earlier tonight, so shouldn’t the cook be awake?” Keriah asked as they approached the house.

“Perhaps she went back to sleep,” Phoebe said, although she didn’t believe it herself.

“She may have slept in since Heddetch isn’t around,” Mr. Rosmont pointed out.

However, as they drew nearer, they saw that the front door only appeared to be closed. It hung open a bare crack.

Mr. Rosmont immediately put himself ahead of the other three. “Stay back.” He stilled, and Phoebe held her breath, trying to listen for evidence of intruders within.

He shook his head. “I hear nothing from inside.”

They approached the door slowly, and Mr. Rosmont eased it open. It gave a modest creak, and they froze, but the interior remained dark and quiet.

Once inside, they shut the door firmly and lit their shielded lanterns. Keriah gasped as they looked around.

Through the open door to Dr. Heddetch’s examination room, books and broken glass littered the floor, spilling out into the front entrance hall.

“Miss Gardinier, you should be the one to search the front room,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“Is there no one in the house?” Phoebe asked. “Shall we split up to search?”

“I hear no one, but my hearing is not as sensitive as Michael’s, and not as sensitive as it was a few weeks ago. I shall remain with Miss Gardinier, so take Clara with you.”

Phoebe nodded. “We shall search downstairs.”

The kitchen was cold, as was the fireplace. The cook had not even lit it. Where had she gone?

Compared to the examination room, the mess was not quite so disastrous here, although half-eaten rolls and cake crumbs dotted the long table. Nothing seemed out of place in the pantry, and a small room that had been the laundry room was instead filled with sacks of grain, from which rustled the mice that scattered upon hearing her enter.

Keriah was still searching the front room, so Phoebe and Clara climbed the stairs to the first floor. Dr. Heddetch’s cramped bedroom was dominated by the bed, with barely enough room for a small wardrobe. Inside, only a few old, patched shirts lay rumpled at the base of the closet. Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Ackett had mentioned that Heddetch had left the house with a valise, which may be where his clothes had gone. With the size of the wardrobe, he had likely not had many garments.

The drawer had been pulled out from the table near his bed. Her foot kicked the pencils scattered on the floor. A broken candle lay next to a candleholder, which had probably fallen from the top of the table, and it glittered with shards of a broken wineglass. His bedclothes had been tossed aside. A book lay open facedown on the floor, with the muddy print of a man’s boot on the cover.

She had known that the Ramparts had intended to search Dr. Heddetch’s home, but she had not known that they would be so barbarous. However, their carelessness with Dr. Heddetch’s belongings may have indicated that they were also careless in how they searched.

Phoebe took extra care to examine each piece of paper that had fallen on the floor by the bed, but all were blank except from where another muddy boot print had marred them. Clara volunteered to check under the bed, and among the rodent droppings and dust she produced a small slip of foolscap with “Heddetch” written in a crude hand, and a pin thrust through the paper.

His study next door was in a similar state of disarray, and Phoebe took more care in looking through the books that had been toppled onto the floor. However, many of the tomes still had dust clinging to them, indicating that Heddetch himself had not used them in a while. Like the bedroom, the drawers to the desk had been pulled out and their contents dumped onto the floor.

Phoebe refrained from tsking her tongue in frustration. “Is it merely that men believe that the most effective way to search is to throw everything upon the floor? I should think that doing so would make everything more difficult, not less.”

Clara seemed to seriously contemplate the question. “Calvin does the same.”

“It is as though they did not make much of an effort in searching the house. Perhaps the maid or the cook said something that indicated there was nothing here.”

Despite the extra time she took, Phoebe also found nothing of interest. She searched the cook’s bedroom in the attic. The drawers had been pulled out, and a multitude of clothes lay piled on the floor. After gauging the space in the drawer and comparing it to the pieces of clothing, Phoebe guessed that the cook had not taken any of her things with her before she left the house, including her cloak and bonnet, which had been sadly crushed by more muddy feet. If the cook was missing for some innocuous reason, such as doing the shopping, she would not have forgotten those garments.

Phoebe found an empty valise crumpled in a corner, next to an empty purse, with a stray shilling that had rolled under the bed. The underside of the bed was coated with dust, but the shilling was not, indicating that it had fallen there recently. Perhaps the Ramparts agents who searched the cook’s room had also pocketed what valuables they found as payment for their time?

Phoebe had known that in all likelihood, anything that may have pointed to Heddetch’s whereabouts might have already been taken away by the agents. Perhaps it had been foolish for her to think that the negligence of the agents would leave some clue for her to find.

They came together again in the front entry hall.

“The cook is gone,” Phoebe said. “What of the maid?”

“She doesn’t live in,” Mr. Rosmont said, “and if she came to the house, she may have seen the agents searching and run away.”

“When Jack’s greenhouse in the room he rented had been ransacked,” Phoebe said, “the neighbors had been outside gossiping about what happened. But here, there are no neighbors.”

“The streets are darker, and the neighborhood impoverished and disreputable,” Mr. Rosmont said. “The neighbors are more wary.”

“I still think it is odd that no one is outside talking about what had happened here,” Keriah said. “When I was searching the front room, I looked out the window and saw people on the street as they passed with barely a glance at the house.”

“If they know about the raid, they don’t care,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“They may not care,” Phoebe said, “but if the Ramparts searched the house a few hours ago, the neighbors were surely awakened by the noise. There may still be one or two willing to gossip about what happened.”

“You wish to speak to the neighbors?” Keriah asked.

“Only the closest ones,” Phoebe said.

It did not take long. Phoebe posed as Dr. Heddetch’s estranged niece, come to London to reconcile with him. Three of the houses were boarding houses, and for two of them, even though they offered to pay for their time, the landladies refused to speak to them and closed the door in their faces. At the third boarding house, when Phoebe passed over some coins, she allowed them inside to question a few boarders who were in the front room, but they either truly knew nothing or they were unwilling to speak of what had happened.

The landlady seemed eager to usher them away quickly, but Phoebe happened to look toward the back of the house.

There was a woman framed in the open doorway, staring at them—or rather, staring at Phoebe’s reticule. She was small and scrawny, with dishwater blonde hair and collarbones that were too visible.

The landlady spotted the woman. “Lazy slut! Get back to work!” she shouted.

The woman jumped and scurried out of sight.

The landlady wiped her hands on her black stained apron, her fingers still dark. She looked like she had been cleaning the hearth in the front room when she was interrupted, so Phoebe guessed that the woman in the back was the cook.

As they exited the house, with the door slamming behind them, Phoebe asked in a low voice, “Clara, does that house have a backdoor?”

“I can find out for you, miss.” She scampered away, returning only a few minutes later. She led them around the row of houses, down a twisted alley, and they found the back of the boarding house.

Phoebe scratched on the back door. The same scrawny woman answered, and Phoebe motioned for her to come out into the back alley, at the same time shaking a bag of coins.

The woman fearfully looked behind her, then slipped out, closing the door behind her.

“Did you see what happened this morning at Dr. Heddetch’s house?” Phoebe asked.

The woman nodded. “I heard the landlady speaking to the boarding house owner next door after the men left.”

“How many men?” Mr. Rosmont asked. “What were they wearing?”

“We all heard them yelling. They said they were Bow Street Runners.”

Sir Derrick had said that the Ramparts agents would claim to be Runners. “What happened?” Phoebe asked.

“No one knows. There was a great deal of noise from the house. It sounded like they were trying to tear down the walls.”

“What happened to the cook?” Mr. Rosmont asked.

“We saw her escape out the front door, with two or three men chasing after her. But she slipped into an alley and got away.”

“And the maid?” Phoebe asked.

“The woman shook her head. “The men took the maid with them.”

“What’s her name?” Phoebe asked.

“That be Ida Rummery,” the woman said.

“She doesn’t live with Dr. Heddetch, is that correct?” Phoebe asked. “Do you know where she lives?”

“I know she lives with her family, but I don’t know where they live.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s far from the doctor’s house. She sometimes complains how long it takes her to walk to work.”

“Did the, er, Bow Street Runners speak to any of the neighbors?” Keriah asked.

The woman dropped her eyes and pressed her lips together. “They spoke to the landlady here, so I would guess they spoke to the other neighbors.”

Phoebe noted the woman’s reaction to the man. “Did you not care for them?”

“Oh, they were…” She shrugged.

“Were they angry?” Phoebe asked.

The woman hesitated, and Phoebe tried to look harmless. But it was probably Keriah’s encouraging smile that caused the woman to answer. “They were right rude,” the woman said. “I was afraid of them.”

Aya had said that Dr. Heddetch had only the cook and the maid who came in for him a few days a week. Phoebe remembered the unused laundry room. “Dr. Heddetch hires out for his laundry, doesn’t he? Do you know who his laundress might be?”

“I don’t rightly know, miss.”

“Then can you tell me where the nearest laundress lives?”

“That would be Mrs. Wilcox. Her house is a few streets over.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe said, but Keriah spoke up.

“Does she make her own deliveries?” Keriah asked.

“No,” the woman said, “her children make her deliveries for her.”

Keriah smiled. “Thank you.”

Phoebe paid the woman generously, and she quickly hid the pouch under her clothing, likely to keep the landlady from stealing it.

As they walked away, Phoebe asked Keriah, “Why did you ask about deliveries?”

“It’s midmorning,” Keriah said, for it had taken several hours for them to search Dr. Heddetch’s house and speak to the neighbors. “If she makes her own deliveries, she may not be at home. But if she has others making her deliveries for her, then she may be in.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Phoebe said. “That was quick thinking.”

“How will we be able to find Dr. Heddetch’s whereabouts by questioning his laundress?” Mr. Rosmont asked.

“It may come to nothing,” Phoebe said, “but I saw a paper with a pin under his bed, just like a tag that would be on a bundle of laundered clothes. Also, his closet was very small, which made me believe he perhaps hasn’t many garments. I know from Keriah that working in a stillroom causes stains.”

Keriah raised her eyebrows at her. “Are you saying I’m clumsy?”

“Of course not,” Phoebe said with mock sincerity.

Clara giggled as Keriah glowered at her.

“Dr. Heddetch is likely quite dependent upon his laundress,” Phoebe continued. “If that is the case, he would be anxious not to offend her, or she might leave him without a shirt the next time he needed a quick job. So he may have told his laundress that he was leaving London.”

Mr. Rosmont looked thoughtful. “That is an interesting way to approach this. I wouldn’t have thought of that. I don’t know any other agents who would.”

“She may still know nothing,” Phoebe said, “but since the neighbors will not speak to us, we should at least try to find her.”

Phoebe scooped some muck from the road and stained the front of her gown. They walked down the street and asked pedestrians for Mrs. Wilcox’s home, and were eventually directed to a small house sandwiched in between a curiosity shop and a shoemaker.

After they knocked upon the door, a large woman, taller even than Phoebe, answered. She had wide shoulders, a wide bosom, wide hips, and meaty arms.

“Mrs. Wilcox?” Phoebe gestured to her gown. “Have you time to wash out this dirt? I shall be happy to pay you extra if you can do it right away.”

The woman merely grunted and turned around, gesturing for them to follow her deeper inside the house. Mr. Rosmont and Clara remained in the tiny front room while Phoebe and Keriah trailed after the laundress.

The building was narrow, and Mrs. Wilcox barely fit as she made her way down the narrow passage to the back. The air was warm and moist, but it became hot and stifling as they entered the back room, with kettles of boiling water and steam rising to pool on the low ceiling.

“You can use the closet there to change out of that dress.” Mrs. Wilcox found a voluminous robe and handed it to Phoebe. “Wrap yourself in that in the meantime.”

Phoebe thanked her and was soon arrayed in the large robe. It made the back room nearly insufferably hot, but she wanted to speak to Mrs. Wilcox, and so sat there with sweat dripping down her forehead.

“Do you do laundry for Dr. Heddetch?” Phoebe asked as the woman worked on the dirt staining on her gown. “I am his niece, come to London with my mother. We are estranged, but wished to speak to him.”

“He won’t be here,” the woman said. “You’d best go back home and try again in a few weeks.”

Hope began to race in her veins. “Where has he gone?”

“He didn’t say. He simply told me he would be gone for about two weeks, maybe more.”

“Gone?” Keriah asked. “Out of London?”

Mrs. Wilcox grunted. “He promised to be back as soon as he could.”

Keriah asked a few more questions, but Mrs. Wilcox knew nothing else.

Phoebe’s gown was soon done, and Mrs. Wilcox did her best to iron out the water spot from the cleaning. Phoebe paid her generously both for the laundering and also for the information.

As they left Mrs. Wilcox’s house, there was suddenly a rumbling sound. Phoebe looked around and then realized it had come from Keriah’s stomach.

Keriah went red to the tips of her ears. “I haven’t had anything to eat!” she said defensively.

It was climbing close to noon now, and Phoebe realized she was also ravenous.

“Follow me.” Mr. Rosmont was not smiling, exactly, but there was something about his eyes and the faint lines at the side of his mouth that made it seem he was amused.

They went down the street and turned the corner. Earlier, they had passed a side street dark with tall buildings that looked like boarding houses. But one of the houses a few doors down from the corner was more cheerful than the others, with the front stoop swept clean and sky-blue curtains at the window. It was the most respectable-looking house on the street.

Mr. Rosmont knocked on the door, and it was answered by a stout woman with thick, curly brown hair, full lips and a wide smile. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if you might be willing to serve us some food,” Mr. Rosmont said. “We’ve coin to pay you for it.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Cookie Cribble always has food for strangers.”

About to enter the door, Phoebe tensed. She remembered that name, although it took her a moment to place it. When she did, she suddenly felt as though it were hard to breathe.

Of all the places for them to find, they picked the boarding house run by the mother of Tom Cribble—otherwise known as Antonius Denmark, the man who had become a Berserker.

Keriah realized it at the same time, but she was not so skilled in hiding her reaction. Mrs. Cribble happened to glance at her, and a look of consternation fell over her face. “Why, child,” she said, “whatever is the matter?”

There was kindness in her voice, which is perhaps why Keriah asked, “Was your son Antonius Denmark?”

Mrs. Cribble smiled sadly. “Yes, he was.”

“May I ask, Mrs. Cribble, how you are doing?”

“Call me Cookie.” A little of her former cheerfulness seeped back into her face. Then it was dampened again by her sadness. “Thank you for asking. The Good Lord has been sustaining me powerfully hard. The neighbors around here are not very friendly, but this new curate at the church has been very kind, and the other church members have been sympathetic and helpful.”

Keriah swallowed at the sorrow in Cookie’s face. “You are very strong.”

Cookie shook her head. “No, it’s God who gives me strength and guides me each day.” Her smile returned and she gestured toward the front room, which was nearly completely filled by a large round table and chairs around it. “Sit, and I shall get you something to eat.” She bustled away to the back of the house.

They sat at the round table. Mr. Rosmont asked in a low voice, “Is that the same man who had been a Berserker before Michael?”

“Yes,” Phoebe said. “It’s when we found the remnants of the Root vial.”

“Dr. Shokes told me that after the incident, he visited Mrs. Cribble to see how she was faring,” Keriah said. “She hadn’t known anything about the company her son was keeping.”

There was silence between them for time, then Mr. Rosmont said, “Your idea about the laundress came to fruition.”

Mr. Rosmont’s praise pleased her, but Phoebe frowned. “I don’t know that we have so very much information. He is likely not in London, but that means he could be anywhere.”

When Mrs. Wilcox had begun speaking of Dr. Heddetch, Phoebe had felt triumphant despite sweltering in the heat of the back room, but after they left, she’d had time to think about what the woman had said. They had discovered some information, yes, but it was not very useful. They had reached a dead end. Perhaps she was not as capable as she thought she was.

At that moment, Cookie arrived with their food. “Why the long faces?” she chided them. “‘This is the day which the LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.’”

Phoebe knew the verse she quoted—Psalms 118, verse 24.

And prompted by the words of her Lord, she remembered that the situation was not in her hands, but God’s. “Shall I bless the food?” she asked.

Mr. Rosmont and Keriah both nodded, both a bit reluctantly.

“We thank Thee, Lord, for this food. May it nourish our bodies, even as Your Word nourishes our souls.” Phoebe hesitated, then continued, “I lift my Aunt Laura into Your hands, Heavenly Father. Please help her. Please guide us in finding her. Amen.”

When she looked up, she saw the traces of annoyance on Keriah’s face. But Phoebe felt a strange, otherworldly peace settle over her. It felt like floating in the ocean off the shores near Keriah’s family’s estate. She was buoyed up by the water, embraced by the motion of the gentle waves. She felt at peace.

The fare that Cookie had served them was hearty—eggs and sausage, and thick slices of dense bread slathered with creamy butter. It took a while for Phoebe to realize she was eating far too quickly. She had been hungrier than she thought. Keriah was shoveling food into her mouth nearly as fast as Clara.

The tea was weak, but Cookie had provided plenty of milk and sugar to go with it. Phoebe poured herself a second cup. “Perhaps I was mistaken,” she said softly. “Perhaps they didn’t take Aunt Laura because they want her to find more of Uncle Wynwood’s hiding places.”

“What makes you say that?” Keriah was still eating, grabbing another slice of bread.

“After Uncle Wynwood died, wouldn’t the Gentians have searched his house as thoroughly as possible?”

“They’d have a time searching the townhouse,” Clara said with her mouth full. “There’s always someone there, even if my lady leaves.”

“Perhaps they took her because they hadn’t been able to search the townhouse very well?” Keriah asked.

“They underestimated your aunt,” Mr. Rosmont said. “They likely underestimated Lord Wynwood, also, and didn’t expect him to be hiding things from them.”

“You are probably correct,” Phoebe said, “but even if that were so, would they not have wanted to ensure that Uncle Wynwood did not leave anything to point to their group? I believe they would have already searched his residences. They may not have been able to search his London townhouse immediately, since Aunt Laura was there, but they needed only to wait until she had left for a trip. And they would have had no difficulties searching his other properties.”

“How many of them did he possess?” Mr. Rosmont asked.

“Four or five others aside from Glencowe Castle, his primary seat. Most of the others are small houses inherited from past ancestors, which he rarely visited. They all belong to the current Lord Wynwood now—anything not in the entail Aunt Laura sold to him.”

“Where are those places?” Keriah asked.

“Mostly up north. It would take two or three days to get there.”

“I cannot think of any other reason they would take Lady Wynwood,” Keriah said. “When the pale-eyed man approached Mr. Ackett, they had already planned to take her, before he could have told them anything about us or the Ramparts.”

“They could have approached him earlier than a few days ago,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“If they had,” Keriah challenged him, “would you have been able to tell, from his behavior?”

Mr. Rosmont opened his mouth, as if to deny it, but then closed it again. “I could tell something was wrong that first meeting after the pale-eyed man had spoken to Septimus,” he admitted. “But I saw no such change in him before that.”

Phoebe swallowed, then asked Mr. Rosmont the question she did not wish to ask. “If the Gentians want to question a helpless woman, how long will that take?”

Keriah’s eyes were wide with shock. Clara had paused in inhaling her food to stare at Phoebe with troubled eyes.

Mr. Rosmont’s mouth thinned into a tight line. Then he answered shortly, “Probably not long.”

There was another silence. Phoebe said slowly, as her thoughts coalesced, “But until Aunt Laura tells them somewhere to search, they will not know where to go. I rather doubt that they will travel far from London.”

Understanding dawned in Mr. Rosmont’s eyes, but Keriah blinked at her. “Not far from London? Why?”

“If they thought that Uncle Wynwood hid things in his London townhouse, they would not take her out of town.”

“But they also would know from Dr. Heddetch that Lady Wynwood had already been searching the townhouse,” Keriah said. “What would they think she knows when she hasn’t found anything?”

“I’ve seen instances where people are taken and questioned because sometimes they recall things when under duress,” Mr. Rosmont said.

Phoebe shuddered. She did not want to imagine what the Gentians might be doing to her aunt at this moment.

“Mr. Rosmont!” Keriah hissed, with a side glance at Clara.

“My apologies,” he said.

Clara stared hard at the two of them. “Does that mean he wasn’t talking about a dress? I thought that was strange. Normally, culls is leaky when they’re tortured.”

The three of them stared at her a moment, then Phoebe quickly said, “No, it was a dress.”

“It was a dress,” Keriah said.

“A dress,” Mr. Rosmont agreed.

“Clara, would you like the last sausage?” Phoebe gave it to the girl despite Mr. Rosmont’s sad expression.

But she couldn’t erase the fear that had gripped her heart at the thought of Aunt Laura being hurt by those men. She must try to think of where the Gentians might take her. Somewhere close to a place they believed Uncle Wynwood had hidden their secrets. If she wanted to hide something …

“If I would hide something,” Phoebe said, “I would hide it at Sauber Hill, my home.” Then she shook her head. “But Uncle Wynwood wouldn’t have hidden anything at his estate.”

Both Keriah and Mr. Rosmont looked confused. “Why?”

“Uncle Wynwood hated his principal seat. He rarely spent time there.”

Mr. Rosmont set his teacup down with a sharp click. “The Gentians may not know that,” he said urgently.

They stared at each other, stunned.

“Yes,” Keriah said. “After all, I didn’t know that, and I had known Lord Wynwood for several years.”

Mr. Rosmont’s mouth was grim, but he confessed, “If pressed, I would consider my estate my home, even though I spent a great deal of time in London. I would have hidden things at Thornesby.”

Phoebe realized that while she had known her Uncle Wynwood, and could guess at where he might have stashed away his secrets, she instead needed to consider how the Gentians would think, and where they would believe Lord Wynwood had put things aside.

And if the Gentians thought Uncle Wynwood had secured important things in his home, they would assume that he considered Glencowe Castle his home.

In a shocked voice, she said, “They have taken her to Bedfordshire.”

CHAPTER NINE

Blood. There was blood everywhere. Except this time, not all of it was hers.

Laura crawled across the stained carpet toward her maid, Aya, who lay curled up in front of the fireplace. The young woman trembled, but not all of it was from fear—her two legs were crimson, her stockings mangled, where her master had hit her with the poker.

Aya’s eyes cracked open. “My lady, don’t move,” she whispered.

“He’s gone,” Laura said.

“What happened?” Aya’s gaze darted to the open library door. “I heard him cry out …”

“I don’t know.”

Laura had been lying on the floor, cradling the fresh pain in her ribs. Aya had burst into the library, shouting at the master to stop kicking her mistress. Wynwood grabbed a poker from the fireplace and struck the maid, then kept striking at Aya’s curled legs on the floor. Then he raised the poker high.

Laura didn’t remember rising to her feet, didn’t remember grabbing the heavy silver paperweight on the desk, an ugly monstrosity she’d been given as a Christmas present from her cousin, Cecil. But she clearly remembered striking her husband on the back of the head, watching him waver and fall to his knees. The poker clattered to the floor.

There was a heartbeat, a half a moment, when she stared at his slumped back and wondered if she’d killed him. She felt a wave of relief that made her dizzy.

But then Wynwood raised his head and stared at her with murderous eyes. Except his gaze seemed less focused than normal. When he backhanded her, he didn’t hit her full across her face, but instead clipped her jaw.

She fell to the floor and watched his shoes walking out the library door. No, not walking. He was staggering.

His footfalls along the hallway were heavy, slow, unsteady. And then she heard him cry out. She thought she heard a thud, but couldn’t be certain.

She felt the light, quick footfalls through the vibrations in the wooden floor under her hands. Two people.

“My lady!”

“Madam!”

Her butler and housekeeper paused at the open doorway, then rushed to her side.

As her housekeeper, Mrs. Rook, lifted her head from the floor, Laura gestured toward the maid. “Aya.”

“I have her,” said Graham, the butler.

“W … Wynwood?” Laura whispered.

The silence was tense, like a chair about to break under her weight.

“What happened?” Laura insisted.

“My lord fell,” Graham said. “Down the stairs. He’s … he’s dead.”

Laura’s vision was already dim and blurry, but now it clouded at the edges, and she thought that she would faint. But the pain in her side and throbbing in her jaw brought her back. “I hit him. That’s why he fell.”

Her housekeeper’s strong hands trembled where they held her. Mrs. Rook’s breaths were quick and heavy, as if she’d run up the stairs.

Then Graham began barking orders toward the open library door, and Laura realized that several of the servants had gathered there but hadn’t dared enter the room. “You there, get buckets and rags and begin cleaning up the blood. Fred,” he addressed the strongest footman, “come here and carry Lady Wynwood to her room.” He turned to Mrs. Rook. “I’ll carry Aya.”

“Take her to my room,” Mrs. Rook said. “Minnie, go back to the kitchen for some hot water and vinegar to get the blood out of the carpet.”

“What are you doing?” Laura protested as Fred lifted her from the floor. He was gentle, but the movement jolted through her ribs. Wynwood had likely broken one, yet again, when he kicked her.

“The master was drunk and fell down the stairs,” Graham said firmly.

“But I hit him.” Laura caught a glimpse of the blood-smeared paperweight on the floor as Fred turned to exit the room. “On the back of the head.”

“He hit his head on the edge of the stairs.” Mrs. Rook picked up the paperweight. “There will even be blood on the runner.”

“No,” Laura moaned, “don’t do this.”

For the first time in all his years of service, Graham ignored his mistress’s orders. He spoke to one of the maids. “Charlotte, go and tell Mr. Havner to fetch Dr. Heddetch.”

Mrs. Rook nodded in approval. “He’ll treat Aya and say what needs to be said.”

Pain hammered through Laura’s side with each step of the footman holding her, and she didn’t have breath to speak. She couldn’t let her servants do this for her. Over the twelve years of her marriage, she had been grateful for their loyalty and how they had tried to protect her, but this was carrying that loyalty too far.

Fred hesitated before her bedroom door, but Jane, an upper housemaid, darted forward to open the door. He laid Laura on the bed, and as she sank against the pillows, she sighed on a long breath, “Don’t … please.”

“There is nothing we wouldn’t do for you, my lady,” Jane said in a strangely calm, strong voice. Fred’s expression echoed her determination. The two servants quickly exited the room, no doubt to help clean up the blood from the library downstairs, but also to prevent their mistress from protesting further.

Laura squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears she expected would not fall. A storm raged in the small space in her chest, with sharp flashes like lightning and deep rumbles like thunder, but the storm did not feel like grief or shock. It felt almost like rage or triumph.

What was the matter with her? Why didn’t she feel more horror or grief over the terrible events that had happened only moments ago? Had she grown numb to violence? Or was the violence the reason why the only thing she felt now was release?

The nightmare of twelve long years was over. He was dead. Wynwood was dead.

And she had killed him.

She should feel shame and guilt, but she only remembered the years of watching her husband’s face, black with anger, hearing his poisonous words, feeling his spit raining upon her face as he yelled. If she had been more meek and submissive, would he have held back his powerful fists, or would it have not made any difference?

All those years, she had felt alone. She had stood against her husband alone. She alone had received the blows from his hands and feet.

But tonight, Aya had dared to enter the library, had tried to stand between her mistress and her master. And had paid for her courage. Would Aya ever walk again?

Laura had realized that perhaps she hadn’t been entirely alone. Her servants had seen everything between her and her husband, and tonight, one of them had tried to act.

But what would happen now that Wynwood was dead and those servants were in the midst of hiding the fact their mistress killed him?

No, Laura was not alone. But she had dragged everyone with her to hell.

***

Laura drifted to wakefulness, although her eyes remained closed. The vestiges of the dream still clung to her like the clammy fingers of a dark fog rolling off the Thames.

She wished she had told Sol the truth.

She became aware of a strange musty smell, and opened her eyes. The strangeness of her surroundings caused panic for a moment, and then the events of last night returned to her.

Mr. Ackett had shoved her into the carriage. She tried to escape, but Mr. Heddetch was within, yanking her inside and forcing her to sit. She ended up beside a man she had never seen before, but she immediately could tell, even in the dark, that his eyes were very pale.

Outside the carriage, Mr. Ackett hesitated and was looking off to the side. The man narrowed his pale eyes as he studied Mr. Ackett, then he snapped, “Get in.”

Mr. Ackett seated himself across from her. His expression looked as it had when he had first appeared in her hotel room, as though he were in great pain.

And then, as the carriage pulled away, the pale-eyed man drew a pistol from inside his coat and shot Mr. Ackett in the stomach.

She thought she remembered screaming, but she must have fainted. When she awoke, the carriage was stopped in the yard of a shabby coaching Inn.

The first thing she saw was Mr. Ackett’s limp form. She tried to go to him, but the pale-eyed man pulled her out of the carriage and dragged her toward a large traveling coach on the other side of the yard, followed by Dr. Heddetch. He seemed almost indifferent to Mr. Ackett, but he seemed to be telling the truth when he said that he would take care of him. However, he didn’t say how he would take care of him.

She and Dr. Heddetch waited inside the coach for long minutes before the pale-eyed man rejoined them. There was blood smeared on his coat and waistcoat, but the dark color hid the stains. Mr. Ackett had been bleeding ever since she fainted and she wasn’t certain how long that had been.

They set off. Outside the coach was dark, and she knew she was no longer in London. From what she could see when they moved her to the second coach, the inn wasn’t on a large highway such as the Great North Road, but on an isolated, narrower stretch, and it was too dark for her to see the countryside.

She was frightened, but she needed to be strong. She knew that Sol would move heaven and earth to find her. But would it be enough?

But then she remembered that God was always with her. Sol had never been very devout, and she did not even know if he truly believed that God existed, but she believed that God could still guide him. She believed that God would guide his team to rescue her.

Lord, help me.

The prayer was short, but simply speaking to her Heavenly Father caused a drop of peace that eased the tempest of anxieties raging in her chest.

And as she slowly calmed, she realized she had a task only she could do. She began to focus upon trying to draw out all she could from these men. If—when Sol found her again, she wanted to have discovered valuable information about the Gentians and about Bianca.

She was terrible at lying, but she thought she managed to deceive the pale-eyed man. He had mentioned that the Gentians had searched Wynwood’s house, and that it was a large house.

She had been confused, for the townhouse was not large at all. But then she realized that he was referring to the Glencowe country estate, the formal seat of Viscount Wynwood.

It was at that moment that she realized—They didn’t know.

The truth was that her husband would never have hidden anything at his family estate, but it appeared that Bianca had not told the Gentians about that fact. Laura doubted that Bianca would have been ignorant of Wynwood’s dislike of Glencowe Castle, not when she had been so close to him.

But the Gentians’ ignorance about Wynwood was perhaps the reason why they had never found the pocket watch, for they could certainly have searched the townhouse at any time when Laura was not in town. Instead, it had been Phoebe who found the hidden space in Wynwood’s bedroom, while Laura thought to look more closely at his most personal furniture. It never occurred to the Gentians to more thoroughly check his London residence, in which he supposedly spent only a few months each year. But in reality, he had spent as much time as he could in London, and as little time as necessary in the country.

It was difficult to tell in the darkness of the coach, but she believed that the pale-eyed man had been completely truthful about everything he told her except for one. He had said that he wouldn’t kill her, but he was lying. She shivered.

She had wanted to speak to him more, but the pale-eyed man blindfolded and gagged her. He had seemed apologetic that it was necessary, but he did it all the same, and he tied both very tightly. He also tightened the rope still binding her hands.

The next several hours were a blur. She must have dozed at some point. They never changed horses, but kept an easy pace for them. When she asked to stop, they did so out in the middle of nowhere with no sounds around her except wildlife. Although they untied her and allowed her privacy behind a tree, the pale-eyed man caught her easily before she could run a few steps.

Mr. Ackett had been correct. He was faster and stronger than an ordinary man. But she wasn’t certain how he compared to a man on the Root. They blindfolded and gagged her again.

She knew when they turned off down a narrower road because they were forced to slow down, and she heard tree branches slapping the sides and top of the carriage. They finally stopped, but they did not remove her blindfold and instead led her up a set of front stairs and a modest staircase that twisted six times. She guessed that they had taken her from the ground floor to the second floor of a house.

Suddenly, she was pushed into a room and the door locked behind her. She took off her blindfold and gag, but the room about her was dark and she could see nothing. There was a strong musty odor, and she sneezed. She felt the dust sprinkle onto her face.

With hands outstretched, she moved deeper into the room, but quickly banged her shin into something heavy and low to the ground. Her fingers touched the smooth, straight lines of an armrest, sanded and varnished, but without carved ornamentation. She moved around it and bumped into another armchair of the same style, heavy and plain. Another step caused her to knock her pelvic bone against the edge of a table. It was also made of dense wood, and as her fingers moved across the dust on the surface, she found the tattered remains of felt. A gaming table, finely made. She continued forward, but every other step had her bumping into another piece of furniture, all of them expensive pieces crammed into this small space.

Finally, her forehead cracked against the slope of the roof. She rubbed the spot, only now realizing that she had been taken away without her bonnet, but wearing only a whisper of lace that Aya had insisted was a cap.

She was in an attic room, likely a servant’s bedroom that had been turned into a store room. She followed the slanted ceiling until she could see the faint outline of a square in the darkness made of a slightly lighter gray. A dormer window, with wooden shutters. She unlatched them and pushed. They opened only a crack before they stuck fast.

Outside, the sky was still dark, not yet lightened by the sunrise. She was not far from London, then. She had been taken at nine o’clock, but they had reached their destination before the dawn. They had traveled less than nine hours.

She heard the wind rustling through a great many trees. The sound was loud and close, but she could see nothing.

Based upon the expensive, masculine furniture and the nearby forest, she guessed she might be in a gentleman’s hunting lodge. Appropriate for genteel residents, isolated in order to have good hunting, but not often used, since this room had been converted into a store room for discarded pieces rather than housing a servant of the family.

She managed to tug the shutters closed and latched them. There was a single cot in the room, and she did her best to clean up the dust and shake off the bedclothes, trying to remember what Aya had done when taking care of her own bedroom at home.

The thought of Aya made her heart clench. She remembered hearing her maid screaming out in the stable yard, but then the sound had stopped, and Mr. Ackett had entered the carriage. She hoped she was uninjured.

At last, Laura lay down exhausted and went to sleep. But she had not slept well and had awoken from the nightmare.

From the dim light making its way around the edges of the shutters, it was still very early in the morning. She had slept for only two or three hours.

Her heart still pounded from the nightmare. She slipped out of the bed and knelt, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Heavenly Father, please help me.

For long minutes, that was all she could pray, repeating it over and over. Her mind was still frantic from the terrifying things she had seen in the dream. She thought of Phoebe and Keriah. She saw again Mr. Ackett’s bloodied body slumped across the carriage from her.

She thought it might have been halfway through their journey when the pale-eyed man switched places with Dr. Heddetch, who had been driving the coach. The doctor spoke only briefly with her, in snide remarks, with the anger and disdain clear in his voice.

Laura had never been so close to hysterics in her life. Even when Wynwood was at his worst, she had known the kind of violence she could expect from him, and it had made her feel as though perhaps she had some control over the situation.

But these men were strangers to her. She did not know their character. The panic scrabbled at her throat, simply because she didn’t know what to expect from them.

Dr. Heddetch was cruel and bitter. He had at last thrown off the mask he had worn all those years as a friend to her household. He made clear his disdain for her, and the churlish discontent at the fact that he had not been able to acquire the pocket watch.

The pale-eyed man had a softer voice and a gentler expression, but there was a burning behind his eyes, like a fire deep in a forest, slowly growing, anticipating the feeding of all the trees to its hunger. Those eyes contrasted the neutral mask of his face and his soft words and the way the edges of his mouth curled up ever so slightly, to give the impression that he was smiling. But she somehow knew that underneath that genial exterior was a ravenous beast.

Lord, help me.

Then slowly, like a frozen stream thawing under the gentle pressure of a warm wind, a sense of calm began to trickle back into the turmoil of her heart.

“Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.”

As she remembered this promise from her Lord, she suddenly found that she was able to breathe more deeply. An otherworldly comfort settled around her shoulders like an invisible blanket.

Something drew her gaze to the window, and she made her way across to it. She again pushed at the shutters, and they again opened only a crack. She applied a sharp blow with her shoulder, which left it throbbing, but the shutters swung open.

The sky was heavy with clouds, but a lighter gray color. Trees rustled outside the house, only a few dozen yards away. Because she stood on the top floor, she could see that the forest extended a fair ways.

But off in the distance, the peaked roof of a manor house rose above the tops of the trees. She thought she recognized it. Her heart rate quickened. However, she could not remember where she had seen it, no matter how long she stared.

She suddenly heard footsteps outside of her room, coming up the stairs. They stopped outside her door, and then there was the scrape of the key in the lock.

The door opened slowly, and then the pale-eyed man’s face appeared. “You are awake. I thought I had heard you moving around.”

But he had come all the way up the stairs from the ground floor. How had he still heard her moving around? Then she remembered his powerful strength. He had perhaps the same sensitive hearing as Mr. Coulton-Jones and, for a time, Mr. Rosmont.

“I am surprised you are awake this early,” he said. “Heddetch is still asleep. Would you like some breakfast?”

He was very solicitous, but once again, something in his eyes made her shiver. She swallowed. “Yes, please.” Her lips twisted. “After all, there is no point in melodramatically threatening to starve myself until you release me, or anything so gothic.”

He smiled. “Please wait a few minutes.”

She had time to close the shutters, then to try to set her hair to rights and smooth the wrinkles in her gown. It was only a thin muslin affair, but luckily she’d been wearing her apricot-colored shawl when Mr. Ackett arrived, which gave some warmth.

About half an hour later, he again unlocked the door and invited her down to the dining room, which was small and cozy. A simple affair lay steaming upon the sideboard.

He bade her sit at the table while he filled up a plate for her. She poured him tea from the pot on the table.

“I admit I am surprised that you trust me enough to let me out of my room,” she said.

He set her plate in front of her and then sat himself down across. “There’s nowhere for you to go.” His words were said in a friendly voice, hardly threatening, and yet there was a cold confidence in his eyes as he surveyed her. He was utterly unconcerned about any attempts to escape. With his superior speed and strength, he could easily catch her, but if the house was as isolated as she believed, and as he had just indicated with his reply, then he also knew that she would not be able to find help in time even if she did try to run away.

She hesitated, then plucked up her courage and asked, “Do you mind if I pray to bless this food?”

A flash of savage rage flitted across his features, so quickly that she almost wasn’t certain she had seen it. But then he had the same neutral mask again. “Be my guest.” But he did not pray with her—he instead began tucking into his food.

Undeterred, she prayed aloud, “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this food that Thou hast provided for us.” There was the sudden sharp scrape of his cutlery against the plate. “We thank Thee for Thy provision and sovereignty over all. Amen.”

“I do apologize for the rustic fair,” he said with a hint of mockery.

There were shirred eggs and fried potatoes, as well as toasted bread and some type of berry jam. “It is quite delicious.”

“I thank you, milady.”

She realized that she was speaking to the cook. “Do you often cook for yourself?”

“Yes.” His mockery became more blatant in the crook of his lips. “I am not accustomed to having servants, so I learned to make do for myself.”

“Are there no servants here?”

“We arranged for a boy to come once a day to care for the horses. However, he is mute and has been instructed to enter the stables only.”

No servants. No witnesses to what they would do to her, or what they would do after they questioned her.

They wanted her to find more things belonging to Bianca, but if she did manage to find such items for them, she had no doubt they would not allow her to leave. They would not wish anyone to know about what they had done to her or, more importantly, what they had asked her to find. Out here, if they intended to be rid of her, there would be no one to witness it.

Control over her emotions slipped, and the agitation began clawing up her throat again. She sipped her tea to force down both her food and fear. “What has happened to Mr. Ackett?”

“I gave him the best care possible,” he said.

She did and yet did not want to know if he were dead. She could not ask him. So instead, she asked, “How did you force Mr. Ackett to kidnap me?”

“I flatter myself that I am not incompetent with charcoal and brush.” There was a softness that curved in the lines of his mouth, and she guessed that perhaps the activity brought him some of the purest joy in his life. “I drew a picture of Mr. Ackett after meeting him in the stables. It was quite difficult to find his name. I had to make use of higher class connections whom I rarely contact. But one of them recognized him immediately. Once I knew Mr. Ackett’s name and family, it was quite easy.” Some jam at the corner of his mouth shimmered red like blood, and he dabbed at it with his napkin. “The things that are precious to him are very apparent.”

She remembered Mr. Ackett speaking of his younger sister. “You did not harm her, surely? Is she here?”

“She is quite safe in her bed.” He was telling her the truth.

The finger of tension in her chest eased. “I do beg your pardon, but I do not know your name.”

True surprise lightened his pale eyes until they were almost silver. “My name is Seyward.”

“Are you from this area, Mr. Seyward?”

He smiled, looking rather like a cat toying with a mouse. “I shall not tell you, but I do thank you for asking.”

He was being entirely truthful, which was a strange reaction when a person normally uttered that phrase. “May I ask, are you not accustomed to people asking you about yourself?”

She realized it was his mouth that revealed his true feelings, which seemed to be always curled in that almost-smile. It twitched now, betraying his surprise. His lips pressed tightly together, showing that the question had also made him a bit guarded, as though it were something he didn’t wish her to know.

“I am usually surrounded by dangerous men,” he finally answered her. “They keep their secrets, and they would not ask a chap about himself out of curiosity.”

He was not being quite truthful. She pushed harder. “Somehow, I cannot believe you have always been surrounded by such men, or by servants or minions who would not interact with you on a more personal level.”

He blinked at her. “No, but it has been a long, long time since anyone was as curious about me as you are. I appreciate your interest.”

He was only partially telling the truth. “You do indeed seem pleased that I am curious about you and ask you about yourself,” she said to test him.

The mouth softened. Yes, it was true. He was pleased.

“But you also seem a bit threatened by me,” she continued. “Is it because I know something about you that most other people do not notice?”

It was a bold thing for her to say, but that malleable mouth told her that what she had said was truth even as it opened and denied it. “I am hardly threatened by you.”

Perhaps he was not truly threatened by her, but she was certain that he did not like that she noticed things about him that others overlooked.

She remained silent and continued with her breakfast. She must be careful. She did not want him to realize that she possessed the ability to read the truth of his answers in his face.

They both finished eating, but they sat there sipping tea in silence that seemed almost companionable.

“Was it you who sent Dr. Heddetch to spy upon my household?” she asked.

She didn’t expect him to answer, and yet he did. “It was not my decision.”

So there were indeed others of an equal or higher level than himself in the Gentians. Perhaps the Dr. Ward with whom Heddetch corresponded.

“But I did not object,” he continued, “when they introduced Heddetch to Wynwood as a doctor for him to hire and keep close.”

“How did you convince Wynwood to do as you asked?”

“He believed that he was doing us a favor.” He again gave her that predatory smile. “In truth, we were surrounding him with people to better control him.”

“Bianca could not control him well enough?”

A sneer curled the edge of his mouth and was gone in an instant. He had disliked Bianca. Laura wanted to ask him about it, but she also didn’t want him to know that she had seen his reaction.

“Yes, she did,” he said, “but there’s nothing wrong with a little redundancy.”

His mention of “us” suddenly made her curious. “If I may ask, what do you call yourselves?”

He hesitated, and she could see the indecision on his face. She thought perhaps that he didn’t believe there was any harm in telling her, but at the same time he might have been worried that it would be foolish.

“I have been calling you the Gentians,” she said, “because the flower on your seal is a gentian.”

He laughed, a light, pleasant sound, and yet at the same time it made her think of thorns trying to poke through silk. “Jack would like that name better.” He set down his teacup. “We call ourselves the Citadel.”

“A fortified tower, hiding your secrets?”

He smiled at her. “Something like that.”

She also set down her teacup and looked him full in the face. “Why are you not more cautious about telling me?”

He gave her a look that was almost pitying. “To be honest, my dear lady, the only other people who know that the name refers to us are all already long dead.”

She shivered a little, but she also thought that he said that merely to discompose her. “It seems very sad,” she said. “Do you feel lonely?”

Again that mouth twitched. He was surprised by her question, being unused to having people ask him about himself, whether his past or present.

“No,” he said, “I am not lonely. I was not very close to any of them.”

The gently worded sentence made her freeze, like a deer that has heard a snapping twig in the woods.

“I quite like you, you know,” he said. “You make me feel … more opaque.”

“I’m afraid I do not understand what that means.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but then hesitated and closed it again. She waited, but he did not speak, simply returning to sipping his tea.

Then she heard the sound of someone making their way down the stairs.

Soon, Dr. Heddetch stumbled into the room, bringing with him the strong reek of alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark smudges under them. He wore a coat but his shirt hung open, exposing his neck, with his hair in lanky threads around his head.

He scowled not just at Laura but also at Mr. Seyward, then staggered toward the sideboard. He picked up a piece of toast and took a bite, then frowned at it, although he did not spit it out.

To Mr. Seyward, he said with his mouth full, “The food’s cold.”

Laura would not have believed it if she had not seen it unfold before her eyes: Mr. Seyward did not simply ignore Dr. Heddetch—he did something with his face and with his body, blurring them somehow. In seconds, he had become almost invisible, even though he was still sitting there at the table.

Dr. Heddetch brought a plate of food and slouched into a chair. He glared at Laura, but did not even look at Mr. Seyward. He began shoveling food into his mouth.

She wanted to leave the room, but she also wanted to see what other information she could coax from the doctor, or even from Mr. Seyward. The two men disliked each other, and Mr. Seyward was careful not to reveal his feelings to Dr. Heddetch, but she could read his emotions in his mouth. She was certain she could uncover some of his secrets if only she asked the right questions. And so she remained in her seat. So did Mr. Seyward, sipping his cold tea.

Dr. Heddetch finished his food and pushed the plate away. He gave her a speculative look. “Did you cook?” he asked rudely.

“No,” she said, “he did.” She nodded towards Mr. Seyward.

Dr. Heddetch’s gaze flickered toward the man, and his eyebrows twisted, almost as though he had completely forgotten he was sitting there.

Although the doctor’s reaction had been subtle, Mr. Seyward did not seem surprised by it, although his pale eyes chilled like dirty ice.

Their conduct with each other revealed as much about Dr. Heddetch as it did about Mr. Seyward.

A chair scraped loudly in the silent room as Mr. Seyward rose to his feet. “I shall escort you back to your room, milady.”

But Dr. Heddetch also jumped to his feet. “I’ve been put in charge,” he snapped, “and I wish to start immediately.”

Mr. Seyward’s mask shifted to one of annoyance, but Laura could tell that he was merely pretending. It appeared that he had wanted Dr. Heddetch to insist that they start right away, that he had perhaps had that in mind when he first rose to supposedly lead her back to her bedroom.

But she, in doing so, he had deliberately brought Dr. Heddetch’s attention to her. It declared that Mr. Seyward did not consider Dr. Heddetch to be the one in charge, which naturally made the doctor react exactly as he did. Exactly as Mr. Seyward had wanted him to act.

She might have managed to surprise Mr. Seyward a bit during the conversation at breakfast, but she needed to be especially wary of him. She had never seen anyone so masterfully manipulate another person to do exactly what he wished them to do, and yet make it appear as though it was their own idea. She quickly looked away from Mr. Seyward so that he would not realize that she had observed this.

Dr. Heddetch grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. He smelled foul, of sour ale and rotting blood and old urine, as though he hadn’t bathed in days. When in the coach with him, she had been blindfolded and gagged and too terrified to notice.

She should be even more terrified now, but strangely, she started to feel disconnected from her body, as though her mind were floating above her. It was a familiar feeling, which she had not felt in over ten years.

Her shawl fell from her shoulders and dropped somewhere as Dr. Heddetch dragged her to the back of the house and down a narrow flight of servants’ stairs, where she stumbled on the dusty steps and nearly fell. She thrust her hands out and scraped them against the stone blocks lining the stairs. Like Stapytton House, this hunting lodge had a full basement, but not as many storerooms.

Mr. Seyward was behind Laura and Dr. Heddetch on the stairs. She sensed him drawing close and turned around.

He did something quite odd. He stepped around Laura and reached out to touch the doctor, but not on the shoulder or the arm, but on the bare skin at the back of his hand where it hung by his side. Mr. Seyward was tall and thin, and he had to bend his knees slightly in order to reach.

“Why are you taking her here?” Mr. Seyward asked.

Dr. Heddetch gave a low, sinister chuckle. “So that no one will hear her scream.”

Laura again had the impression that Mr. Seyward had deliberately manipulated the doctor, goading him with the question to cause him to answer in that way, to make him decide to be more rough with her.

She also did not know why he made the effort to touch the doctor’s hand. The touch had looked to be feather-light, and from the doctor’s perspective, it must have felt like a casual, inconsequential touch. But Mr. Seyward had bent his lanky frame in order to brush the doctor’s bare skin. She couldn’t help thinking that the touch was important to Mr. Seyward.

And in a strange, frightening way, Dr. Heddetch somehow seemed more pliable to Mr. Seyward’s manipulation when he touched him.

The butler’s pantry was smaller than Stapytton House, and still packed with wine shelves. Several of the empty ones had been shoved aside to clear space in the center, where a rough wooden chair had been placed.

Dr. Heddetch shoved her down into the chair and grabbed rope hanging off of the shelf to tie her hands behind her and her feet to the chair legs. He pulled the knots painfully tight, looking up at her face as he did so.

But she had played this game before. She kept her face expressionless, not giving him the satisfaction of a wince or a cry.

His lips pulled back, and he almost bared his teeth at her. She met his eyes steadily.

He gave a last, extra-vicious tug to the rope. “Now, you shall tell me exactly what I want to know. And if you have not been any trouble to us, then after we get what we want, why, we will let you go.”

She didn’t need her skill to know he was lying.

Mr. Seyward approached them and again gently touched the doctor’s skin, this time the back of his neck exposed by his open-necked shirt. Dr. Heddetch didn’t even appear to notice.

“You should soften her up,” Mr. Seyward said in a low voice.

“Wynwood hit her,” Heddetch said. There was a low, almost dreamy quality to his voice. “If I do the same, it will either break her or make her stronger.”

“She is already broken, can you not tell?” Mr. Seyward looked at her, his eyes like wide discs of frosted silver. “She was with her husband for twelve years. There is nothing left of her.”

She could tell that Mr. Seyward did not believe what he was saying. And yet, even though she knew they were lies, the words seemed to press down and rub a stain on her soul. There were many times during her marriage when she had felt that, as though she were no longer there inside her body.

But then she heard a whisper, although she heard it not with her ears. She could not make out the words, but she felt as though she had awoken from a doze.

No, she would not allow Mr. Seyward’s poisonous words to affect her.

She did not understand him. He did not believe that abusing her would truly make Laura tell them anything, and yet he was manipulating Dr. Heddetch into doing this anyway.

In a strange way, it didn’t seem as though he wanted to hurt Laura. However, she had the suspicion that he was setting Dr. Heddetch up for failure. It was obvious he didn’t like working with the man, and yet his actions were inexplicable. She began to wonder if perhaps he was hoping to influence some other people within the Citadel to remove Dr. Heddetch once he made too many mistakes. Was that what he desired?

Dr. Heddetch scowled and jerked his shoulders, and Mr. Seyward removed his hand from the back of his neck.

“What else did you find that Wynwood hid from you?” Dr. Heddetch demanded of her.

She remained silent.

His lip curled into a sadistic smile. “You must hate it, the fact that he hid all those things which belonged to Bianca. Did you find books and papers in another woman’s handwriting?”

She looked up at him and didn’t respond.

Perhaps because he had been goaded by Mr. Seyward, he pulled back his arm and hit her rather than trying to reason with her. She saw immediately that he moved almost too fast for her to follow, and although she tried to roll her head with the blow, she could also tell that he was stronger. He only walked with a slight limp, despite the fact that Phoebe had said he hobbled away from the house as though in great pain. He was indeed now on the Root.

And yet, perhaps because he was not used to fisticuffs—or at the very least, not used to hitting women—the blow was nothing compared to how Wynwood used to hit her. Even with all his great strength, the doctor didn’t hit as savagely, as uninhibitedly, as Wynwood. She had learned to time the turning of her head to lessen the force of the blow, so it was not so bad.

“Not the face,” Mr. Seyward murmured.

Dr. Heddetch didn’t respond to him, but he changed to hitting areas below her neckline.

He continued questioning her. He continued hitting her. But despite taking blow after blow, she somehow felt as though there was something keeping her sense of self afloat so that she didn’t drown in despair. It was exactly like some of the times when Wynwood beat her especially badly, a strange sensation that felt as though she was no longer in her body. She still felt the pain, and yet somehow it was as if her mind itself was protected, sheltered in an invisible castle deep inside her.

She knew this was the Lord.

And the more Heddetch hit her, the more it reminded her of Wynwood hitting her, and yet she felt buoyed up by a feeling that she was not alone.

The doctor’s frustration made him hit her more. But he was not used to such physical exertion, and he finally had to pause, breathing heavily.

When he had hit her face, it had been the left side. She had already had a bruise there from the last time he attacked her, but now her left eye had swollen shut, so she blearily looked up at him from her right. It hurt to breathe.

“It is obvious you will never let me go,” she slurred. She’d clenched her teeth so tightly that her jaw was sore, making it difficult to speak. “If I shall die anyway, why should I tell you anything?”

Mr. Seyward’s face erupted in delight as he smiled at her, but he stood behind Dr. Heddetch, who didn’t see his expression. In contrast, the doctor’s face had turned the same color as the berry jam at breakfast.

Mr. Seyward reached out and again touched Dr. Heddetch’s bare skin peeking out over his wilted shirt. “Look at her, defying you.” His voice almost sounded like a courtesan trying to entice her lover. “She needs to pay for that. We don’t allow people to speak to us that way.”

She realized that in touching Dr. Heddetch, in speaking to him that way, with those words, it was as if he were deliberately trying to tie threads of connection to him, to bridge the distance caused by their dislike of each other. She didn’t know why he wanted to do this, but she began to suspect that Mr. Seyward felt a need to connect, even as he was manipulating the doctor.

Heddetch began hitting her again, screaming at her with spit flying in her face.

God, please help me, she prayed.

She could hold on. She could hold on until Sol found her.

CHAPTER TEN

Isabella knew as soon as she turned onto Bond Street that she was being followed.

It had been a rather anxiously boring morning for her. After hearing that Lady Wynwood had been taken, and then being forced to leave the team, she had been too worried to sleep. She wandered restlessly about the house until her mother awoke. After a substantial breakfast, her parent declared herself well enough by now to go for a walk, and so they had set out.

But according to Mrs. Coulton-Jones, a “walk” always included shopping, and so their steps took them to the fashionable shops.

And somewhere along the way, a man had begun following them.

It was alarming enough that she was with her mother, but when she managed to catch more than just a glimpse of him, she realized that he also had ash blond hair, which was the same color as Dr. Heddetch. They had assumed that the doctor had been one of the men to take Lady Wynwood, but what if he had not? What if he had remained in London?

Isabella was not a skilled fighter. She had had some training with Mr. Armstrong, but despite him telling her over and over to “Put some guts into it!” she was not strong enough, not fast enough, not agile enough, and not ruthless enough. It was why she was always accompanied by a male agent whenever she was tasked with a mission. She had become quite skilled at using distractions in order to escape.

But she could not escape now with her mother beside her. So she remained close, chatting and giving her opinion on pink ribbons versus blue, or green crêpe versus yellow. All the while she casually scanned the faces around her, keeping track of the figure shadowing them.

By a stroke of luck, her mother stopped to peer into a shop window and she used the reflection to look behind them. The man was standing across the street, plain as day.

And she suddenly realized why he had revealed himself. She sighed in exasperation.

“Mother,” she said, “I fear I have developed a headache. Might we return?”

Her mother was solicitous, especially since Isabella had spent some time nursing her of her stomach ailment.

Half an hour later, she left Mrs. Coulton-Jones looking over her purchases in her bedroom. She paused to think where she should go, then headed to the drawing room. She curled up in her favorite chair and opened a novel.

Barely fifteen minutes passed before she heard a tapping at the door to the balcony. She made no move from her seat by the fireplace and simply turned another page in the book she was reading.

She had unlocked the door when she entered the room, and now it swung open. Her brother stood there wearing an ash-blonde wig and with a twig in his cravat.

“Ugly, you had to wait for me in the drawing room, of all places?”

“I wanted to punish you for frightening me earlier.” She turned another leaf in her book. “I decided a fitting punishment would be to force you to scale the wall of climbing roses in the back garden.”

Brushing pieces of leaves and rose petals from his clothing, he crossed the room and flung himself in the chair opposite her. “It took you a while to notice me.”

“I noticed you,” she said, finally closing her book, “but I had Mother with me. I am unused to protecting someone who is with me.”

He thought about that for a moment. “A reasonable excuse,” he conceded.

“Tell me your business, Smelly, before I throw this book at your head.”

She expected him to smile and joke about abusing literature, but instead his face became drawn and worried. “I need your help.”

Isabella immediately set the book aside. “What has happened?”

He told her everything that had occurred at the Ramparts. She was shocked at what Thorne reported had occurred at the prison, and angry at Uppleby’s hubris that enabled the prisoners to escape. She wished she could have been there, except that most of the people in the building had no notion that she was an agent. And it must always remain so. Several of her past missions had been undertaken to protect very, very dangerous secrets.

Michael described the raid upon Dr. Heddetch’s house. “We took the maid early this morning.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “Mr. Maghew has been questioning her all morning, but he hasn’t been able to get her to say anything.”

Isabella leaned her head back and sighed. “I have not spoken to him, but I’ve heard much about Mr. Maghew, none of it flattering.”

“He is a boor,” Michael said bluntly. “Miss Rummery is terribly frightened, and Mr. Maghew is brusque and threatening. He is becoming more and more frustrated.”

“His impatience is likely making him raise his voice,” Isabella guessed, “which would only increase her anxiety.”

He nodded. “He has aggressively been accusing her of working closely with Dr. Heddetch. When he insulted her by insinuating a more intimate relationship, I stepped in to protest, and I was thrown out of the room.”

“Did you have any reason to believe that she works with Jack as Dr. Heddetch does?”

“None.”

“Do you believe she knows something?” She studied her brother.

Michael hesitated, then slowly said, “Perhaps. But even if some miracle were to occur and I would be able to question her alone, she is completely consumed by her terror.”

“What did she say or do that made you suspect she might know something?” Isabella asked. On her missions, there was usually a moment, or handful of moments, which she could pinpoint that told her when her target withheld something. She had become quite good at spotting those moments, for it had been her brother Michael who had taught her to look for them.

“She has done nothing but cry and shake and insist that she is merely Dr. Heddetch’s maid, working in his house to clean and help the cook. But that was when I thought that she was hiding something.” He gusted a sigh and slouched back in his chair. “Lady Wynwood would likely know exactly what word she wasn’t being truthful about, but I cannot tell. I simply have a vague feeling that she knows something, but she will not say it.”

“Are you certain? If she was crying and weeping and hiccoughing, it would be difficult to tell.”

“I think so. And I do not blame her for being distrustful of the men who have mistreated her. I also would be disinclined to proffer any useful knowledge.”

“She may fear what Mr. Maghew will do if he discovers that she does know something. He might believe she truly is working with Dr. Heddetch and Jack. He might hurt her.” Isabella thought a moment, then added, “Or she may be afraid of Jack, and afraid of what he would do to her and her family if he discovered that she told the agents anything about him.”

The clock on the mantle chimed the hour, and Michael glanced at it. “It has been too long since Lady Wynwood was taken.” He closed his eyes, looking exhausted. “It would have been better if Mr. Drydale had not allowed Sir Derrick to dismiss Miss Sauber and Miss Gardinier. If they had been at the Ramparts, they may have been of help in coaxing the maid to talk. She may have been able to be more trustful of women who were kind to her.”

“It is entirely possible that Phoebe and Keriah would not have been allowed to speak to the maid.”

“But if they had been there, we may have found a way. I feel as though Mr. Drydale betrayed them in not standing up for them more.”

Isabella was shocked that he would criticize a superior officer that way. He must be very frustrated, indeed. “The Ramparts do not have many female agents, but there are a few.”

“I do not know them well enough to be able to contact them, even assuming that they were able to leave whatever missions they may be engaged in.” Michael opened his eyes and looked at her. “But bringing you would not be against any rules because you are already an agent.”

“I may be an agent, but no one is supposed to know about it.”

“Have you ever been to the Ramparts when you were not disguised as a boy?”

“I came once dressed as an urchin girl, but it was only late at night, when the building was empty.”

“If you were dressed as a boy …”

“The men who are aware that I am an agent are supposed to pretend they don’t, so they would insist I leave if they saw me, just as they would with any other stranger. It is not entering the Ramparts that will be difficult. It will be sneaking me in to the interrogation to see the maid and talk to her.”

“I can do it,” he said confidently.

Isabella made a helpless gesture with her hands. “I’ve never done an interrogation before. I am not skilled at drawing people out like Lady Wynwood and Phoebe.”

Michael leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes intent on hers. For a brief moment, it looked as though Richard were staring at her instead of Michael. “I must ask you to try. Otherwise, Mr. Maghew will never get any testimony from her. We may lose our chance to save Lady Wynwood.”

Isabella was suddenly ashamed that she had been so unwilling to do this. Of course she should have been thinking of Lady Wynwood.

“When you enter the Ramparts,” he asked, “what is the story that you tell the Guardian?”

“I need no story. Usually, I enter through the fabric warehouse.” She only needed to state her name and the name of an agent to escort her.

Michael shook his head. “That won’t do. The fabric warehouse entrance requires an agent to escort you inside.”

“Yes, I know. I don’t see the problem. You can escort me, surely?”

He shook his head again. “It would be best for me not to be seen with you. The men who are under Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby know that I am working on this investigation, and if they see you with me, they will wish to speak to you.”

Isabella knew that Mr. Clay was at the Ramparts, but he was one of the last people she would wish to escort her, since he worked for Mr. Uppleby. She also was rather miffed at him because he had been antagonistic toward her brother and the rest of the team the last time she spoke to him. She did not trust him, because she did not trust the orders that Mr. Uppleby had given to him.

And certainly she could not ask Mr. Antingham or Mr. Uppleby to lower themselves to escort an agent into the building, because although she was quite high-ranking herself, they were aware that she was Michael’s sister, and it would not be surprising for them to suspect she was at the building with findings for Michael that pertained to Lady Wynwood.

“I can enter through the Ivory Ramparts,” she said, naming the gentleman’s club where the higher-class agents entered. “I have a key, and the Guardian at the door knows a particular phrase that I can use to gain entry.”

His eyebrows rose. “I was not aware that an entry-phrase was possible. I always assumed that the Guardians were required to recognize the faces of anyone allowed into the building.”

“In my case, my face would always change, since I was also hiding from the people in the building.”

“Ah. Yes, I should have thought of that. Use that entrance, then.” He stood, holding his hand out to her. “Shall we?”

***

Isabella had a special costuming room built into the mews at the back of her mother’s house. It looked like a small storeroom, but all her cosmetics and disguises were hidden behind a panel in the wall which could only be opened by a hidden keyhole. She chose to dress in livery, since she would be traversing through the exclusive gentlemen’s club. She would be less likely to be noticed if she looked as though she were on an errand.

Michael met her outside the mews with a hired hackney, and he dropped her off at the entrance to the Ivory Ramparts. It was open at all hours, although at this time of day, a normal gentlemen’s club would tend to be sparse of company. But the Ivory Ramparts catered to members with passion for a singular game, and the daylight hours were the club’s busiest times. Various tables set up across the room were crowded with chess pieces. Some tables held only two men, while others were surrounded by spectators betting upon the game. The room was not quiet, by any means, but the sound was perhaps more muted than it would be at White’s or Brook’s.

A large man at the front door stopped her, but only in a desultory way, since her livery was obviously of fine make.

“I’m here with a message for Mr. Towry,” she said. “I am to deliver it directly.” Mr. Towry was the daytime manager of the club.

The doorman waved her through.

She wound her way through the gaming tables in the front room until she reached a door against the far wall, which led into a hallway lined with sound-proofed private gaming rooms. The hallway was wide but only dimly lit by a handful of sconces mounted on the walls.

However, the hallway was not empty, and two gentlemen strolled toward the front room. Isabella stood to the side, head bowed in a servile manner, and waited for them to pass. She then continued down the hall but passed the room which was her aim, walking slowly. As soon as the two men had exited the hallway and closed the door behind them, she turned around and opened the heavy wooden door of the second to last room on the left.

The tiny, sparse room held only a table and two chairs, both very plain and uncomfortable-looking. The walls had been paneled in dark, hand-carved wood that made the room seem a bit darker. She did not often come through this entrance, and so it took her a little while to find the small panel that slid aside so that she could insert her key. She swung the door open and entered.

The chamber within was dimmer than the gaming room she had just left, which was unusual—typically, the Guardian kept the room exceptionally bright with lamps as well as the chandelier above in order the dazzle the eyesight of anyone who entered. The large, windowless drawing room bore an imposing fireplace and comfortable, masculine furniture, and along the wall opposite from her stood three closed doors. As Isabella closed the door behind her, she turned toward the reception desk situated to the side, and froze.

There were supposedly three women who guarded this door, but most agents claim that they only ever saw Miss Nell. However, the woman seated at the desk was not she.

The Guardian was perhaps a decade younger than Miss Nell. Her dark hair was straight and pulled back in a severe knot at the back of her head, softened only by a stiff fringe over her thick, straight eyebrows. She had eyes the color of old hardwood, and they narrowed as they took in Isabella in her disguise.

The woman had risen to her feet. “I don’t know what you are about, but you are not allowed here.”

“I am allowed,” Isabella blurted, then realized how inane that sounded. It was obvious by the fact that she had known the exact location of the hidden doorway in the gaming room and had used a key.

“I don’t know how you managed to open the door, but you will march directly out.” The woman pointed at the closed door.

Isabella shouldn’t have allowed the change in doorkeeper to fluster her. But the woman was simply so unlike Miss Nell, who always greeted her with calm and silence, waiting for Isabella to speak first.

Miss Nell also always had a pistol trained upon whoever entered this doorway, and Isabella found it curious that this woman had no such weapon. The Guardians at the other entries also had pistols to greet everyone who used the secret doorways. Ironically, the woman’s lack of a weapon somehow made Isabella more uneasy. It seemed almost sloppy of the doorkeeper.

When Sir Derrick had first brought Isabella to the Ramparts, he had used this entrance in order to show her the hidden door and to introduce her to Miss Nell. He had given Isabella and Miss Nell a secret phrase to ensure that Isabella would be allowed entry, regardless of how she were dressed.

At the time, Isabella had been surprised that the phrase Sir Derrick had given to her had been a passage of Scripture. “What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in light: and what ye hear in the ear, that preach ye upon the housetops.” The book of Matthew, chapter 10, verse 27.

However, when she recited it, the Scripture only appeared to make the woman more angry. “What are you blathering about? I said that you must leave.”

Isabella was at point non plus. The secret phrase had never been rejected before. She repeated it.

Where Miss Nell would likely have simply shot her, the woman looked to be nearly apoplectic. “Why are you repeating that? Is that a threat?”

“That’s what I’m supposed to say to the doorkeeper,” Isabella said helplessly. “You’re to allow me to enter.” She was not certain what else she could do. This was not like a mission, where she must use all means necessary in order to accomplish her goals. She certainly could not try to attack this woman—not that she stood any chance of success if she did. The Guardians were rumored to have special combat and marksmanship abilities, which was why they were chosen for the job. However, no one had witnessed any of them fighting, so those were simply rumors.

“You are allowed to enter?” The woman cast a disparaging glance at Isabella’s childish looks. “I cannot fathom how you found out about the door, much less how to open it, but I refuse to allow a scrubby child any further inside.”

Surely there was someone else to whom she could speak rather than this woman, who seemed woefully unprepared for her duty. “Where is Miss Nell?” Isabella asked.

The woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but she said, “There is no one by that name here.”

Isabella reflected that she should have known that a woman tasked with guarding the door to the Ramparts wouldn’t simply confess the whereabouts of the usual agent, especially since Miss Nell often acted as Sir Derrick’s appointments secretary.

She was torn as to the best course of action. She had been ordered to ensure that no one within the Ramparts became aware that the urchin boy was an adult woman, nor that she was an agent. “I’m Sir Derrick’s informant,” Isabella said finally.

“There is no one here by that name,” the woman snapped again.

Isabella was becoming more and more annoyed. “I know that Sir Derrick is here. If you send for him, Sir Derrick will vouch for me.”

“Even if someone by that name were here, I am not about to disturb someone who has far more important things to do.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Isabella said hotly, glad that her disguise as a young boy enabled her to be more blunt. “You flinch every time I say Sir Derrick’s name.”

Despite herself, the woman flinched again. Angry with herself, but unable to deny it, she said, “I won’t call him down here when it’s obvious it would be a waste of his time. There is no possibility that Sir Derrick knows who you are.”

At first Isabella thought that the woman was simply untrained in her duties, but now she began to be concerned that the security of the Ramparts was compromised by her ineptitude. Isabella had always been assured that the secrecy of her identity and her missions were of the highest order, and that the procedures set in place at the Ramparts would ensure that she would be able to do her job without hindrance.

To most of the agents, she was not part of this investigation. She was a ghost who existed merely in the records in Sir Derrick’s office.

Perhaps she ought to tell this woman that she was a part of the investigation that Sir Derrick had taken over today. But no, the woman would hardly believe her because Sir Derrick was rarely personally involved in any investigation. And while Miss Nell was Sir Derrick’s appointments secretary, Isabella doubted this woman was aware of the matters that the head of the Ramparts attended to. Additionally, it would not do to let anyone know that Isabella was connected to the kidnapping, for then Mr. Antingham or Mr. Uppleby might hear about it and try to detain her in order to speak with her.

She did not have a similar phrase to use with the Guardian of the door through the haberdashery, or she would have marched out and tried her luck there instead of dealing with this irritatingly stubborn woman. Indeed, most of the time she came through the fabric warehouse, and she had only used the Ivory Ramparts entry once or twice before.

Michael had intended to enter the Ramparts through the haberdashery, and he would be within the building by now. However, she couldn’t call upon his name to try to convince the Guardian, since the entire point of her using this entrance was so that she would not be associated with Sir Derrick’s investigation.

Isabella straightened, although she did not drop the façade of a young pageboy. “I’ll prove I’ve talked directly with Sir Derrick.”

The woman’s eyebrows lowered. “Is this a trick?”

“No,” Isabella said impatiently. “Have you been to Sir Derrick’s office?”

The woman hesitated, obviously torn as to whether she should tell the truth.

Isabella continued, “Then you know how to reach it from this room.” She pointed to the door on the far right. “That door leads to the first floor. Sir Derrick’s office is the third on the left. It’s made of wood darker than the other doors in the hallway, and there is the head of a lion carved into the latch, which is brass. It’s filled with more papers than a library, and Sir Derrick’s desk stands against the left wall with two brown and black striped silk chairs in front of it for guests.”

At Isabella’s barrage of words, the woman blinked rapidly, obviously uncertain what to make of it.

Isabella’s small stature made it difficult for her to intimidate anyone, and her disguise as a pageboy or street urchin usually made it almost impossible. But she used all of her acting ability to convey her intense displeasure—or rather, Sir Derrick’s intense displeasure once he became aware of the confrontation. “Sir Derrick gave me that Scripture verse so Miss Nell would let me in. I don’t know how you got Miss Nell’s job, but Sir Derrick’s not going to be pleased if you stop me from giving him the information I have.”

“I … I cannot let you in.” The woman rather looked as though she was trying to solve a math problem and hadn’t a clue how to do so.

“Are you a proper doorkeeper?” Isabella demanded. “Are you going to make me describe every floor in the building?”

It was already obvious that Isabella’s knowledge of the building was too detailed for any but agents to know, but the woman’s lip was stuck out in a pout. She said nothing, obviously unwilling to retract her original words.

Isabella hadn’t much time. Michael’s plan was to distract the two agents speaking to the maid to give her the time to enter the room and question her herself, but she needed to be in position before he put that plan in motion. She had no more time for this foolish woman.

Her eyes fell to the surface of the desk and the lack of pistol. Dare she try to force her way inside?

She hadn’t any other choice.

Playing up her act as a young boy, she made a face at the woman. “You old hag! You’ll never catch me!” She darted toward the far right door.

“Stop!” The woman scurried after her.

Isabella skirted the furniture in the way, leading the woman away from the entrance. Then she circled a sofa and leaped over a chair to go back the way she came, toward the reception desk where the woman had been seated—where Miss Nell usually sat.

She dove to the floor and peered under the desk. Miss Nell’s pistol lay in the leather holster bolted to the underside.

Snatching the weapon, Isabella straightened and pointed it at the woman.

She immediately halted in her pursuit. Because of her gown, she hadn’t been able to scramble over furniture the way Isabella had done in her livery, so she was still halfway across the room.

“Please move to the far left door,” Isabella said. She retained the voice of a boy but dropped her youthfulness, allowing maturity to transform her face and words.

The woman simply stood there looking rather addle-pated.

“Now, please.”

“You won’t kill me,” the woman said with false bravado.

“You’re right, I won’t. But I can still shoot you in the foot and run to the door. I think that would pain you quite a bit.”

The woman paled, then slowly moved toward the far left door.

When she was able, Isabella moved toward the far right door, keeping the pistol trained upon the woman, praying no one else would suddenly enter the room.

“I shall call agents to come and lock you up,” the woman said, her voice shrill.

“Then you should have done that when I first arrived.” The woman’s incompetence made Isabella make a wild guess. “Mr. Uppleby won’t appreciate that you stopped me from giving an urgent message to Sir Derrick.”

The Guardian flinched at both names that Isabella had dropped.

“If you let me leave, I shan’t mention it when I see them.” Isabella slowly set the pistol down on the seat of a nearby chair.

The woman stood rigidly, her eyes following the weapon, but she made no move toward it.

Isabella unlatched the door and slipped inside. She had to hurry. She wasn’t uncertain if the woman would call agents to comb the building for a wayward pageboy, or if the threat of revealing her incompetence to Sir Derrick and Mr. Uppleby would keep her silent.

The small closet beyond contained only a stairwell. The room where Isabella was to speak to the maid was in a separate wing of the building, and this stairwell did not lead there, but she had needed to use it in order to keep with the story that she was delivering information to Sir Derrick.

She hurriedly climbed to the first floor, but instead of going to Sir Derrick’s office, she passed it and continued all the way down to the end of the hallway. At the far end was a narrow servants’ stair which led down to the basement of the building. Once there, she could cross the basement to another stairwell, which would take her to an adjacent wing of the Ramparts.

The basement was made of stone, dark due to four unused cells for prisoners, each locked with a heavy wooden door. A relic of the early days, the cells were not very secure and had fallen into disrepair. Since Sir Derrick had been put in charge, he rarely approved prisoners being placed in these cells directly under the main building of the department. However, Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham preferred to question suspicious persons here, close to their offices, rather than traveling outside of London to the handful of other places scattered around in more secure locations. Since they were second in rank in the organization, Sir Derrick could not often deny their orders about prisoners. So even though Isabella knew that she herself could probably escape from one of these cells, they were still ready for use.

Only the first few yards of the basement were feebly illuminated by the light filtering down the narrow stairs. However, there was only a single hallway, and she need only walk straight through.

Isabella normally moved very quietly, but even her steps caused soft whispers of sounds against the stone floor. The smell of mold was pungent, and the air felt damp and clammy. The dark was a bit unnerving, but up ahead she could see the soft light filtering down the stairs from the floors above. Still, she breathed a quiet sigh when she finally reached it.

She climbed up to the ground floor of the other wing, which was in a completely different building from the Ivory Ramparts and the haberdashery, and paused at the landing. She peered into the dim hallway, which had no windows and was lined with doors on both sides, broken only by a few wall sconces.

The doors were interrogation rooms, including the Blackbird Room, which was where Michael said that they were questioning the maid. An agent stood guarding the closed door.

Michael’s plan was to create a distraction to remove the agent questioning the woman and the one guarding the door so that Isabella could sneak in and speak to the maid alone. He had told her how he would accomplish it, but she wasn’t certain he would be able to convince both men to leave.

Had Michael not yet enacted his plan, or had he only been able to draw away Mr. Maghew? Isabella had been delayed, but she had to trust that her brother hadn’t yet put events in motion.

The difficulty was that she was in the stairwell and had no means of hiding while she waited for her brother, and she couldn’t be seen now that she’d stormed the Ramparts. She hoped Sir Derrick wouldn’t clap her in chains for her audacity.

She crouched a few steps down from the ground floor landing. The stairwell was not lighted, so it was easy for her to remain hidden and yet still be able to watch the guard at the door to the Blackbird Room. She felt horribly exposed, but the stairs were wooden and creaking, and she would be able to hear if anyone descended from the floor above. She would have less warning if someone climbed up from the basement, but it was rarely used.

She sat and waited. Once or twice, she heard someone coming down from an upper storey and was forced to quietly slip down into the basement until the stairwell was clear again. Then she returned to her perch. No one came searching for her, and she thought perhaps the woman at the door had indeed not alerted any agents about Isabella.

But she was concerned. This was taking a long time. Had something happened to Michael?

Voices and footsteps sounded above her on the stairs again, so she crept back down to avoid them. However, the steps continued, also heading down to the basement.

She was fortunate that the two men using the stairs were making such a ruckus, muffling the sound of her own footsteps. She ran to the first prison cell door and tugged. It was locked, even though there was no one inside when she looked through the bars of the small window set in the door.

She tried the next cell door and found that it was already open a crack. However, looking closely, she realized that it was not unlocked—there was the discoloration of water damage across the entire bottom two-thirds of the door, and the wood had warped. The lock was engaged, but no longer able to hold the door in a closed position. She pulled on the door gently, worried lest it creak. It gave a grumbling protest, but not loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the men’s footsteps. She slipped inside.

Two sets of footsteps reached the basement, their shoes rasping against the stone floor. She then heard a key unlock the first cell she had tried.

But one of the footsteps came closer to her cell door, pausing outside of it. She had positioned himself against the front wall, out of sight. She saw the bare flicker of shadow as the little light from the barred window in the door was blocked by someone looking inside. The steps then went to a cell across the hallway and paused again. The person checked the fourth cell, then entered the one that had been unlocked.

The sound of the footsteps was slow and ponderous, making her think it may be a heavyset man. Also, the steps gave a slightly louder clunk against the stone, making her believe it was a thick sole from a finely made shoe rather than a poorer man’s thin leather boot, which would make a much softer sound.

The two men in the cell began speaking. She thought she recognized the voices of Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, but there was too much echo in the basement and they were whispering. However, even just from the sounds of their voices, she had the impression that they were irritated with each other.

She tried moving closer to the window in the door, but her foot inadvertently scraped against the floor. She froze.

However, the men apparently hadn’t heard her and continued whispering.

She took another step closer to the window, then another. She still could not hear the conversation very well.

The men appeared to be entering into an argument with each other, and their raised voices and sharper words were the only reason she was able to make out a few phrases here and there.

“Are you certain it truly works?”

“Yes, I saw myself.”

More muffled sentences. Then, “we must get those…” She lost the rest of the sentence.

“You fool! Didn’t you read the report? It’s poisonous. We don’t have anyone to …” The voice sank again, and she didn’t hear the rest of his sentence.

One voice rose in volume, and she could clearly hear that it was Mr. Uppleby. “I will find someone.”

“What we really need is …” The voice was mocking, and she thought perhaps it was Mr. Antingham.

“If we find the doctor, will …”

The doctor? Were they speaking of Dr. Heddetch?

Mr. Uppleby said something more which she didn’t catch. Then Mr. Antingham said crossly, “No, I’ll find one. You make sure your agents don’t foul things up again.”

There was the stomp of footsteps as they left the cell. One of them locked the door again. They climbed back up the stairs.

Isabella waited several minutes to ensure that they were gone, then quietly slipped out of her cell.

What had Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby needed to speak about that required them to forgo a discussion in one of their offices and instead sneak down to a cell in the basement? She wished she had been able to hear them better, but the stone of the cell walls was thick and the two men were whispering most of the time.

She must ensure that she told Michael what she overheard, although it was precious little. She tried to recall her memory of the voices again, and admitted that she was not entirely certain that the two men were Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby. She had met Mr. Uppleby more often than Mr. Antingham, but Mr. Antingham had a distinctive, gravelly voice and a way of biting off his consonants. He had spoken quietly, but his striking speech patterns were what had made her believe it was him in the cell.

It had been a strange sort of luck that in trying to remain hidden while waiting for Michael, who was taking too long, she had been given the opportunity to overhear the two men. No one was likely to spot them going to or from the dungeon, and they could hardly have known someone would already be in the basement when they arrived for their meeting. She had been fortunate that they had been careless about checking the cells. She didn’t know what she would have said if they had caught her hiding there.

But that carelessness and the fact that one of them held the key to that cell told her that they had been meeting like this fairly often.

She had not heard enough of their conversation to know what about it required them to meet in secret, but the two men would not go through the effort if they did not feel it was necessary.

At the moment, her irritation with Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby overcame her fear. It was as though they were engaging in a manipulative social dance, not in a ballroom but here in a place that should be protecting the people of England. This was all a game to them, rather than a trust that had been imparted to them.

What sorts of things had they decided? Would it jeopardize their mission to rescue Lady Wynwood?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Isabella crept back up the stairs, listening closely, but she was again alone. She peered out from the stairway landing and saw the guard still standing outside the Blackbird Room.

However, this time she didn’t have long to wait. From the other end of the hallway, Michael sprinted toward the Blackbird Room. Panting, he stopped in front of the guard. “I must … speak to … Mr. Maghew. I know … he’s … inside.”

“He’s busy.” The guard crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“There is a strong smell … coming from Records Room .. 3C.”

“What sort of smell?”

“Chemical. You can smell it in the hallway outside the room.”

“Records Room 3C, you say?” The guard began to look a bit more alarmed.

“Only Mr. Maghew is a high enough rank that Mr. Antingham will give him the key to Records Room 3C,” Michael said.

“There is only myself and Mr. Maghew here.” The guard didn’t say so, but his meaning would be clear to any longtime agent. Mr. Antingham always preferred that his higher ranked agents be escorted by a lower rank agent. However, at the moment, there were only the two of them with the prisoner.

Which was why Michael said, “I can escort him, or I could take your place and guard the prisoner.”

The Ramparts had several records rooms, but Records Room 3C was used almost exclusively by Mr. Antingham and contained files and reports of a more sensitive nature. All the superior officers at the Ramparts had a copy of the key to the room, but the files mostly belonged to Mr. Antingham.

“Mr. Antingham will not allow any but his own men into Records Room 3C,” the agent guarding the door said. “I shall escort Mr. Maghew. You remain here to guard the prisoner.”

He knocked on the door to the Blackbird Room and disappeared inside for only a few seconds before he and Mr. Maghew exited. They hurried down the hallway.

Isabella waited a few moments, then slipped out of the dim stairwell and hurried toward where Michael stood in front of the door. As she drew close, she could smell a trace of the acrid chemical he had used within the record room.

“You didn’t get it on your hands, did you?” she asked him.

“I tried not to.” Michael had still possessed several pouches of the strong chemicals that Keriah had mixed for the mission at Vauxhall Gardens, to enable the team to follow wherever he would have been taken. Two different chemicals had been stored in glass vials within a heavy cloth pouch, which had been packed in an oiled cloth envelope. Originally, he had only needed to grab a pouch, crush the vials within, and toss the entire packet to the ground. Once the chemicals mixed, the smell would be intensely strong and last for approximately twenty minutes.

For the distraction in the Records Room, he had instead taken out the vials, uncorked them, and poured the liquid on the ground behind the heavy safe boxes. Within the confines of the room, the smell would be extremely pungent and likely remain so for at least an hour. It would take some time for the agents to pinpoint the location, nor would they be able to remove it. It would keep them quite occupied.

“Did you already return the key to Mr. Uppleby’s office?” she asked.

He nodded. Michael himself did not have permission to enter Records Room 3C, but Mr. Uppleby was notorious for keeping all his keys within easy reach in the top drawer of his desk. Michael had stolen it in order to create the diversion.

Isabella stood before the closed door and took a deep breath. She reminded herself that this was nothing more than another mission, where she must coax someone into trusting her so that she could ferret out the secrets she needed. She opened the door.

Ida Rummery sat at a heavy square wooden table in the middle of the small room. She was not a plump girl, but her face was round and her shoulders rounded, as though she were used to hunching over rather than walking with her back straight and head held high. Her hair had fallen into disarray, flying wildly about her face in brown wisps. She was crying and shaking.

Isabella immediately ordered Michael, “Give me your handkerchief. And go get tea for the girl. If anyone asks, I am guarding her whilst you are gone.”

Isabella closed the door behind her and sat down next to the poor woman, handing her the handkerchief. “Tea is coming.” She tried to infuse cheer into her voice. “Things will be better once you have a cup of tea in you.”

The woman stopped sobbing to stare at Isabella with bloodshot eyes.

“My name is Mary.” Isabella dropped her boyish accent despite her disguise.

Miss Rummery immediately began crying anew, sobs coming in heaving gasps, but Isabella could tell that her tears were more of relief at the kindness being shown to her.

Isabella had never been partnered with one of Mr. Antingham’s agents on any of her missions, although the superior officer was aware that she worked for the Ramparts. But while in disguise, she had met many of his men, and they were like himself—rigid and bullheaded. He gave the impression of being very straightforward, but his agents seemed to have been trained to barrel ahead into situations and achieve their objectives by force rather than coercion.

Isabella reflected that Mr. Uppleby’s agents might have treated Miss Rummery in a more respectful fashion, perhaps trying to persuade her to answer their questions by applying to her greed. However, she knew that there were also one or two of Mr. Uppleby’s men whom she wouldn’t trust in a room with a young woman, so on a whole, she was relieved that it was Mr. Antingham’s agents and not Mr. Uppleby’s who were interrogating her.

Michael entered, balancing a tea tray, and deposited it upon the table. He had adopted a bored look on his face, relaxing his facial muscles and creating a mask that somehow made him look more plain and unnoticeable than normal. He left them quickly.

Isabella poured tea with lots of milk and sugar for the young woman, who gradually began to calm down as she sipped the hot beverage. Michael had also somehow put procured some biscuits, and the woman managed to nibble at one.

After several minutes, when the maid’s tears had at last begun to slow, Isabella asked, “What is your name?”

“Ida Rummery,” she said in a tiny voice. She suddenly tensed, as though waiting for a blow.

“Have you any family?” Isabella asked.

Miss Rummery blinked at her, startled by the question. Mr. Maghew had likely not bothered to try to find out about the young woman before making demands and accusations.

“I live with my older brother and his wife and their children.”

“Where does your brother work?”

“He works at the candle factory, but I don’t know exactly what he does there.” Her voice had grown stronger with each sip of tea.

“It is you and your brother providing for the family?”

“My sister-in-law takes in mending,” the girl said, “so on my off days, I help take care of the children and do the cooking so that she can do her work while it’s still daylight.”

“Yes, I had heard that you only work for Dr. Heddetch three days a week,” Isabella said.

The woman stiffened.

Isabella inwardly winced. The agents had likely been questioning the girl about her employment with Dr. Heddetch, and Isabella should have found a way to broach the topic in a more delicate manner. Well, no crying over spilt milk. “How long have you worked for Dr. Heddetch?”

“Three years,” the maid said through stiff lips. She did not physically withdraw, but Isabella could tell that she no longer wished to continue speaking.

Isabella glanced around the small, spare room, unable to think of what she should do. It had been a mistake for Michael to ask her to do this.

And yet, Sir Derrick had forced Phoebe and Keriah to leave. While Michael could be charming, after this young woman had been threatened and intimidated by Mr. Maghew, she was unlikely to respond even to his handsome smile. Isabella truly was the best choice. The only choice, at this point. Lady Wynwood would have been far better, but Isabella had to assist the team in finding her. That meant determining if the maid truly did know something, as Michael suspected.

What would Lady Wynwood say in her place? The answer came to her in a rush—she would pray first.

Isabella did not close her eyes or fold her hands, but all of her being seemed to silently cry, Lord, please help me. Please give me the words to say.

In the silence, Miss Rummery suddenly began sobbing again. “I just want to go home.”

The woman’s plaintive cry made Isabella’s heart squeeze in sympathy with her. Even if she could convince the woman to tell her something about Dr. Heddetch or the Gentians, Isabella would still be leaving her at the Ramparts so that Mr. Maghew could return to interrogating her.

The best way to convince Miss Rummery to trust her would be to show that she could be trusted.

“Then let’s get you home.” Isabella jumped to her feet.

The maid stared at her in confusion.

“Come with me, Miss Rummery.” Isabella opened the door a crack but saw only Michael’s back as he stood guarding the room. She told him, “Go ahead of us and ensure that the stairwell is clear. We must reach the second floor and we mustn’t be seen.”

“What are you doing?” he hissed at her, not turning around to face her.

“I’m doing exactly what you asked me to do.”

He sighed, but strode away toward the stairs at the other end of the wing. He appeared in a few minutes and signaled for them to follow him.

Isabella turned to find the maid still sitting at the table, frozen in confusion. “Come, Miss Rummery.”

“What is happening?” she asked, but rose to her feet.

Isabella slipped her hand in hers and led her out of the room.

The girl’s hand relaxed for a moment as they stepped outside, but just as quickly tightened again. She glanced up and down the empty hallway.

Isabella pulled her quickly toward the stairs. Michael climbed ahead of them to the second floor.

The hallway lined with doors looked exactly like the ground floor, but Isabella knew that few agents would appear. She did not know the purpose of all the rooms, but she was well acquainted with the one at the far end, a corner room that was one of the few in the building that contained windows. The door had no name or number, but Isabella knocked and then entered.

They erupted into a narrow aisle created not by walls but by racks of clothing, running the gamut from blacks, browns, and dark blues all the way up through more colorful garments in shades of rose pink and deep violet and crimson holly berry. Miss Rummery paused in the doorway, startled by the sight, but Isabella pulled her forward. They headed down the narrow aisle to the other end of the room, and upon reaching the end, she turned right.

Mrs. Price sat at a worktable set up in front of a large window. Her frizzy light brown hair was caught up loosely under a rather messily tied turban, which kept the strands out of her eyes. Her face was very close to a piece of fabric that she was sewing, but she immediately looked up at Isabella. Her extremely thick spectacles magnified her light blue eyes so that she looked a bit like a goldfish.

Her eyes widened, recognizing Isabella immediately, but upon seeing that she was not alone, Mrs. Price stammered, “W-what are you doing here?”

“Good day, Mrs. Price.” Isabella led them toward her. “You are acquainted with Mr. Villager, are you not?”

Relieved that she no longer needed to pretend she did not know Isabella, Mrs. Price gave her a kind smile, dropping her work on the table so she could stand to meet them. “Yes.”

“This is Miss Rummery,” Isabella said.

However, the maid said, “Please, call me Ida.”

“How do you do?” Mrs. Price said.

“I do apologize for disturbing you,” Isabella said, “and I’m afraid I have need of your services.”

Mrs. Price’s excited expression was almost childlike. “Of course,” she said enthusiastically. “What are we to do today?”

“I should like a new set of livery for the two of us.” Isabella indicated herself and Ida.

“I certainly have a set that could fit the young woman.” Mrs. Price scrutinized Isabella. “But I am afraid I have nothing that is short enough to fit you.”

“Perhaps a maid’s outfit?” Isabella suggested. “But something fine enough to match the livery.”

“I can throw together something.” Mrs. Price turned and seemed to disappear into a rack of clothing, searching for outfits in a deeper part of the room.

“Why new livery?” Michael asked. “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing now?”

“I had problems with the Guardian of the door,” Isabella said. “The usual one was not there.”

Michael frowned, and his eyes betrayed his disquiet.

“I must change costumes, and the men here are less likely to bother servants which look as though they belong to a noble house.” Isabella looked her brother directly in the eye. “I am breaking Ida out of the Ramparts,” she said slowly and deliberately.

“I’ll be thrown into the dungeons for letting you leave.” But he sounded more weary than unduly upset about that.

“You have been given an order from a higher ranked agent, namely myself.”

He grinned at her.

Mrs. Price soon returned and began helping the girls to dress, while Michael returned to the door in order to give them privacy. She helped Ida stuff her hair under a footman’s wig, and in the livery, she looked like a boy of thirteen or fourteen. Isabella hid her hair under a mobcap and dressed in a plain gown with a large apron. Mrs. Price gave her a satchel in which they could put their clothes, which Isabella carried while Ida would walk beside her like an escort.

“Thank you, Mrs. Price,” Isabella said, squeezing her hand warmly. Few women worked at the Ramparts, but Isabella had worked most closely with the seamstress, who helped her with her costumes. She had a motherly nature that Isabella always appreciated, and while she sometimes appeared absent-minded, she always understood when urgency was required.

They returned to the door and Isabella told her brother, “Meet us at the mews on Beech Street.” He nodded and left, and Isabella waited a few minutes before following him with Ida.

They descended a different set of stairs into a large reception area on the ground floor. There was a door that would open at the back of the fabric warehouse, where it would not look unusual for a maid and a pageboy to pass through. There was another Guardian at the door, but they typically did not check the agents leaving the building, so Isabella didn’t hesitate as she strode forward.

Her arm was suddenly grabbed and she was jerked around. Another agent frowned down upon her. She recognized him as Mr. Fletcher, although he did not know her identity as an agent. For a different mission, she’d been in disguise as a street urchin when Sir Derrick had asked her to relay to Mr. Fletcher the directions to a particular location. She had played the part of the cheeky, street-wise child.

“Who are you?” Mr. Fletcher demanded. “What are you doing here?”

Ida stiffened next to her, and Isabella hoped that the agent would not notice the maid’s shaking. With confidence, Isabella said, “I have made a delivery to Mr. Drydale.” She nodded toward a specific door at the other end of the reception area, which she knew led to the stairs to the wing where Mr. Drydale’s office lay.

The name and her obvious understanding of the layout of the building seemed to allay the man’s suspicions. He released her arm and gruffly said, “Very well. You should leave quickly. We are making preparations and you don’t want to be in the way.”

Isabella resisted the urge to snap at him that it was exactly what she had been trying to do. Instead, she bobbed a respectful curtsy. She quickly stepped on Ida’s toe when the girl had been about to follow suit, but the maid remembered at the last moment that she was dressed as a boy and instead gave an awkward bow.

The agent did not notice and hurried away, the pair’s presence already forgotten.

They exited without any other mishaps, walking out the front of the fabric warehouse. It took only a few minutes to walk to the nearby mews and find an empty stall, where they changed out of their costumes.

Michael arrived a few minutes later. “I found us a hackney.”

Isabella clasped Ida’s hand. “Come, Ida. Let us take you home.”

***

They took the vehicle to Ida’s brother’s house, which was quite far from Dr. Heddetch’s residence. The rent was likely cheap because of the smell from the nearby candle factory.

As they lighted and Michael paid the coachman, Isabella asked Ida, “Did you tell any of those men about your family?”

Ida had become more and more relieved the farther they’d gotten from the Ramparts, and now she gave a brief smile. “No, they didn’t ask me about them.”

“So they do not know where you live?” Isabella asked.

“No.”

“I’m quite glad of that.” Isabella was happy to see Ida return her smile.

Ida’s knock at the door was answered immediately by a woman a few years older, with a long, narrow face but lovely, large blue eyes. Upon seeing Ida, she gave a cry and enfolded her in an embrace.

“I’m sorry to worry you,” Ida said.

The woman stepped back, but kept hold of Ida’s shoulders, smiling tearily down at her. “I’m just glad you’re safe. Your brother told his overseer he couldn’t come in and he’s out searching for you.” She turned and yelled into the house, “John! Go find your father and tell him Ida’s home.”

Within minutes, a tall, gangly boy with his mother’s flaxen hair appeared. He froze at the sight of Isabella and Michael, but only stopped to give them a short nod before racing away down the street.

“These people helped me.” Ida gestured to Isabella and Michael. “This is Mary and Mr. Villager. This is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Rummery.”

“What am I doing, leaving you standing out on the doorstep?” Mrs. Rummery put her arm around Ida and led her into the house, looking over her shoulder to say, “Come in, come in. Let me put on some tea.”

Isabella followed them, but Michael said, “Finlay’s bakery is nearby, isn’t it? I remember it was near the candle factory. I’ll go and fetch treacle buns for us.” And then he was gone.

The children had crowded around Ida as soon as they saw her, shouting and crying. Ida soothed them, and soon everyone was gathered in the tiny front room of the house.

Ida sat at the small round table, braiding the hair of one of her nieces. Isabella had pulled the ribbon from the mobcap that she had been wearing and gave it to her, silently vowing to pay for a replacement for Mrs. Price.

“Mary,” Ida said, “shall Mr. Villager get in trouble for helping me to leave?”

“You mustn’t worry about that,” Isabella said. “He shall not be in trouble at all.”

Ida finished braiding the girl’s hair, then sent her off to show it to her siblings. She turned to Isabella. “Why did you do it?” she asked in a soft voice.

Isabella didn’t hesitate in her answer. “I didn’t like how those men were treating you.”

“Aren’t you one of them?”

Isabella was about to deny it, but realized that she was essentially one of them. “I didn’t wish to be like them.”

Ida said nothing. In truth, Isabella needed to question her just as those agents did, but she also suddenly realized that she wanted Ida to understand why it was so urgent. She made a quick decision.

“Dr. Heddetch attacked a friend of mine,” Isabella said. “And then she was kidnapped last night. We think that Dr. Heddetch was involved somehow, and we are trying to find her.”

Isabella had expected Ida to perhaps be shocked, but the girl’s eyes slid away from hers. Dr. Heddetch’s darker side was not unknown to this woman.

“I know that those men scared you,” Isabella said, “and Dr. Heddetch knows some people who probably scare you even more.”

Ida was not looking at Isabella, but her hand clenched in her lap.

“I wish for you to understand that you are under no obligation to me,” Isabella said firmly. “I will require nothing from you. I did not release you from that place and expect payment.”

Ida glanced at her, confusion on her face.

“But if there’s anything you can tell me about the doctor,” Isabella said, “I would be in your debt. I only wish to find my friend.”

Ida pressed her lips together and looked at her hands in her lap. “I’m grateful that you snuck me out of that place, but I’m only a maid. I can’t help you.”

“Dr. Heddetch had many patients. Were any of them odd? Or perhaps threatening?”

The maid shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t see many of his patients, except to open the door for them. And that only on the days I worked for him.”

Isabella thought back to her late husband before his death. The strange behavior, the small lies. Taken together, they had seemed innocuous, if a bit eccentric. It had taken her too long to realize he had been a traitor.

“Of late, did Dr. Heddetch act a bit strangely at times?” she asked Ida. “Little actions that seemed very unlike him? Did he change his daily habits?”

Ida began to shake her head … then stopped. “For making his tinctures and things, he used to use a stillroom by an ink factory near the river,” she said slowly. “But a few months ago, he found a new laboratory.”

The stillroom she mentioned was probably the laboratory they had raided using the key to the back door. Dr. Heddetch had led Thorne and Mr. Ackett directly there, and he’d obviously been used to the place, but if that wasn’t where he’d been doing his work recently, then that had all been a sham.

She wanted to immediately ask where the laboratory was, but stopped herself in response to some instinct inside of her. She felt that perhaps it would be better to speak of other things first. “Did he mention why he had moved?” she asked Ida in a gentle voice.

“No, but he seemed right proud of it.”

“Proud?” That was a strange way to describe his new place for work.

“He, um … I think he found the new stillroom through his connections with some powerful men.”

“Jack?” Isabella whispered.

Ida whispered, also. “I don’t know, but he was afraid of him. He was very careful not to disturb his things.”

Isabella’s breath caught. “Ida,” she said cautiously, “were you with Dr. Heddetch at the laboratory?”

The maid froze.

Isabella quickly said, “I understand that you may not be willing to divulge a secret such as that, because it might have repercussions against your family. You have no reason to trust us, but we would not divulge from whom we learned this information.”

Ida bent her head, her trembling lips pressed together. When she spoke, it was so quietly that Isabella could barely hear her. “Once, he brought me there to clean for him.”

Isabella’s heart began pounding harder. Ida had been there. She had seen the place. However, she kept her voice light and calm as she asked, “Did he often ask you to clean his stillroom?”

“No, he never took me to his old stillroom.”

Isabella remembered the dust and mess in the laboratory they had raided, and believed her. “Why had he wanted you to clean this new laboratory?”

“He’d dropped a crate of tinctures, and there was glass and liquid on the floor.” Ida’s nose wrinkled. “It smelled terrible. Like rotting meat.”

Isabella didn’t say anything, but she wondered if perhaps it had smelled like blood. “Was it only the one time?”

The maid nodded, then her shoulders tightened. “As he walked with me to the laboratory, he threatened to kill me if I ever told anyone else where it was. And the entire time I was there, he was nervous, urging me to hurry. I think he was afraid someone else would arrive.”

Someone like Apothecary Jack? Isabella became aware of the sounds of the children bickering in a good-natured way. “Did no one else see you there?” she asked, her throat tight. “Did anyone know who you were?”

Ida shook her head. “I spoke to no one. I got the impression the doctor wasn’t to bring anyone there, so he took pains to keep anyone from seeing me. He never remembers my name, in any case. He always calls me Garth, which was the name of his last maid. I always answer to it and don’t correct him.”

Her family was probably safe, then. But would they remain so if Ida helped them find Dr. Heddetch’s laboratory?

But Isabella and Michael had discovered no clues as to where Lady Wynwood had been taken. Could the Gentians have brought her to this place, since it was such a great secret? “I would like to see Dr. Heddetch’s laboratory. It may help us find my friend. Could you tell me where the building stands?”

“I don’t know the name of the street. It may not have a name.”

“Perhaps if you simply described the way to get there?”

Ida hesitated, blinking rapidly. “I don’t know if I could … not without leading you there myself.”

“No, we daren’t involve you further. It may be too dangerous for you if someone happened to see you nearby the place.”

Her answer had surprised Ida. “But if it might help you find your friend …”

Isabella thought of Lady Wynwood. “She wouldn’t want harm to come to you simply because you helped us.”

At that moment, there was a knock at the door and the oldest child went to answer it. Michael stood there with a bag of treacle buns, which roused a cheer from the children.

The sight of them clamoring around Michael seemed to bring Ida to a decision. She said quietly to Isabella, “I walk along a street nearby every so often. It wouldn’t be unusual to take you. You’d be able to see the building from there.”

“Are you certain about this?”

Ida’s eyes were frightened, but she nodded.

During tea, Michael charmed Mrs. Rummery as he spun a fictional tale about how they’d come to help Ida. Apparently the Bow Street Runners had questioned her about Dr. Heddetch and then let her go without a means to return home. Mary and her brother had come upon her lost and alone, and insisted upon seeing her home since they were heading toward Jem Town to their uncle’s upholstery shop. Mrs. Rummery was surprised by the act of goodwill, but thankful since it brought Ida home safely.

Isabella wasn’t certain if the Gentians had taken Lady Wynwood to the laboratory—while it was a possibility, Isabella rather doubted it. The Gentians had taken her alive, and so they wanted to speak to her. A building in the middle of London hardly afforded the privacy they would require.

But it was something, where before they had had nothing. And in searching the place, perhaps they’d find some indication of where Dr. Heddetch and the Gentians had taken Lady Wynwood.

Isabella found she had enjoyed the challenge of a difficult, unfamiliar task. On missions, when in disguise, she had often needed to dig out information, but she usually had plenty of time to infiltrate a location and form bonds of trust with the people she targeted. She often merely formed a shallow friendship and asked unobjectionable, leading questions and then patiently waited for the person to share what they wanted. If she wasn’t able to form a close enough connection, she gave up and targeted someone else because her position was too vulnerable to risk being exposed.

Here, she had not only needed to convince Ida to trust her enough to tell her about Dr. Heddetch, she had also been pressed for time and needed Ida to trust her quickly. It required a bit more cleverness and creativity than her usual method of doing things.

She had served her country as le petit prince for many years, and she had become quite skilled at her work. Yet today, despite her fears and misgivings, she had tackled something a bit different and much more difficult, and she found herself pleased at the greater feeling of accomplishment. Perhaps she had been feeling stagnant and needed something like this to prod her to sharpen her skills.

After tea, Isabella asked Ida if she would like to walk partway with them to their “uncle’s upholstery shop,” as per Michael’s story to Mrs. Rummery. It took only fifteen minutes of walking for them to reach a street corner where several people gathered around a man with a wooden cart. The smell of yeast breads cut through the stench from the dirty streets, and she saw a line of people at a shop with no sign.

“That’s Finlay’s bakery,” Michael said.

“It doesn’t really have a name,” Ida said. “People call it Finlay’s since that’s the name of the owner.” She had grown more tense as they approached the man with the cart. He was selling cheap home-brewed ale to customers coming out of the bakery, and apparently many people liked to loiter to drink and eat.

She realized Ida wanted to point out the street without looking as though she were pointing it out, so Isabella ordered Michael, “Go and buy an ale.”

He obeyed, leaving the two women with an excuse to stand alone, a little ways away from the cart. They were in view of three small, dark streets that cut through the buildings, heading away from that spot.

Ida indicated one of the streets with her eyes rather than pointing to it. “Go down there,” she whispered. “We walked only ten minutes before entering the back door of a building. It didn’t have a sign, but I think it was a playhouse. There were dressing rooms and actresses.”

“Did you hear the name of it?”

Ida shook her head. “Dr. Heddetch took me behind the stage. There’s a short hallway with storerooms, but the last door on the left is a stairwell. We climbed to the door at the top.”

Isabella squeezed the maid’s hand. “Thank you, Ida.”

Her eyes were still fearful, but she said, “I hope you find your friend.”

“I hope so, too.”

Lord God, Isabella silently prayed, I pray we find Lady Wynwood there.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Thorne was fairly certain he would encounter some sort of danger outside of Lady Wynwood’s townhouse—but he didn’t know exactly what it would be.

The hackney that Clara had managed to find for the group stopped a block away from the residence in Mayfair. Thorne alighted first, looking around out of habit, but he had already ascertained that they hadn’t been followed. He gestured to the other passengers.

Miss Sauber exited next, also glancing around as Thorne and Michael had been training her to do. Thorne had never trained a newer agent before the two young women had asked for his help, and he found it gratifying when they practiced the tricks he’d taught them.

Miss Gardinier climbed out with Clara helping her. They had walked more than one or two miles in the Long Glades before finding a conveyance, and the girl’s injured leg had caused her limp to become more pronounced by the end. However, her face had that pinched, stubborn cast that reminded Thorne of Isabella when she was particularly frustrated and particularly determined, so he didn’t say anything.

For the sake of Miss Gardinier, Thorne would have wanted the cab to deposit them directly outside of Lady Wynwood’s home, but after she had been specifically targeted by Septimus and the pale-eyed man, Thorne wasn’t entirely certain the Gentians would simply leave the rest of them be. They would know that Miss Sauber might return to the house, so Thorne had decided they should walk the last block. If Jack’s men were lying in wait for them, he’d have more time to spot them.

Even without the possible threat of the Gentians, Miss Sauber’s father still wanted her to fulfill the marriage contract he’d signed for her. Thorne’s presence would likely deter all but the most violent men, but he still felt a burning desire to help protect her. He had been appalled when hearing how her father had used two of his footmen to try to lock her up in his house. He knew many of his peers from school had entered into loveless marriage contracts, but he’d never heard of a father adopting such brutish measures to force a daughter into a marriage she had already refused.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, for fathers could treat their daughters as objects just as they could with their sons. He recognized the despair in her face because he remembered that feeling with his own callous, selfish father.

And while Thorne was glad Miss Sauber resisted her father, a part of him cynically remembered how his own resistance had done him little good.

Thorne left the two young ladies pretending to be talking to each other while he and Clara went to spy on the front and backside of Lady Wynwood’s house. He returned with little good news.

“One man loitering in back,” he said. “I couldn’t smell the Root, but I am not as sensitive to it as Michael.”

“Two men in front,” Clara said. She’d pretended to be delivering something to the house a few doors down from Lady Wynwood, which she knew was empty for the Season. “They look right nasty, miss.”

“Perhaps not my father’s servants, then,” Miss Sauber said. “Maybe men he hired, like the ones who had been waiting outside of Keriah’s sister’s house.”

“We’ll go through the back,” Thorne said. “Even if he’s on the Root, we can manage to get inside.”

“How?” Miss Sauber asked.

“The only way to win against opponents stronger than yourself.” He gave a wolfish grin. “Trickery.”

He sent Clara ahead of them, and when he deemed enough time had passed, the three made their way to the narrow lane that ran along the back of the row of houses.

The last time Thorne had walked through this way, there had only been one man loitering, whom he hadn’t even noticed until he was nearly on top of him. He had not smelled the Root, but his sensitive sense of smell was fading by now.

The doorway where the man had been hidden was between them and Lady Wynwood’s laundry room. As they drew closer to the man, Thorne whispered to the two women, “Run!”

They took off, and Thorne kept close at their heels.

The man appeared before they passed the doorway where he’d lain in wait, but Thorne was ready for him. Barely slowing down, Thorne bent and scooped up a pile of horse dung from the ground. His nose was apparently still more sensitive than normal, because he found himself gagging at the smell of the warm, crumbly mass.

The lean, unkempt man had reached for the two women, but before he could touch them, Thorne threw the dung directly in his face with unerring aim.

The man shouted in surprise, which was his undoing, since it only made him inhale the horsey mess. The next moment, he was spitting and coughing, rubbing at his eyes.

The two women had jerked back to avoid the man as he grabbed at them, and now they continued running for Lady Wynwood’s back door. However, the sudden lateral movement caused Miss Gardinier to stumble and fall.

Thorne hoisted her up around her torso like a sack of potatoes and continued forward with her. She struggled in surprise at first, then quickly grabbed at his arm and managed to regain her footing.

Behind them, the man shouted. He had recovered quickly, which meant he was not on the Root, thank God. They had a chance. Thorne turned back toward the man.

He was closer than he’d expected. Dung still clung to his face, and he swung a roundhouse punch a little blindly.

Because of Thorne’s training, and because he still had some vestiges of his superior strength, the punch looked comically slow. He easily ducked, then punched the man first in the gut, then in the thigh. The man dropped to one knee.

Thorne had been hoping to bring him down completely, but forcing him to take a knee still gave him enough time to turn and run toward the house. Clara had opened the backdoor from within so that the three of them could rush inside without stopping. The door slammed behind them.

***

It didn’t sound as though they’d been pursued. The three of them were breathing heavily in the cool silence of the laundry room. “That was your trickery?” Miss Sauber asked. “Horse poop?”

“It would have worked if the man had been on the Root,” Thorne said defensively.

“Why?”

“Jack’s men have a stronger sense of smell, and the dung would have irritated them far more. They would have moved faster, but the dung would have distracted them a little longer.”

“He wasn’t on the Root?” Miss Sauber asked.

Thorne shook his head. “He moved too slowly.”

Miss Gardinier remained bent over, her head hung low. One hand gripped her knee tightly.

“Miss Gardinier, how is your leg?” Thorne asked.

She looked up at him, and even in the dimness of the laundry room, he could see the anguish on her face. “Thank you for helping me,” she said hoarsely.

He felt uncomfortable at witnessing her vulnerability. He remembered his frustration as a young man barely out of his teens when he had first injured his shoulder. Over time, he had learned to adjust and do things a different way in order to accommodate the discomfort and stiffness. But for a long time, the injury had caused more wretchedness in his mind than his body as he struggled to overcome his irritation that he was unable to do the things he had always done.

So he offered only what he knew from his own experience. “I know that you wouldn’t wish for me to tell you to not let it depress you, so I won’t do that. All I can tell you is to figure out a way to work around it. I had to adjust my fighting because of my shoulder.”

“You injured your shoulder?” Miss Sauber asked.

He nodded. Miss Gardinier had already noticed it when examining him after he had succumbed to the Goldensuit pollen. “A ball in the socket. I had to sell out from the army. However, the injury also enabled me to join the Foreign Office, so in essence, it presented a better opportunity.” He hesitated, then added, “I also injured my knee during a mission, so I’ve had to avoid situations where I must do much climbing.”

Miss Gardinier had straightened and seemed to be considering his words. He probably had not been very encouraging to her, but he also wanted her to know that she needn’t feel she was useless because of her impairment.

She nodded to him and said again, “Thank you.” Her face was no longer quite so agonized.

They entered the townhouse, where they discovered that Aya had returned from Lady Stoude’s residence. The maid informed them that Dr. Shokes had left to spend a few days with his sister-in-law to recover from his wounds, but he fully intended to return to the Long Glades and find another set of rooms so he could continue to treat his patients.

Unfortunately, Aya was still dizzy and tired from her ordeal, and Miss Sauber had to sternly order her to bed.

“Did not your sister find it odd to wake this morning and find both Aya and Dr. Shokes in her house?” Thorne asked Miss Gardinier.

Miss Gardinier waved a careless hand. “Of course not. She’s used to the scrapes into which Phoebe and I have gotten ourselves. I would guess that when she saw Dr. Shokes, she gave him a vague smile and sent him on his way with a basket of muffins.”

The women took the time to change into more appropriate clothing while Thorne tried to decide how to get them out of the house again. It seemed ridiculous that Miss Sauber’s father was still apparently determined to kidnap her and force her to marry Mr. Poe. However, he was glad the men had not belonged to Jack. Even one man on the Root might have been too much for him to fight, and it would only cause more problems if he were captured, as well.

They hadn’t intended to stay long, but Lady Wynwood’s cook insisted upon feeding them, so they sat at Lady Wynwood’s dining table. Thorne had not expected to be so hungry, and he gratefully ate some of the simple food which the cook had originally made for the servants. The stew was hearty, filled with meat, and the accompanying bread was freshly baked.

He glanced at the two women, who were now dressed in walking dresses appropriate for their station. “In future,” Thorne said to Miss Gardinier, “you might consider making a small dressing area somewhere outside your sister’s home so that you can change your attire when you leave and before you enter. Isabella has a hidden dressing room in the Coulton-Jones’s mews and a secret closet where she keeps clothing and her cosmetics.”

Miss Gardinier sipped her tea as she thought about the suggestion. “There are one or two storerooms in the mews behind my sister’s house. At the very least, I could store a fashionable dress or a cloak under which to hide my clothes. I can always tell my sister that I went to feed the cats in the mews, since the coachman keeps several of them to chase the mice out of the horse feed.”

“I worry that there will be men watching your sister’s house, as there were earlier,” Miss Sauber said.

“It seems absurd that we must sneak in and out of our homes!” Miss Gardinier scowled. “It is as if we are sneaking into France.”

“Surely my father will stop hiring men to try to kidnap me once Mr. Poe leaves for America.”

“What if Mr. Poe decides to postpone leaving?” Miss Gardinier asked.

“He may cease these actions of his own accord,” Thorne said. “It will be obvious from today that you have a strong bodyguard with you, and men will not want to continue working for your father if they will only be injured.”

Miss Sauber pressed the palms of her hands to her temples. “Only a few days ago, I was concerned about what my father might do to me. But at the moment, he is only adding an unnecessary wall of obstacles when all I can think about is how to save Aunt Laura.”

“Then let us focus upon that,” Thorne said. “For the journey to Ibstone, will we take Lady Wynwood’s traveling coach? The trip will be dangerous, and it might be best for me to drive the coach and leave Mr. Havner behind.”

“Would we travel with just the two of us in the coach?” Miss Gardinier asked.

“Miss Gardinier could pose as a widow and Miss Sauber could act as her maid. It would not look odd for her to be staying alone at an inn.”

Miss Sauber shook her head. “I’m afraid we must travel as ourselves. The villagers in Ibsone and Ronsby might recognize me from my past visits. Also, I must visit Glencowe Castle—it would be rude if I were not to visit Lord Wynwood while I am there. He would also ask after Mr. Havner if he is not driving the coach.”

Thorne frowned. He had forgotten that she would be required to visit her relation, Lord Wynwood.

“If we visit him, just Keriah and I, Lord Wynwood will question us about it because he is very proper.” Miss Sauber looked up at Thorne. “Perhaps we might ask Isabella to join us as chaperone.”

“I thought you did not want it known that you have a close relationship with her,” Thorne said.

“I have thought up a story to tell him that will explain it,” Miss Sauber said. “But if Lady Aymer travels with us, it will look exceedingly odd if we do not bring servants. Aya is injured, but we could bring Jane, one of the upper housemaids.”

Thorne shook his head. “I am uncomfortable bringing even Mr. Havner, much less a maid. It would be too dangerous for civilians to be with us.”

“But if we find Aunt Laura,” Miss Sauber said, “she would need one of her servants to take care of her. Aya would have been best, but Jane would do. It would comfort Aunt Laura a great deal, if she is in a bad way.” Her voice trembled as she said the last few words, and Thorne realized how much effort it took for her to rein in her panic about her aunt.

“Also,” Miss Sauber continued, “Lord Wynwood has an excellent memory. If he has met you even once in town, he will likely recognize you if he happens to glimpse you driving the coach.”

Thorne realized she was right. He couldn’t spend his entire time at Glencowe Castle trying to avoid Lord Wynwood’s notice. “Yes, I see your point. I shall have to go as myself. I shall ask Isabella if she could come with us.” However, he already knew that she would want to help them.

“It shall not seem so very odd,” Miss Sauber said, “since you are very close with Lady Aymer. We can say that you volunteered to accompany Isabella.”

“Do you believe we will find Lady Wynwood in Ibstone?” Miss Gardinier asked. She looked at Miss Sauber like a fearful child desiring reassurance.

“I don’t know … but I know of nowhere else to look.” Miss Sauber looked down at her plate. “I have been praying that we will find her.”

It reminded Thorne of when Miss Sauber prayed and seemed to receive guidance when they were at Cookie Cribble’s boarding house. At the time, he had been surprised to hear her praying. He had also been surprised by Miss Gardinier’s irritated response.

He realized that he had not witnessed a prayer being answered in a very long time. He remembered a time in his childhood when he had believed God always heard him and was always with him. He had even thought that some of his childish prayers had been answered. But then in the years afterward, it became obvious that God was silent.

Was there something special about Miss Sauber? Was there something wrong with himself?

He thought back to when he had breathed in the Goldensuit pollen, how it had affected him, and the fears that had surfaced in his heart. At that time, he had worried about what he was becoming.

Was it too late? Had he already become something monstrous?

There was the sudden patter of footsteps coming from the back of the house. The rapidity alarmed Thorne at first, but then he realized that they were the sound of children’s feet. He groaned. He knew exactly who was coming toward the dining room.

The twins had been well-trained enough to knock before entering the room, but they both looked a bit panicked as they tumbled inside. While Clara had been with Phoebe the entire time, Calvin had been taken back to the house with the coachman last night directly after they had heard that Lady Wynwood had been kidnapped. But from the looks on their faces, his sister had caught him up on everything that happened, including Miss Sauber’s plans for where they were going.

“Please, miss,” Calvin said, “we want to come with you.”

“We could be very useful,” Clara added.

“You will need more protection than simply Mr. Havner and Mr. Rosmont,” Calvin said, “especially if there’s more than one man on the Root who is holding my lady.”

“Both of us can help protect her,” Clara said.

Thorne held up both hands to try to stem the torrent of words. “This will be dangerous. Besides, we will only be taking the one coach. There is no room for the two of you.”

Miss Gardinier did not help matters at all when she said, “I admit that having the twins with us would be better than relying only on Phoebe and her bow. My knife throwing is not as accurate, and Calvin still has the sedative knives I gave to him last night for the mission at Vauxhall Gardens.”

Thorne groaned again at the anticipation that lit up the faces of the two children. However, he was not quite as adamant about leaving them behind as he would have before they’d decided to have Isabella accompany them. It would indeed be prudent to have at least the twins to help the coachman to protect both Jane and his childhood friend. Isabella was a good shot with the pistol, which she would probably bring with her, but she had minimal fighting training, and in addition to her small size, she was not very strong. There would most certainly be more than just one man on the Root who was holding Lady Wynwood.

Thorne sighed. “Very well. Calvin, can you ride as postboy?”

Calvin’s face fell as he shook his head. “I don’t ride well enough.”

“Then you will ride on the box. Clara, you will need to squeeze inside with both Jane and Lady Aymer.”

Two identical pairs of eyes blinked at him in confusion. Clara understood the change in plans before her brother. “We’re bringing Jane and Lady Aymer in addition to Miss Phoebe and Miss Keriah?” she asked.

“I expect you to help Mr. Havner protect Jane and Lady Aymer,” Thorne said.

“We will!” Calvin said stoutly.

“Let us plan to leave early tomorrow morning, if I can manage to speak to Isabella today,” Thorne said. “Calvin, go tell Mr. Havner that I shall be along shortly to speak to him. He’ll need to send a stable boy on horseback to arrange for a change of horses at an inn halfway to Ibstone.” He then paused as he realized something. “Does Lady Wynwood’s traveling coach display the Wynwood family crest?”

“It is unmarked,” Miss Sauber said. “She sold the crested coach to Lord Wynwood, at his request.”

Thorne stood. “It would be safest for the two of you to remain at Lady Stoude’s residence tonight. Now that we know that the men watching this house are not on the Root, it should be enough if I accompany you there. A show of muscle will dissuade anyone from attempting to harm you.”

Miss Sauber and Miss Gardinier nodded as they also rose to their feet. “I shall need only a few minutes to gather my things,” Miss Sauber said.

Leaving Lady Wynwood’s house was much less dramatic than when they had entered. The coachman pulled up in front, and he and the footman challenged two men who approached the front door. Thorne escorted the two women inside the coach without being accosted, and then all of them were off.

Lady Stoude’s house no longer had anyone watching it, a change from when the men had chased Miss Sauber yesterday afternoon. After setting the young ladies down, Thorne went to the Coulton-Jones’s house.

“Oh, my dear Thorne,” Mrs. Coulton-Jones said, “I am afraid Isabella left with her brother sometime before noon and has not yet returned.”

Thorne was nonplussed. If Isabella was helping the Ramparts with their investigation into Heddetch, she may not return at all tonight.

Luckily, as an old family friend, it was not at all out of place for him to reply with, “Then may I invite myself to dinner while I wait for her?”

“You needn’t even ask, dear boy.”

Chatting with Mrs. Coulton-Jones over dinner reminded him of when he was a child and had been welcome in the Coulton-Jones’s house nearly every day. Mrs. Coulton-Jones had been acquainted with his father and had gone out of her way to welcome the boy from the neighboring estate.

“You have quite saved me,” she said to him as he dished up for her some Hottentot Pie. “You have kept me from a mournfully lonely dinner.”

“I thought you preferred dinner alone because then you could claim all the pudding for yourself,” he teased her.

“Alas, Isabella discovered my dastardly plan and warned the chef.”

Thorne then realized the true reason she wanted his company. “As I am here tonight, doesn’t that mean the chef rushed to make more pudding?”

Her eyes lit up like stars. “Yes,” she said with relish. “I can’t wait to see what will be sent up, although I did give her the hint that you are quite partial to French Bancees. You will be too full to eat more than one or two, surely?”

Her question, which had been phrased just in that way, required Thorne to respond correctly: “Oh, yes. No more than one or two.” All the while mourning that he’d have a pitiful pudding tonight.

Instead of taking port after dinner, he settled in the drawing room with her as she regaled him with harmless gossip.

“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Ffolkes?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Oh.” She took a sip of tea. “Well, regardless, just the other day, I ran into Mrs. Ffolkes on Bond Street and apparently her daughter is in the family way …”

He had no more role than listening to her, but he did not mind. She never asked him difficult questions such as how his wife and son were faring, and her love for Thorne shone through even though she did like to talk extensively about people he didn’t know.

Thorne settled down to wait for Isabella. He could only hope that she would return home soon.

What in the world could she be doing?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lunch at the tavern had been Jack’s favorite, pork stewed with apples. It had been served with hard black bread, but he had brought some treacle buns to eat with it instead. The serving girl who delivered his second mug of ale looked faintly disgusted by his food, but she was simply ignorant about the wonders of treacle buns.

The hearty, sweet meal fired him up for his experiments for the afternoon. He needed the motivation, because he had made very little progress.

He had finished with his Root formula—he had finally stabilized it. He wasn’t certain if it was because he had grown a new crop of hybrid plants, or because of the little something that he had Dr. Heddetch add to it to counteract the sedative that had been used on his Berserkers, but now, his men didn’t all turn into raving madmen as soon as they drank the potion. Well, most didn’t turn into raving madmen. The occasional mistake was easily dealt with.

No, the experiment he was working on now was with the Blood Nectar.

He stared at the glass vial in his hand. The color of the liquid within was a brighter red than the Root, and the color was more uniform. It still tasted nasty.

And it had possibly the worst name in the history of all names. Even Maxham agreed with Jack on that.

His laboratory today was a little cold and dark, despite the skylights he’d paid Mr. English to add for him, because of the clouds covering the sky. The dimness hid the layer of dust over the cabinets on the walls and some of the unused apparatus on his wide workbench.

He uncorked the vial and sniffed it, but all he could smell was blood. He could tell that it was a different sort of blood than the pig’s blood that he used for the Root, and he could smell the floral, grassy scent of the Goldensuit. He also could smell something faintly salty, but not quite the same as the salt that the tavern owner used in his food to mask the fact that the meat he used had gone off. Jack couldn’t place the smell. He had even taken the time to sniff at all the strange bottles of herbs at the shop owned by that dead apothecary, but none of them were similar to what he was smelling in the Blood Nectar.

He gnashed his teeth, and a vision flashed in front of his eyes of him smashing the glass vial against the wood of his workbench, feeling the shards cut his skin and the scarlet fluid spray his face and his chest. It was only a vision. He needed to drink the stuff within a few hours, before the potion congealed too much.

He was not a chemist—and despite his name, was not even an apothecary—and he had only carelessly skimmed the chemistry books that he picked up in bookstores here and there in London. He figured he knew enough to at least try to understand how Ward had made this solution. He had to find out. The last thing he wanted was to be beholden to Ward for the rest of their very long lives.

If he was honest, he was mostly annoyed that Ward never let pass an opportunity to lord it over Jack and Maxham. Ward had the upper hand in that only he knew how to make the Blood Nectar (which he insisted gave him the right to bestow upon it that revolting name). It made Jack feel like a shackled dog.

But shackled dogs were most likely to bite when provoked.

He had read about a few tests in one of the books that he had bought, and he proceeded to start on one of them with the small sample of the Blood Nectar that he possessed. It hadn’t been difficult to obtain lye, but he’d had problems finding aqua fortis, and the piece of silver he would need to make nitrate of silver wasn’t pure silver. But surely it wouldn’t change the results too much.

He hadn’t really wanted to, but he had once asked Maxham if he desired to assist Jack on the experiments. However, Maxham professed no interest in scientific experiments. Jack was certain he must have already started his own research into the production method for the Blood Nectar, and he simply didn’t want to share with Jack. Well, no matter. Jack hadn’t really been all that excited about cooperating with Maxham. He didn’t hate the man—far from it—but there was always something about him that Jack didn’t quite trust.

Then again, all the members of the Citadel held each other at arm’s length. He supposed it was only natural.

His experiment didn’t take long, but the results were inconclusive. The lye did absolutely nothing, and when making the nitrate of silver, it only resulted in a stinking, smoking result in the small cauldron on the workbench. Jack gnashed his teeth.

How ironic that Heddetch was likely even smarter than Ward and could possibly help Jack, but there was no possibility that he would ask the doctor. He couldn’t risk Heddetch telling Ward what Jack was up to.

His work was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside his laboratory. He listened closely, then relaxed. The cadence indicated that it was Mr. Sims. The poor man didn’t know it was Apothecary Jack who lived and worked here, and he always treated him rather carelessly. Jack sometimes amused himself by imagining what the man’s face would look like if he placed his hands around his scrawny neck and simply squeezed. Perhaps his head would pop like a grape. Jack giggled to himself.

He didn’t move from his workbench as the footsteps drew closer to his closed laboratory door. Then there was a soft whisper of sound, and the steps receded back down the stairs, accompanied by faint grumblings from Sims about his tired old knees.

Jack turned toward the door to find that a letter had been slipped under it. He wasn’t expecting anything—although he’d been hoping for an update from Dinorah for a few days now, even though he knew she was likely still in the middle of getting settled into her new role.

He picked up the missive and discovered it was from Ward, sent by express mail early this morning, since it had arrived here just after noonday.

He was tempted to simply burn it without reading it, but that would only get Ward upset, and his tantrums were more trouble than they were worth. Jack read the letter.

The entire first paragraph was full of complaints about the fact that last night, Ward had received a letter from Heddetch talking all about kidnapping Lady Wynwood.

If Ward had received the doctor’s letter last night, Jack realized that Heddetch must have written to him sometime after they had decided to do the deed, but even before they had finished making preparations for it.

The letter concluded with rather unpleasant orders for Jack, which caused him to crumple it up, throw it on the floor, and stamp on it over and over again. Jack hated being ordered around by Ward, even more so because he knew that he had no choice but to obey.

His stomping simply flattened the letter, rather than grinding it into pieces. He calmed down as he stared at the dirty paper on the floor.

There was no need to hasten away simply because Ward ordered him to do so. He would take his time. After all, he hated rushing when he was traveling. He had intended to leave tomorrow, and while Ward’s orders were for him to set out today instead, it didn’t mean he had to leave right at this moment.

He left the laboratory and descended the stairs. Out on the street, he wove his way through a crowd of young men who all ignored him, since he had removed his face-paint after lunch and before starting his work. It was necessary in order to keep his laboratory a secret—the plain-faced stranger was not remarked upon when entering or exiting the building.

Jack headed in the direction of the tavern for the second time that day. He hadn’t thought he would go back so soon.

He almost didn’t notice it because of the flower girl selling bouquets at the corner, but he paused, smelling a faint whiff of lily of the valley. He would have thought it was simply a posy from the girl’s cart, except that he’d smelled this before.

Right after he’d discovered his greenhouse plants had been taken, he rushed out of the building in a rage. He searched up and down the street, his nose sniffing the air like a dog. And that’s when he smelled it—lily of the valley, the scent of a different woman from the normal ones that passed his greenhouse. He hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time, however, because he soon discovered in the opposite direction the scent of the Root, strangely accompanied by a wildflower smell, which he’d followed until he lost the trail.

But now, that exact same lily of the valley lingered in the air, very faint, but Jack immediately recognized it. Was it mere coincidence that it was here?

And what was more, while that scent had been alone in front of his greenhouse, now it was accompanied by another smell—the pollen from his hybrid plants. Just like the ones that had been stolen from his greenhouse.

Not someone on the Root, but someone who’d been in contact with the hybrid plant pollen. There was still the lightest whiff of the blood from the Root potion, but it was almost not there. Someone who had taken the Root at one time, but hadn’t taken a new dose in a long while. Someone instead using the pollen from Jack’s hybrid plants to keep himself alive.

Maxham had told Jack about the man he spotted when Bianca’s laboratory had been raided. Jack hadn’t ever seen his face, but Maxham had been certain it was the same man he’d turned into a Berserker. The one whose friends had saved him. The only Berserker who had ever lived.

He immediately scanned the street. He wouldn’t be able to recognize the ex-Berserker, since only Maxham had seen him, but the lily of the valley shouldn’t be so hard to find. There were few women on the street at this time of day.

But he couldn’t find her, his mysterious lily. The women he approached all reeked of cheap perfume and old cosmetics.

He followed the lily of the valley and the hybrid pollen trail, but found that it passed his laboratory entirely and continued down the street. He lost the scents quickly at a busy crossroads.

Jack stood at the corner, torn. Should he try to find the mysterious pair? Logically, it would be the most prudent course of action, even though Jack did not particularly pride himself on his logic. But he did pride himself on his instinct, and it was urging him to pursue these people like a hunting dog chasing a fox.

Yet something stayed his feet, and he stood there, leg jiggling, looking in all directions. It was a strange sensation, which captivated his attention because it was so novel. He felt as though a large invisible hand had gripped around his body and held him fast, held him at that street corner as the scent slowly faded over time.

His hearing had become sensitive since he took the Blood Nectar, and now while he remained inexplicably motionless, the sounds on the street filled his ears—the shouts of merchants, the laughing of young men with nothing better to do, the braying of a donkey that almost sounded like human speech.

Then suddenly the sensation of being caught evaporated as though it had never been there. What had happened to him? He shook his head, wondering if some chemical in the laboratory had caused his brain to feel so fuzzy.

The braying donkey seemed to be saying, The trail is too weak now.

Yes, following the two people would be much more difficult.

Did you really want to be a hunting dog today? the donkey asked.

No, he didn’t feel like it today. He had other things to do.

It was likely coincidence, the donkey added.

Yes, these two people—the lily of the valley and the hybrid pollen—may have passed his laboratory, but they were nearby only by chance. He needn’t worry about it.

He found he could now move his feet, and he headed toward the tavern.

As always, the bustle at the tavern enabled him to mingle with the crowd on the ground floor, and he reached the stairs to the first floor without anyone noticing him.

In the room that he used as his office, he took his time applying his face-paint. To put himself in a good mood, he used swirls of pink, purple, and green, his favorite colors. He felt that the design today was particularly artistic, although it did make even him feel a little dizzy as he stared at his face in the mirror.

It was a bit of a waste to take the time to paint his face when he would leave town in an hour or two and would need to remove the cosmetics, but he needed to hand out some of the Root before he left and also arrange for the men he had promised Maxham he would bring with him.

Several of his men were downstairs in the tavern’s common room—he could smell the Root wafting from their skin even if he was across the room and they were separated by a sea of bodies.

At the door to his office, he hesitated. He would normally call for Silas, but the large man had been sulking ever since Jack dosed Nick in the stable and caused him to become a Berserker. Really, wasn’t Silas being unreasonable? The man simply didn’t understand that Nick’s need for more Root than any other man had been in danger of becoming a problem and he would have needed to be killed anyway. So why not become a Berserker in order to get a sample of that sedative that the other group was making? And Nick hadn’t died immediately—he had been asleep for nearly a week before he had suddenly had a shaking fit and died. So Silas had had plenty of time to make his peace with his friend.

Regardless, Silas was no longer his favorite lackey. Jack headed downstairs and paused in the entrance to the common room, where his colorful face was immediately recognized. Those who saw him stilled and went silent, standing respectfully and waiting for orders.

“Where’s Peter?” Jack asked no one in particular.

“He’s by the fireplace,” one man said. “Should I call him for you?”

Jack gave him a look dripping with disdain for the clodpole that he was. “Did you think I was simply curious as to where he was? Like a mother hen watching over her chicks? Of course I need you to call for him.” He couldn’t stand being around these dunderheads. “Send him up to my office.” He muttered profanities to himself as he returned upstairs, trying to see how many different names he could come up with for the numbskull.

His foul mood must have incited his men to hurry and to indicate to Peter that he also needed to make haste, because the man knocked on his door only a few minutes later.

“Get in here!” Jack roared.

The door opened and Peter tentatively entered the room. He was so tall that he had to duck his head, but even so, his curly black hair brushed the lintel of the doorway. Outwardly, he appeared calm, blue eyes wide and eager to please as they settled on Jack. “What can I do for you, sir?”

His even, deep voice calmed Jack’s foul mood a bit. Peter was always a bit stern, but he followed orders quite well and didn’t question Jack. At the same time, he was smart enough to think for himself if something unexpected happened. However, Jack eyed him balefully. Peter may be confident, there was something constantly annoying about his handsome face, graced with a wide jaw and dimpled chin.

Jack gave a gusty sigh. Since he couldn’t use Silas, he would need to shield his eyes against Peter’s dazzling good looks. “I need two or three men to act as guards for a place out in the country. How soon can you leave?”

“Shouldn’t take long. Where are we going?”

“I have the directions somewhere …” Jack dug through his coat and finally found the paper that Maxham had left for him. He held it out. “Here, make a copy for yourself because I still need that.”

“Are we taking the mail or hiring a carriage?”

Jack frowned at him. “Why would you need a carriage? Can’t you just ride? It would be faster.”

Peter’s eyes slid away, and his porcelain skin flushed a delicate rose color. Jack wanted to slap him for looking like a maid in love.

Peter cleared his throat. “Not many of us can ride a horse well enough, sir.”

Jack groaned. Of course. “Hire a post chaise. I’ll leave ahead of you, but I expect you there tomorrow or the next day.” He could have used the excuse that he needed to travel with his men in order to have an excellent reason to defy Ward’s orders, but the truth was that he didn’t want to be stuck in a carriage with them. The smells alone would send him into a homicidal rage and all the men might be dead before they reached that remote house where Maxham had taken milady. Talk about a dangerous journey. He giggled.

Peter looked curiously at him, but they were used to him by now—he knew not to ask what Jack was laughing at. “Yes, sir.”

He turned to leave the room when they both heard a commotion from the ground floor, then heavy steps quickly climbing the stairwell.

To his credit, Peter immediately tensed and placed himself in front of Jack to protect him. Jack chided himself that he really shouldn’t be jealous of Peter’s pretty face, for the man apparently had a heart of gold. It was just so difficult to keep the man around when his overwhelmingly masculine beauty shone so brightly that it almost felt like a hail of bullets to the eyes if he looked at him for too long. Peter didn’t even play around with the barmaids too much, as far as Jack could tell.

His wandering thoughts snapped back to the present when the door opened without knocking and three men stumbled inside.

Peter had been about to attack, but stopped when he recognized them. “What are you doing, barging in here?” he demanded of the men.

Jack recognized the men also. They had been three of the four men assigned to guard Bianca’s laboratory in the trap that Maxham had set for the rat-foxes—such was the name Jack used for that annoying little group that kept getting in his way. Jack originally called them little rats, although he guessed that they may be working for the Home Office in some way. However, Maxham said they were more artful and cunning than he expected of men who worked for the government, and so in his mind, they were closer to foxes than rats.

The foul scent of horse, and sweat, and blood struck Jack in the face like a headwind, and it was all he could do not to gag. “Where have you been?!” he demanded, although at the moment he was more interested in what they’d been rolling in to smell that horribly rather than their whereabouts after the raid.

Now that he thought about it, he had not bothered to ask Maxham what had happened to the guards after Bianca’s laboratory had been raided by the rat-foxes. In the wake of everything they had to plan after that disaster, it had completely slipped his mind.

“We were captured, sir,” one of the men said. “But we managed to escape.”

Now that was interesting. “Peter, you can leave,” Jack said.

Peter frowned at the three, but he merely nodded to Jack before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

“Tell me everything.” Jack sat in the chair in front of his dressing table.

The men remained standing as they explained that they been captured during the raid and taken to a prison in the countryside. It had not been too far from London, but they had had a difficult time finding transportation since their money had been taken from them. They had finally held up a farmer’s cart in order to drive back into town.

“Was the farmer transporting onions?” Jack suddenly asked.

The men were confused, glancing at each other briefly. Finally, one of them replied, “The cart was empty, sir, but I think I did see a moldy onion in a corner. So the farmer may have taken onions into town and was returning home?”

That explained the decayed, sulfurous smell mixed with the multitude of other foul odors the men were exuding. It would have been nice if the Blood Nectar somehow made it so that he didn’t need to breathe.

Jack questioned them further. He almost didn’t, but he ended up asking for the location of the prison where they had been held. However, he knew that the rat-foxes would be unlikely to use that prison again since these men had escaped.

He even remembered to ask for descriptions of the men who had captured them. Maxham had already said that the people who raided the laboratory had been wearing masks, but he’d recognized the one man whom Maxham had turned into a Berserker. Jack’s men didn’t give very good descriptions of the guards, but one might have been that same Berserker-back-from-the-dead, while the other matched the description of the slender man whom Jack had questioned in the stable. What had his name been? Maxham had discovered his identity and used him to capture Lady Wynwood. When he told Jack his name, it had been something unusual, reminding Jack of a Roman centurion. Octavius? No, Septimus. Mr. Septimus Ackett.

Jack thoughtfully sucked on his bottom lip. He had been hoping that the rat-foxes might have used someone new to guard the prisoners, but of course they wouldn’t make it that easy for him.

“Can you think of anything else?” Jack asked. He was really getting quite tired of listening to the men talk, and their noxious body odor was giving him a headache. He rose and began pacing around the three of them as they simply repeated what they had already said. They’d likely reached the end of the information Jack was going to get out of them.

“Hmm … Good job, good job.” He tried to insert a note of cheerfulness in his words of praise as he paused behind two of them. When he first started circling them, they had swiveled their heads to keep their eyes on him, but after a few minutes, they simply kept their eyes toward the front. Perfect.

Jack pulled two knives from the depths of his coat and stabbed the two men from behind. Each blade sank into the base of the skull, slipping cleanly through the vertebrae. The blow was swift and sharp, and Jack’s exceptional strength and speed made the blow seem like a silent bullet.

He had a third knife, but it was in his boot and he was too lazy to bend down to retrieve it, so he yanked one of the knives out with a spurt of blood and spinal fluid.

He didn’t pause, but instead lifted his arms above his head and spun like a ballerina, humming to himself and twirling until he stopped at the side of the third man. The poor chap had not noticed that the two behind him were no longer alive, and he was in the process of turning to look at Jack when he stabbed him in the temple.

This time, he left the knife buried in the man’s head, and the body slumped to the floor.

Jack stood above the corpses and surveyed the floor. Good, he had managed to keep it clean. There was a little blood that had spilled, but he could get the barmaid to clean it up for him.

He knelt over one of the men he had just killed, idly playing with the wide open eyelids and pinching the man’s oily nose. Most men would simply see three bodies, but he saw a palette for his art.

“If I must play errand boy for Ward,” he mused in a low voice, “let’s have a little fun first.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was already late afternoon by the time Michael and his sister found the theater that Ida had told them about. Since the theater had no sign, it had been difficult for them to find the correct building, and they had passed by it entirely.

However, Isabella thought to stop and ask a flower girl, who pointed out the back door to the theater. Michael bought two large bunches of flowers at the same time.

The theater rose to a height of at least forty feet, if not fifty, but there were only a few small windows dotted up the backside of the building. The back door was wide open and people—mostly young men—milled about, while occasionally a gaudily dressed woman would enter inside.

Michael left Isabella with the flowers while he went to chat with two young men loitering across the street. “Is that a theater?” he asked casually.

“You haven’t heard of Lovey’s Boudoir?”

“I live in Southwark,” Michael said. “What’s Lovey’s Boudoir?”

“The most delectable bits o’muslin you’ll ever see dancing on stage,” one young man said excitedly.

“Oh?” Michael pretended to be interested.

“It gets a bit rowdy some nights,” the other young man said, “but the manager doesn’t mind.”

“Who are your favorites?” Michael asked.

“The most popular girl is Nonie,” one man said.

However, his friend objected heatedly, “You’re touched in the head! It’s definitely Miss Glory!”

They argued a few minutes longer before Michael interrupted them. “Thanks, gents. I’ll be sure to watch both their performances.”

He sauntered back to Isabella, who had hidden herself around a corner a few yards down and opposite the theater. “It’s called Lovey’s Boudoir,” he told her.

“I can already guess what kind of theater it is,” Isabella said. “I’ve seen at least three women in gowns that were rather daring despite the cold coming on with the early evening, and an excessive amount of paint on their faces.”

“You are dressed as a boy, so it shouldn’t be a problem, correct?”

Isabella kicked him in the shin.

With each of them carrying a bunch of flowers, she and Michael entered the back door of the theater without question, since there was no one guarding the entrance. Once inside, an older man saw them and stopped them, but Michael simply told him, “Deliveries for Miss Nonie and Miss Glory.”

The man nodded and jerked his head toward the dressing rooms. “That way.” That he rushed past them, busily preparing for the next evening performance.

They entered a hallway that was lined with dressing rooms. The cacophonous sounds echoed off the low ceiling, making his sensitive ears ring, while an unpleasant melange of perfumes gave him an instant headache.

Instead of delivering their flowers, they slipped out to the backside of the stage. Just as Ida had said, there was a short hallway at the far end of the stage lined with doors. However, the last one on the left was locked.

Isabella and Michael stared at each other.

“I still think I’m better at it,” she said to him.

His eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted. “You got lucky that one time.”

“Then shall I prove it this time?”

“It’s my turn.”

“We’ll never settle this if you keep insisting I was lucky.”

Michael blew out a breath through his nose. “Fine.”

Isabella shoved her flowers at him and pulled out her pickpocketing tools. Michael stood to block the sight of her as she knelt to unlock the door.

She was most definitely faster than him. She had the door open within four seconds.

He tried to hide his disgruntlement, but she had a superior expression on her face as he slipped into the room beyond and shut the door behind them. The room was pitch black, but they had seen the stairs rising just before the door closed.

They slowly began climbing, as quietly as possible. The air smelled strongly of mold and vomit, and through the walls they could hear the muffled sounds of people milling about in the theater, and the calls of actresses getting ready for the performance.

At every turn of the stairs he expected to find a landing for a floor, but they kept climbing up and up. As they climbed, the darkness thickened, and he had to move more slowly so that he would not stumble. The smell of vomit and mold also began to recede.

But then he noticed that the darkness lightened to a shade of gray. Finally, at one turn of the stairs, Michael stopped. Isabella hesitated on the step behind him.

Grass and floral. And blood. It repulsed him, and it drew him. He recoiled, but he wanted more of it.

“I smell the Root,” he whispered. But more than the smell, the memories assaulted him—darkness and blood, his fists destroying anything in front of him, the madness and rage. His throat hoarse from his screaming, every muscle in his body taut and knotted as he pounded with all his strength. Even the candlelight from the buildings was too bright for him, and he rampaged through the inky blackness. Until he saw a single lantern, a woman’s face floating in place.

“Michael,” she said.

“Michael?”

He gave a soft gasp as he came out of the waking nightmare to see the dim outline of Isabella’s face. She had her hand on his cheek, but he hadn’t even realized she had touched him.

He was going to fob her off with a joke or a trite comment to make her mad, but what came out of his mouth was, “The smell made me remember that night.”

She didn’t ask what night he meant. Instead, she reached out and embraced him, her small arms reaching around his back to squeeze him tight. He could smell Lily of the Valley, not a perfume but the natural scent of her skin. It brought him back to their childhood home, Blakewood Hearth, and summer days spent fishing and riding with Thorne—all the things that brought a comforting nostalgia, which chased away the cold fears of the raging dark.

“How often?” she asked.

“Less often now,” he lied. There seemed to be no pattern to how often these episodes overcame him. The first couple weeks after he awoke, he’d felt a bit numb, faced with his sudden death sentence, and he’d simply walked around following orders. But perhaps the horrific visions had been more frequent lately because he could tell that the Root was slowly killing him, and his broken mind was shattering.

Then Isabella began to pray.

She spoke so softly that he wouldn’t be able to hear her words without the enhancement by the Root. And her prayer seemed more a torrent of feeling than reverent words lifted up to God.

But as she prayed, he suddenly felt as though he were embraced by a warmth and kindness that soothed him. It reminded him of the voice he thought he’d heard back when the Ramparts were searching Heddetch’s house.

It was like a cloth bandage over a bleeding wound. The wound was still there, savage and painful, but the bandage held the skin together, and would continue to do so while he slowly healed.

Could he believe that he might eventually heal? Isabella’s prayer made him feel as though it were possible, whereas before he might have given in to despair.

She could sense when he had calmed, and she released him. He was glad for this quiet moment, for this deserted stairwell. If he’d been around other people when he smelled the Root, he shuddered to think what might have happened.

“Shall we?” was all she said, and he grunted.

They continued climbing and only a few steps later, reached the top of the stairs. A line of light shone along the bottom of a single door. Apparently the room took up the entirety of the top floor of the building.

He crouched outside the door and put his ear close. He shook his head at her. “I hear nothing inside,” he whispered, “but the Root smell is strong. I think there may be vials of it inside.” He swallowed. “Ugly, I made a terrible mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t simply another laboratory Heddetch was using. Jack was here.”

“Let me pick the lock,” Isabella said.

“No,” he said. “If we pick the lock, then when Jack comes back, he will smell my scent and yours. We dare not go inside.”

She drew in a soft gasp. “I hadn’t thought of that. But that means that he’ll know we were outside this door.”

He nodded at the bunch of flowers she still held. “That’s why I bought these, to mask us. The stairwell smells strongly, so here, the flowers will prevent him from picking out our individual scents. He may think the flowers were from a wayward theater-goer who wandered up here.”

“Then let’s simply take the flowers into the room.”

“The room is likely aired out more. He would be able to pick out our scents, and I’d rather he didn’t know anything more about us.”

She stared at the door. “But we’re right here. Even if there isn’t anyone here now, there may be some information about where they might have taken Lady Wynwood.”

“I have an idea for how to see inside the room.”

They headed back down the stairs, but at the landing, he suddenly stopped. Only a whisper of a scent … but it brought the image of a man with pale eyes.

“I didn’t notice it before, but now, after smelling the Root from under the door, I can tell the difference.” He dropped the bouquet of flowers and moved closer to the walls. “I can smell something similar to the Root, but less bloody, and yet somehow … more putrid.”

“Something different? Mr. Ackett said that he thought Jack was stronger than his men. He thought Jack was taking something different from the Root.”

“I think he’s right. And not just Jack—I remember this smell when the pale-eyed man poured the Root down my throat.” Michael pushed the memory aside before it caused his heart to pound again, and managed to steady himself with another long breath.

He moved his hand along the wall and felt the roughness under his fingers. It was a seam in the wood. He followed it all around and discovered a door set flush against the wall. In the darkness, it would have gone entirely unnoticed. “There’s a hidden door.”

“It’s not simply a closet?”

“It’s a large door, and the smell is coming from behind it.” He pressed his ear to the wood, but again he heard nothing inside. “The smell is sharp and strong. It makes me think that it came from a person. If it came from Jack, if he’s taking something different from the Root, then he was here about an hour or two before we arrived.”

“He is not here now?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“And I suppose you can’t enter this room either?”

He shook his head before he realized she probably couldn’t see him. “No. But as I said, I have an idea.”

He picked up the flowers, and they crept back downstairs. Nearer to the bottom of the stairwell, he and Isabella crushed the blooms underfoot, making the scent rise.

“How are you going to explain the flowers appearing behind this locked door?” Isabella asked.

“Like this.” He grabbed the door handle from inside, and with an easy tug, he broke the lock.

Isabella sighed. “If you were going to do that, why did I have to pick it?”

He hadn’t thought of that. He gave her an apologetic look. “This way, it’ll look as though a drunk broke the lock and dropped the flowers.”

“Yes, yes,” she said tiredly. “A very plausible story. Let’s get out of here.”

Once outside, Michael squinted up at the theater, then at the two buildings on either side. He hoped his sense of direction was correct, for they had gotten a bit turned around when they were climbing the stairs. He then led Isabella to the building on the left.

It was an alehouse, rather busy despite the early hour of afternoon. There were also men walking up the stairs, and as they entered the first floor, they realized that the alehouse doubled as a bawdy house—the hallway was lined with rooms apparently in use by the house’s “ladies.” A couple men waited outside the closed doors of their favorites, while others knocked and entered other rooms.

“Wait here,” Michael told Isabella, then returned to the ground floor. He found the barkeep and paid for the use of a room for an hour. He was given a room number, and he went back upstairs. collecting Isabella on the way.

However he did not enter the room, but instead, they made their way to the very end of the hallway. None of the men even glanced at Michael and the young boy following him as they passed the long line of rooms and finally found another set of stairs leading up. The floor above appeared to hold living quarters, but they continued up the stairwell to the floor above that.

The attic had a small door, but it was not locked. Under the low ceiling stood a couple of narrow bedsteads in one corner, while the rest of the space was filled with dusty, broken furniture and trash. However there was a light coming from the far end, and they made their way around the obstacles toward it.

The window was closed with ill-fitting wooden shutters, which creaked when they opened them. Michael eyed the size of the opening, but after Isabella slid through first and pulled herself onto the roof, he thought perhaps he could fit. He slithered through, but he needed Isabella’s help to get out onto the roof.

Walking in a low crouch, they made their way across the roof toward the theater. The alehouse and the theater had been built directly next to each other, so there was no alley between them, and they were able to climb onto the roof of Lovey’s Boudoir without any problems.

The top floor held four dormer windows, and they all looked to be new construction compared to the rest of the building. The first window was surprisingly open, and they crept up to look inside.

It was a small set of living quarters, but their approach startled an extraordinarily ugly cat who hissed at them and then ran out of sight.

“Queenie…” he breathed.

“Who?” Isabella asked.

“I’ve never seen it before, but everyone talks about Jack’s cat.”

“Are you sure it was Jack’s?”

“A cat that ugly? I’m almost positive.”

The not-quite-Root smell he had first encountered out on the landing was strong here, coming from inside the room. He did not dare enter the room, because if he could smell that non-Root scent and Isabella’s Lily of the Valley right next to him, he was certain that Jack would notice if a stranger entered his rooms.

They peered inside and saw a simple room with a bed, a chair in front of the fireplace, and a round table and two chairs in the corner.

They made their way to the next dormer window, but it was shuttered closed. There was a crack between the wood, and Michael peered through.

It was a large room, looking like it took up the rest of the top floor of the theater. It was empty, but dominated by a large table in the center. There were instruments on top of the table that looked similar to what he had seen in Miss Gardinier’s stillroom and also in Heddetch’s laboratory, but there were not quite as many instruments. There was also a goodly amount of trash scattered about the floor and along the walls.

The smell of the Root elixir was very strong. He saw a closed cabinet along one wall and guessed that there were vials of the potion stored inside.

Isabella had moved to peek through the next dormer window, but she returned to him. “I don’t see Lady Wynwood.”

“I don’t think she was here. She doesn’t wear a great deal of it, but Lady Wynwood favors a certain perfume. I think I would have smelled it if she had been here.” She had a woody, earthy perfume that smelled like finding a single exotic rose growing in the midst of wild berry bushes in the depths of a forest. It was very distinctive and he would have been able to pick it out even amongst the strong Root smell, but he smelled none of it from the room. In fact, he did not detect any women’s perfume either in this laboratory or in Jack’s living quarters, despite the fact that almost all of the actresses below stairs had worn something or other.

“Let’s go,” Michael said, and they made their way back through the attic window of the bawdy house.

Once outside, she asked, “What do we do now?”

“I need to go to the Ramparts,” he said quietly as they made their way down the street.

“Dressed like that?”

He looked down, remembering that he had not changed out of the costume he had adopted when he had joined the raid on Dr. Heddetch’s house. Just as he was, he could not enter through the gentleman’s club, and the haberdashery would be closed soon. He would have to enter through the backside of the fabric warehouse, but that entrance required another agent to escort him inside.

“I’ll need to change so that I can enter through the Ivory Ramparts,” he said.

“Your costuming room is too far away,” she said.

“It’s only just outside the Long Glades.” Like Septimus, he had a room he rented where he could change into his various costumes.

“We would need to find a hackney to take us there, and then find another hackney to take us to Mayfair. Dressing in Richard’s clothes at home is faster.”

Michael finally agreed, but they had to walk a ways until they found a hackney to take them to the Coulton-Jones’s townhouse. In the mews behind their mother’s house, in a storeroom, there was a hidden cabinet where Isabella kept a change of clothes as well as her cosmetics. She changed out of her livery and into a gown, and then the two of them entered the house.

He heard a familiar deep voice even before they climbed to the first floor. He paused at the head of the stairs. “I hear Thorne’s voice, as well as Mother’s.”

Isabella pushed him down the hallway. “I’ll take care of them. You can find Richard’s clothes and change into them quickly. You will need to report to Mr. Drydale as soon as possible.”

Richard’s old bedroom still held his evening clothes, and Michael managed to squeeze himself into them without a valet. He had never imagined that he would need to go directly from an assignment to his mother’s house, and he thought he should keep a change of clothing in Isabella’s hidden cabinet in the mews. He could perhaps use it as a second costuming room, since he couldn’t sneak into his rooms at the Albany dressed as a beggar.

Thanks to Isabella, he managed to sneak out of the house without encountering his parent, although he felt a bit like a thief as he exited the front door. It was far easier to find a hackney here in Mayfair, and soon he was descending in front of the gentleman’s club, the Ivory Ramparts.

As he entered through the secret door in the small gaming room, he was met with the familiar sight of Miss Nell, aiming a pistol at him. The woman that Isabella had encountered was no longer there.

He gave Miss Nell an easy smile, but it faded as he saw the hard look in her brown eyes. She also did not lower the pistol upon seeing him, which was what she usually did.

“Oh, Mr. … Villager,” she said, the pistol aimed unmoving at his heart, “in the short time since you started working here, you have become one of my favorite agents. But you have been a very naughty boy.”

At that moment, the middle door in the far wall opened and Mr. Maghew and Mr. Golding entered. They spotted Michael, and their expressions became black thunderclouds.

“Stop right there!” Mr. Maghew shouted at him.

And Michael was promptly arrested.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sol arrived in the Ramparts’ ground floor entry hall just in time to see his agent being arrested.

“Oh, thank the Lord,” he said.

It was not that he was pleased his agent was being arrested—and with a great deal more roughness than necessary—but the past several hours’ ordeal of listening to complaints from his superior officers was at last at an end.

Sol had been rather quickly informed by Mr. Antingham that Mr. Coulton-Jones had absconded with the maid they had brought in to question about Dr. Heddetch. Sol had been so surprised that he was literally speechless. He had frantically tried to think of why Mr. Coulton-Jones would do such a thing, but couldn’t come up with a reason.

Because of his training, a part of him always expected betrayal from those around him, but now he wondered if perhaps he had been working too closely with Laura. Had his senses grown soft? Had Mr. Coulton-Jones also been placed specifically to undermine him?

But even when trying to reflect upon the occurrences of the past several weeks, he had a difficult time believing that Mr. Coulton-Jones would be disloyal. He wondered at first if it was simply that he did not want a second agent under his management to betray the Ramparts, but he didn’t think his mind was in denial of the situation.

From what he had known of Mr. Coulton-Jones, he would have a reason for his actions. Also, in this current situation, Mr. Coulton-Jones would have deliberately not told Sol about what he was going to do. Sol could deny that he knew anything about his subordinates’ actions and was therefore not responsible for them.

When they had discovered that Mr. Coulton-Jones had left along with the maid, Sol, Mr. Antingham, and Sir Derrick had gathered in Mr. Uppleby’s office. It was almost twice the size of Sir Derrick’s office, but the rumor was that when Sir Derrick had been put in charge of the Ramparts and been offered this office, which had belonged to his predecessor, he had refused. His reason had been that he didn’t want to have to go through the bother of moving his piles of paper, because the papers would be put out of order, and he would never be able to find anything ever again.

Mr. Antingham strode up in front of Sol, his eyes flat and cold, with deep lines along the sides of his pinched mouth. “I don’t know why, but you are undermining this investigation,” he ground out.

Sol should have tried to remain calm. But perhaps because he was still shocked at Mr. Coulton-Jones’s actions, instead he shot back, “It was my investigation to begin with, until you and Mr. Uppleby forced your way in to it.”

“That is exactly why you are trying to obstruct our efforts,” Mr. Antingham said. “You have a grudge because you were proven incompetent and other agents needed to be brought in to help.”

Before Sol could respond, Sir Derrick snapped, “The two of you need to shut up. I am in charge of this investigation, and you are both giving me a headache.”

Sir Derrick was perched on the edge of Mr. Uppleby’s desk. Mr. Uppleby had sat in his desk chair, but he frowned at Sir Derrick’s back for his indecorous posture.

“Why would Mr. Villager take the maid?” Sir Derrick demanded from Sol.

“I have no idea, but I’m certain he has a good reason.”

Mr. Uppleby gave a scoffing sound. “You’re certain, are you?”

Ignoring him, Sol continued, “Also, Mr. Villager mentioned to me his concerns that Mr. Antingham’s men were intimidating the girl. Perhaps he wished to gain her trust.”

“That implies that he knew the girl was keeping something from us,” Mr. Uppleby said. “If he did suspect something of the sort, he should have told Mr. Maghew rather than acting on his own.”

Sol suppressed his irritation. “Why should he tell one of Mr. Antingham’s men when he had already expressed to me his misgivings about them?”

“Then he should have told Sir Derrick or myself,” Mr. Uppleby said. “If agents keep disobeying orders this way, we will never find Dr. Heddetch or the Root.”

“You mean, Lady Wynwood,” Sol said levelly.

“Of course, of course.” Mr. Uppleby waved his hand as if brushing the topic aside.

“He also broke into the secure files room,” Mr. Antingham complained.

“Yes, he put that noxious chemical in the reports room primarily used by Mr. Antingham,” Mr. Uppleby said. However, there was a snide twinkle in his eyes, as though he were amused by his peer’s displeasure.

“There is no evidence that was done by Mr. Villager,” Sol said, although even he had difficulty sounding convincing.

“How would he even have managed to break in?” Mr. Uppleby asked.

“Uppleby, everyone knows where you hide your key,” Sir Derrick said with exasperation.

There was a brief moment of surprise, then Mr. Antingham lashed out, “I keep telling you to change where you put it!”

Mr. Uppleby shrugged helplessly. “But then I would forget where it was.”

Mr. Antingham turned toward Sir Derrick. “My men will find Mr. Villager and the maid. They are loyal and competent.”

As though Mr. Coulton-Jones wasn’t any of those things. Sol wanted to point out that if Mr. Antingham’s men were so competent, they would have gotten some information from the maid long before Mr. Coulton-Jones took her away.

Had Mr. Coulton-Jones acted to impede the investigation? Was he another agent being manipulated by the pale-eyed man? Or was he working to find Lady Wynwood, when it seemed that Mr. Antingham’s agents were only hindering the search?

If Mr. Coulton-Jones had betrayed them as Septimus had, there was nothing Sol could do about it. By now, the maid would be dead.

But he didn’t think that Mr. Coulton-Jones would do such a thing. He had been a loyal agent for the Foreign Office, and his sister was a highly placed agent in the Ramparts. His sister …

He suddenly remembered hearing a complaint earlier from a young woman who had been charged with guarding the door to the Ivory Ramparts at the last minute, since Miss Nell had been called away to help with Sir Derrick’s investigation. It was unusual for Miss Nell to be replaced, but apparently it had been a special case.

The girl had apparently not done a very good job, because a young boy who possessed the key to the door had entered. The young woman challenged the boy, but when presented with a pass-phrase, she had failed to call someone to verify it. The boy had instead managed to steal her pistol and sneak into the Ramparts. She had raised an alarm, but when Sir Derrick heard of it, he had sharply reprimanded the woman that the pass-phrase was legitimate, which she would have been told if she had sent for someone.

Sol had not thought so at the time, but now he began to wonder if that young boy had perhaps not been a boy at all.

If Mr. Coulton-Jones was working with his sister, Sol would guess that they would not act unless it helped them to grow one step closer to finding Laura, which was more than what the other agents seemed to be doing.

He didn’t know where Mr. Coulton-Jones might have taken the maid, but he would probably return to the Ramparts eventually. The most likely entrance would be the one through the club, so Sol asked Miss Nell to take an extra shift there and to inform him right away when Mr. Coulton-Jones arrived. In the meantime, Mr. Antingham sent his agents out to try to find Mr. Coulton-Jones.

Several hours later, Sol happened to be in Sir Derrick’s office with Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby when Mr. Antingham’s agents returned. Sol admitted to a petty sense of satisfaction that apparently Mr. Antingham’s agents were not very competent, because they hadn’t found Mr. Coulton-Jones and had returned empty-handed.

Mr. Antingham’s face had turned red as he shouted at his agents. “You were questioning the maid. You should have been able to figure out where they went.”

“Did you check the maid’s home?” Sol asked.

“She never told us,” replied the lead agent, Mr. Maghew, in a stiff voice.

Sol rephrased his question. “Did you specifically ask the maid where she lived, who her friends were, or whether she has any other relations in London?”

Mr. Maghew cleared his throat and avoided looking at Mr. Antingham. “We did not think it important to ask her anything about her personal life, sir.”

Sir Derrick made a disgusted sound. Mr. Antingham was quiet, but Sol could see that he was trembling with rage, and his face had turned a dusky red in embarrassment at their ineptitude.

In contrast, Mr. Uppleby seemed almost pleased at Mr. Antingham’s failure. “Your agents aren’t entirely to blame,” he said in an almost jovial voice. “They wouldn’t have had to go looking for the maid if Mr. Villager hadn’t taken her.”

“Mr. Villager will return,” Sol said, “and with valuable information.” He hoped he wasn’t wrong.

Mr. Maghew and the other agents escaped the office before Mr. Antingham could reprimand them further, and Sol remained with his three superiors for another thirty minutes, discussing options.

But then they were interrupted by running footsteps. Mr. Barker erupted into Sir Derrick’s office, belatedly rapping on the door as he entered. “Mr. Villager is at the club entrance,” he panted.

All of them erupted from their seats and headed down to the ground floor. Sol arrived in time to see Mr. Coulton-Jones being forcibly taken away, his hands in chains. He made to follow them, but Sir Derrick motioned for Sol to join him as he questioned Miss Nell about what had happened.

After they heard what happened from the Guardian at the door, Sol was desperate to find Mr. Coulton-Jones as soon as possible. He excused himself and went looking in each of the interrogation rooms, but couldn’t find him.

He returned to the entrance hall, where Miss Nell was once again sitting at the Guardian’s desk.

“Miss Nell,” he said, “I’m afraid I do not know where they took Mr. Villager.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “He’s not in any of the normal interrogation rooms?”

Sol shook his head. “I cannot think of where they would take him.”

She opened her mouth to reply, then suddenly paused. “You don’t think that perhaps … Surely they wouldn’t have taken him to the dungeons, would they?”

Sol hurried down to the basement level, but even before he reached the bottom steps, he heard the distinctive sound of flesh striking flesh. One man was punching another, bare-fisted.

He ran toward the only one of the four cells with a guard standing outside of it, an agent named Mr. Fletcher.

Sol strode up to him. “Open the cell.”

Mr. Fletcher avoided Sol’s eyes and continued looking forward, but he blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Antingham has ordered us to keep the door locked.”

Another sound of a fist hitting flesh, this time accompanied by a soft grunt. Sol’s anxiety made his voice louder than he intended. “No one ordered for him to be beaten. He needs to be questioned.”

Mr. Fletcher swallowed. “Mr. Antingham says that an agent who disobeys is worthless, and there is no point in listening to what he has to say.”

Idiot! Mr. Antingham had accused Sol of undermining the events of the investigation, but his actions now seemed to be doing just that. Mr. Coulton-Jones had surely had a reason for taking the maid, and at the very least, they should find out what it was. Depending upon what he accomplished while he was gone, he may even have information about where to find Lady Wynwood.

Instead of shouting his frustration, Sol took a long, slow breath through his nostrils. In a low, tight voice, he said, “Mr. Antingham is not in charge of this investigation. Sir Derrick is in charge. And Sir Derrick wishes to hear what Mr. Villager has to say.”

“I am afraid I cannot disobey an order from my superior officer.”

Sol stepped closer to Mr. Fletcher and placed himself directly in front of him so that the man needed to contort his neck to avoid looking him in the eye. “My rank is also superior to yours, Mr. Fletcher. Are you going to disobey my direct order?”

Mr. Fletcher’s gaze wavered, and he glanced quickly at Sol before once again looking away.

From the closed cell door behind him suddenly came a garbled line. Mr. Coulton-Jones tried to say something, but his words were abruptly cut off with the sound of another bare-fisted punch.

Ignoring Mr. Fletcher, Sol shouted at the closed door, “Stop! What did he say?”

The heavy wooden door had a small barred window. Mr. Coulton-Jones’s sensitive hearing had probably heard Sol arguing with Mr. Fletcher, but his shout also served to tell everyone within that he was out here in the hallway. The young man’s voice, a bit muffled, called out, “I discovered the location of Heddetch’s laboratory.”

There was a pregnant silence. Then Mr. Maghew said irritably, “What are you talking about? You already raided it.”

“Heddetch’s other laboratory,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

However, instead of inquiring further, there was the sound of another punch.

Sol tried to push past Mr. Fletcher, who grabbed him and refused to let him any closer to the door. “What are you doing?!” Sol yelled at the agents within the cell.

“Where is it?” Mr. Maghew demanded.

“I’m not speaking until Sir Derrick arrives,” Mr. Coulton-Jones replied.

This time, a softer thud, punctuated by a pained “Oof!” Mr. Maghew had kicked Mr. Coulton-Jones. The agent’s voice was tight with anger as he said, “Your family name does not excuse you from punishment for insubordinate behavior, Mr. Villager.”

“Stop!” Sol yelled. “If you break a rib or puncture his lung, he won’t be able to tell Sir Derrick what he knows.”

The sound of another kick, perhaps specifically because Sol had told him not to do it.

Mr. Fletcher was still holding Sol back by grabbing his arms. The young man was a little taller than Sol, and certainly stronger, but Sol had not become a senior agent at the Ramparts simply by reading documents and ordering about other men.

He hooked his leg behind Mr. Fletcher’s calf, and the man stumbled backward. He was standing close to the cell door, so his shoulder bumped against the wood.

But Sol followed up with a punch to his unprotected solar plexus, which made Mr. Fletcher curl around his torso. In conjunction with his unstable footing, he slid to the floor.

Sol jerked at the handle to the door, hoping that the man had not locked it. It creaked open reluctantly.

He stepped inside the room just as Mr. Maghew turned to stare at him. Another agent, Mr. Golding, was holding Mr. Coulton-Jones’s arms behind his back. Mr. Coulton-Jones sagged in his arms, barely able to keep his feet under him. There was blood on his bottom lip and swelling forming on his left eye, but on a whole, he didn’t look as terrible as Sol would have thought he would. His chains had been removed, so he could have overpowered the two men, but he hadn’t.

Sol shouldered the full force of his authority like a royal mantle as he glared at Mr. Maghew and Mr. Golding. “You may be Mr. Antingham’s men, but Sir Derrick is still in charge of the Ramparts,” he ground out. “He will not stand for behavior that interferes with an investigation of which he has personally taken charge. Escort Mr. Villager to the Blackbird Room.”

The men hesitated.

Sol barked out, “Now!”

His raised voice echoed in the stone cell, and both men flinched slightly, although Mr. Maghew tried to hide it.

“Mr. Antingham specifically wanted to use this cell,” Mr. Maghew said weakly.

“The Blackbird Room is our highest security interrogation room,” Sol said. “Considering that Mr. Villager absconded with a woman who had been brought in, Mr. Antingham’s orders to have him be placed here are highly questionable. I could break out of this cell in ten minutes.”

Mr. Maghew reddened at the insult to his superior officer, but he could not argue against it. He nodded to the other agent, and they marched Mr. Coulton-Jones out. Sol followed behind them, sparing only a cold glance for Mr. Fletcher, who had risen to his feet while still clutching his stomach.

Sol expected that he would need to personally go to Sir Derrick’s office to speak to him, but as he followed the two agents dragging Mr. Coulton-Jones up the stairs, he happened to see a familiar figure pausing on the landing. Sol immediately called to him, “Mr. Kyleston, I urgently require you to send for Sir Derrick. Please ask him to meet us in the Blackbird Room.”

Although Mr. Kyleston had been accosted quite abruptly, the brown eyes behind thick spectacles blinked only once before he nodded and hurried away. As Sir Derrick’s clerk, Mr. Kyleston had become used to following orders quickly in unusual or urgent situations.

Sol caught up to the other agents. Mr. Fletcher had joined them, and he was unlocking the door to the Blackbird Room.

Mr. Coulton-Jones was the very picture of a weak and sore man, wavering on his feet, his arm thrown over Mr. Golding’s shoulder. However, Sol hoped that with his superior strength, he had not been badly injured. While his face had looked swollen only a few minutes ago when Sol burst into the cell, now the puffiness was already lessening around his left eye. Sol thought perhaps the Goldensuit pollen was causing Mr. Coulton-Jones to heal quickly, just as the Root had healed Silas’s ear within a few days.

The Blackbird Room was a bit smaller than some of the other interrogation rooms, but the walls and door were solid and made so that very little sound leaked through. Mr. Coulton-Jones was seated at the small table in the center. Sol went to stand next to him.

“The rest of you may leave,” Sol said.

“Mr. Golding, Mr. Fletcher, you may go,” Mr. Maghew said. He held Sol’s eyes as he said, “I shall stay, since Mr. Antingham personally ordered me not to leave this man alone.”

Sol could not countermand the order of an officer superior to himself, but he crossed his arms and remained standing next to Mr. Coulton-Jones.

Mr. Maghew circled around to the other side of the table and leaned his hands against the edge, bringing his face closer to Mr. Coulton-Jones’s bent head. But when he opened his mouth, Sol made a reprimanding sound, as though he were correcting a dog, and lifted a finger. “Your questions will wait until Sir Derrick arrives,” he said sternly.

Sol glanced at Mr. Coulton-Jones’s face. There was a cut on his lip, but Sol was rather glad the blood had smeared—unless a person looked closely, they would never notice that the split had already closed.

Sol dug out his handkerchief and handed it to him. “You look terrible,” he said, inserting a gruff solicitude in his voice. “Put that over that swollen eye.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones glanced up at him. There was a twinkle of amusement in his glass-green gaze for a moment before his malleable face crumpled into a tragic mask of pain. He gave a theatrical groan and pressed the handkerchief over his right eye. The uninjured one.

Sol gave him a subtle kick.

Mr. Coulton-Jones switched the handkerchief to his left eye.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

They waited in silence for several minutes, but at last Sir Derrick arrived with Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham in tow. It was a tight fit with all of them in the room, but no one objected as Sir Derrick sat across from Mr. Coulton-Jones while the rest stood around the table. The door was closed and locked behind them.

Sir Derrick immediately saw Mr. Coulton-Jones’s agonized expression, although half of his face was hidden by the handkerchief. Sir Derrick’s dark eyes turned into twin raging black fires that turned upon Mr. Maghew. In wrathful, measured tones, he said, “I demand to know why you beat Mr. Villager.”

Mr. Maghew stiffened and reflexively swallowed, but it was Mr. Antingham who answered. “I’ve trained my agents to do so. It is normal procedure for a combative suspect, especially one who may be a traitor. It weakens them and makes them more likely to accidentally let slip the truth when questioned.”

That hadn’t been the reason that Mr. Fletcher had repeated to Sol down in the dungeon.

“Yes,” Mr. Uppleby said, “I have also discovered that method works.”

Sir Derrick gave Mr. Antingham a sharp look, but simply nodded.

“I want to know why I am forced to be here,” Mr. Uppleby complained. He couldn’t resist taking a stab at Mr. Antingham as he added, “Mr. Antingham’s agents should have been able to get information out of Mr. Villager themselves.”

“Mr. Villager says that he found the location of Heddetch’s secret second lab,” Mr. Maghew said, “but he won’t say where it is.”

“Sir Derrick, as you see, he is clearly a combative agent,” Mr. Antingham said.

“Mr. Villager did not refuse to speak at all,” Sol interjected. “He refused to speak until Sir Derrick arrived.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones had likely refused to speak once Mr. Maghew began beating him, but even if he hadn’t been mistreated, Sol suspected that Mr. Coulton-Jones would have said nothing. After Mr. Uppleby’s agents tried to have the prisoners transferred whilst they searched the lab, and after Mr. Antingham’s men intimidated the maid, it gave them more reason not to trust Mr. Antingham or Mr. Uppleby and their men.

“Well, I’m here now,” Sir Derrick said dryly. “Agent?”

Mr. Coulton-Jones somehow managed to make his voice sound thick, as though he had swelling inside his mouth, but he described the tawdry theater and the two rooms on the top floor.

“Are you familiar with that part of London or that playhouse?” Sir Derrick asked Mr. Maghew.

“No, sir.”

“We shall ask our other agents,” Mr. Antingham’s said crisply.

“We simply need Mr. Villager to show our agents where the building is and how to get inside,” Mr. Uppleby said.

“How did you discover the location of the laboratory?” Sir Derrick asked Mr. Coulton-Jones.

“I spoke to Dr. Heddetch’s maid and earned her trust,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

“Why did you need to take the maid from the Ramparts to do that?” Mr. Antingham demanded.

“I couldn’t get this information while she was here, where she had suffered mistreatment,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. His voice was bland, but the lone eye not covered by the handkerchief gave Mr. Maghew a sharp look.

“You acted in a very inappropriate and unprofessional manner,” Mr. Antingham’s said. “Is it any wonder that my men treated you like a traitor?”

“When I took the maid from the Ramparts,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said slowly, “I was acting under orders from an agent with superiority to me.” That one glass-green eye flickered toward Sol.

Sol realized his speculation about that mysterious boy had been correct.

“Who is the agent?” Mr. Antingham said asked.

Mr. Coulton-Jones’s eye shifted toward Mr. Maghew before answering. “I cannot say his name, but Sir Derrick knows him.”

Mr. Maghew’s rage had been slowly building, and now he practically bared his teeth at Mr. Coulton-Jones. “You are being insolent or lying.”

“I know the agent to whom he is referring,” Sol said, glancing at Sir Derrick, “and I also cannot speak his name.”

Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby looked both confused and displeased. However, after a moment, Mr. Uppleby suddenly realized who Mr. Coulton-Jones was speaking about, and he burst out, “That’s not a superior officer, that’s—”

“Uppleby!” Sol barked, cutting off his words before he revealed Lady Aymer’s identity.

Mr. Uppleby’s face immediately flushed, and his eyes darted about in embarrassment, but his shame was quickly replaced by pique. However, there was nothing he could say in the face of his near mistake.

Sol thought he saw the corners of Mr. Antingham’s mouth curl. Of course Mr. Antingham would enjoy seeing Mr. Uppleby upset.

“Mr. Maghew,” Sol said, “the agent in question is higher in rank than Mr. Villager, and he would have no choice but to obey an order.”

Mr. Antingham’s gaze darted between Sol, Mr. Uppleby, and Sir Derrick, and the confusion on his brow slowly cleared. Sol’s words and Mr. Uppleby’s reaction must have convinced him that Mr. Coulton-Jones was likely telling the truth about a superior officer.

“Continue, Mr. Villager,” Sir Derrick said.

“The other agent deemed it best to remove the maid from the Ramparts because she had been too frightened by Mr. Antingham’s men,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

The frown deepened on Mr. Antingham’s face. “Be very careful how you continue. You are implying my agents overreached their authority when they were simply following customary orders for an interrogation.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones was not intimidated by Mr. Antingham and met his gaze squarely. “The young woman was a civilian, not a spy,” he said in clipped tones.

“There was no way for any of us know for sure,” Mr. Antingham shot back.

“The superior officer who spoke to me said that if the agents had treated her like a civilian from the start, they might have gotten this information from her long before,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said coldly.

Mr. Antingham looked like he wanted to retort, but Sir Derrick interrupted. “Regardless, what did you do next?”

“We took the maid home to her worried family,” Mr. Coulton-Jones continued, “and the other agent was able to convince the girl to trust us. He enticed the maid to tell us about another secret laboratory that Dr. Heddetch was using recently. The maid showed us the location of the building, and my superior officer and I scouted it out.”

“How could you tell that it had been used by Dr. Heddetch?” Sir Derrick asked.

Strangely, Mr. Coulton-Jones glanced at Sol briefly before he answered, “We looked through a crack in the shutters, and on the table, we saw vials like the ones used by Jack for the Root.”

Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby suddenly grew more animated.

“You’re certain?” Mr. Uppleby asked.

“How did you know it was the Root?” Mr. Antingham asked.

“I am not positive that it was the Root,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, “but I have seen the glass vials that Jack used, and it was the same shape. The liquid inside was a dark red color, just like the Root.”

Sol realized that Mr. Coulton-Jones would have smelled the root, with his superior senses, but he obviously couldn’t tell that to Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby. Sol wasn’t certain if the agent had actually seen the Root vials, but if he smelled the Root, then the elixir had definitely been within the room.

“You said there were two rooms on the top floor?” Sir Derrick asked.

“The shutters of the other room were locked also, but it looked like it was a set of living quarters,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “I saw bed and fireplace. In the stairwell, I found a hidden door which I believe leads to that room, but I was not able to pick the lock, and I did not wish to break it and alert the owner that the door had been found.”

Sol knew that Mr. Coulton-Jones could have easily picked the lock, so he had given that excuse because he couldn’t enter the room for some other reason. He had to trust Mr. Coulton-Jones’s judgment that there was a good reason why he couldn’t enter the living quarters.

Mr. Uppleby looked down his nose at Mr. Coulton-Jones. “It’s disgraceful that you can’t even pick a lock adequately.” His tiny, cruel blue eyes moved to Sol, obviously blaming him for inadequately training his agents.

“It’s disappointing that you weren’t able to scout out the rooms,” Mr. Antingham said, “but we still have enough information so that we can organize a raid.”

“Yes.” Mr. Uppleby was positively animated now, whereas before he had been sulky and complaining. “We can send several agents in to search the laboratory.”

“What of Lady Wynwood?” Sol tried to rein in his vexation that the men were too easily wandering off track of the point of the operation.

“I saw no trace of Lady Wynwood, nor Dr. Heddetch, nor anyone else,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “When we peeked into the room, we saw no one. We also did not see any accoutrements that would have belonged to a woman.” He glanced at Sol as he added, “Also, Lady Wynwood’s perfume is quite strong, but I smelled none of that.”

“How could you?” Mr. Uppleby said asked. “You were outside the room.”

“Are you deaf? He said Lady Wynwood’s perfume is very strong,” Mr. Antingham said. “It would have been noticeable even through a crack in the window.”

Sol knew for a fact that Laura’s perfume actually wasn’t very strong at all, but Mr. Coulton-Jones would have been able to smell it even if there was only a trace in the air. He obviously couldn’t tell Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby about that. Now that Sol thought about it, if Mr. Coulton-Jones could have been able to detect Laura’s presence by the faintest traces of her perfume, it was possible that Jack would have been able to tell that a stranger had been in his rooms through his own sense of smell. Perhaps that was why Mr. Coulton-Jones had chosen not to pick the lock and break into the laboratory and the living quarters.

“Good work,” Sir Derrick said to Mr. Coulton-Jones. “I want you to lead Mr. Antingham’s agents to the location. They will watch over it while we make plans to invade. Mr. Drydale, you will assist me in the plan since you are most familiar with Jack’s men, their tactics, and their patterns.”

“Lady Wynwood was not at the laboratory,” Sol said. “How will we find her?”

“Jack or Heddetch might move her there by the time we raid the laboratory,” Sir Derrick said, “or there may be a clue as to her whereabouts inside. We haven’t any other ideas about where to look for her.”

Mr. Uppleby’s lower lip stuck out in a pout. “I don’t understand why this woman is so important. Is it simply because of her rank?”

“You fool,” Mr. Antingham said to him. “This group—these Gentians wanted her for some reason and went through a great deal of trouble to take her. Of course she’s important.”

“If you have no more questions for Mr. Villager,” Sol said, “I would like to take him to see Dr. Pelham.” The doctor was a surgeon working exclusively for the Ramparts.

“Sir,” Mr. Maghew began to protest.

However, Sir Derrick interrupted him. “Very well.”

“I shall escort him there,” Sol said.

Mr. Coulton-Jones rose to his feet, although he kept the handkerchief over his (undamaged) eye. He turned to Mr. Maghew. “I would like the bag that you took from me.”

Mr. Maghew frowned. “Why? What’s inside?”

“You’re welcome to look, if you have not already,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said coldly. “It’s clothing that we borrowed from Mrs. Price.”

Mr. Maghew looked displeased, but he maneuvered his way outside, speaking to Mr. Fletcher, who had been guarding the door. He returned with a satchel. After dumping the contents out on the table, he gave them a cursory look before shoving the mass toward Mr. Coulton-Jones.

Sol couldn’t allow Mr. Coulton-Jones to remove the handkerchief from his eye, so he scooped the clothing back into the satchel himself, scowling at Mr. Maghew. But he had no time to address the agent’s rudeness, because he wanted to get Mr. Coulton-Jones out of that room as soon as possible.

Soon they had left the Blackbird Room and were climbing the stairs to the second floor. “How are you feeling?” Sol asked him quietly.

“I am well,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, equally as quiet. He removed the handkerchief to show that even the small swelling around his eye had already disappeared.

“Let us go to return the clothes to Mrs. Price,” Sol said.

***

Mrs. Price had begun working at the Ramparts only a few years after Sol had joined, and he had known her for a much longer period than he had known Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby. The two men joined the Ramparts only a few years ago, having transferred from the Foreign Office.

Sol was disturbed that they had seemed to be more interested in searching the laboratory and possibly getting their hands on the vials of the Root that Mr. Coulton-Jones had claimed he saw than in finding Lady Wynwood. It only fed his distrust, and so he sought out Mrs. Price, in whom he had full confidence. He could think of no more secure place to speak privately with Mr. Coulton-Jones than in her work room.

He opened the door to the familiar aisle flanked by racks of clothing. They made their way to the back corner of the room, where Mrs. Price was, as usual, sewing in front of the large window. Today she was doing surprisingly detailed work on a gentleman’s hat that looked rather like a coal sack, but as soon as they appeared, she peered up at them through her thick spectacles. She began to smile, but then her expression melted into concern. “Mr. Villager, you have blood on your lip.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones hastily scrubbed at it. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Price. I am uninjured.” He smiled at her, and she looked relieved. “I have come to return the clothes we borrowed from you.” Mr. Coulton-Jones handed her the satchel.

“Thank you, my dear boy.” She took the satchel and looked inside. “I trust these articles were useful for you?”

“Always, Mrs. Price.”

“You and Prince are always considerate in returning the costumes promptly. Have you need of anything else?”

“Mrs. Price,” Sol said, “would be possible for Mr. Villager and I to speak privately in a corner of your work room?”

She tilted her head in confusion for a moment, but then quickly understood why he had requested something so unusual. “Of course, Mr. Drydale. None of my costumes have ears, and if they did, they would be most discreet.”

Sol thanked her and led Mr. Coulton-Jones to the far corner of the room, which was rather dim since there were no windows. There were several wardrobes against the walls, with some of the doors cracked open to reveal layers of colorful cloth stacked inside.

“Are we alone?” Sol asked Mr. Coulton-Jones.

He nodded and gestured toward the nearest wall, which was shared with the room next door to this one. “I can hear no one in the next room.”

“Tell me everything that happened.”

As Sol had suspected, Mr. Coulton-Jones had smelled the Root elixir from under the closed laboratory door. Sol was also both fascinated and concerned about the smell from the living quarters that had been similar to the Root but different. He had also been correct in that Mr. Coulton-Jones had not wanted to enter the two rooms because Jack’s heightened senses would certainly have known that someone had invaded his spaces.

“And you said that Laura was not there?” The disappointment sliced into Sol’s chest.

Mr. Coulton-Jones gave an apologetic shake of his head. “I do not believe she was ever there. But whoever was exuding that non-Root smell had been there only a few hours before we arrived, and likely had not participated in the kidnapping.”

“Considering that you saw Queenie, it’s a fair guess that the living quarters belonged to Jack, and therefore, that unusual smell must have come from Jack. I’m not certain if I should be relieved or concerned that he wasn’t with them when they took Laura.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t involved?”

“Somehow, I doubt it. But Heddetch is certainly working with Jack since he was using the laboratory where there were vials of the Root.”

“Lady Wynwood was not in the laboratory, but Sir Derrick was correct that you have no other leads as to where she might be. We may find something when we search the place.”

“Then I will convince Sir Derrick to assign you to the team that will raid the building. Are you truly well? Mr. Maghew was unnecessarily vicious.” The words were inadequate to what Mr. Coulton-Jones had likely been suffering.

“I assure you, sir, I am quite well. The pain is already faded.” On the young man’s face, there was only a slight bit of swelling, and the bruising was barely a discoloration. Mr. Coulton-Jones also was not hunched over or indicating that he was sore or tender.

Sol remembered hearing the sound of a kick. “No broken bones?”

“No, sir. Mr. Maghew might have cracked a rib if I hadn’t been stronger, but I was able to harden my muscles to protect my body from damage.”

“I must take you to Dr. Pelham, at least for show, but you have a curious lack of injuries.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones winced. “I may need you to hit my eye again before I see him. I will exaggerate the pain.”

“Be very careful around the doctor. He was brought into the Ramparts because of Mr. Uppleby’s connections, and I have never approved of him. If he knew about the Root, he would love to further examine you, but he would have none of the restraint or compassion of Miss Gardinier.”

“Is it known that I became a Berserker?”

“It was in my report, but Sir Derrick said that he struck it from the records. No one knows that you were dosed with the Root and lived.” Sol sighed. “I’m glad of it now, because Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby were apparently reading my reports, even though they had no reason to do so before last night.”

“I take it Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby were upset when I left with the maid?”

Sol gave a short, mirthless laugh. “They were embarrassed that you were able to trick the agents and sneak out, and then further angered when their men couldn’t find you afterward. The incident shamed Mr. Antingham because Mr. Maghew had not questioned the maid about herself, and so the agents could not look for her at her place of residence.” Sol hesitated. “Perhaps it might be best if I request that Mr. Uppleby’s men be the ones to watch over the laboratory.”

“Why so?”

“Sir Derrick ordered you to lead Mr. Antingham’s agents to the location of the lab, but they may feel the need to enact some vengeance once you have fulfilled your purpose.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones’s face grew hard. “They can try.”

“I do not wish to place you in a situation where you may need to reveal your abilities. But even if the men belong to Mr. Uppleby, you should still be on your guard.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones nodded. “I am surprised Sir Derrick did not order any punishment for removing the maid from the Ramparts.”

“Sir Derrick is not so much a stickler for strictly following the rules, as long as it gets results. I think that your actions are excused since Mr. Antingham’s men have made such a poor showing twice today, while you acquired the information that they failed to obtain.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones took a deep breath, then jutted his face forward. “You’ll need to hit rather hard, sir.”

Sol had gotten into a great many brawls in his life, but he had never been so reluctant to hit a man. Not necessarily because he was afraid of harming Mr. Coulton-Jones, but because he had a feeling that he would hurt his hand more than the young man’s face.

“Do you have a signet ring?” Mr. Coulton-Jones asked.

“No, but I have this.” Sol removed the silver key that he used to let himself into the Ramparts through the gentlemen’s club. One of the loops in the key was just large enough for him to slip his pinky finger inside.

Closing his hand into a fist, he jabbed at Mr. Coulton-Jones’s forehead, which would bleed a great deal.

His premonition was correct—the young man barely flinched, but pain shot up Sol’s arm. “Good Lord, man, is your skull made of steel?” He shook out his hand.

“I’m sorry, sir.” But the glass-green eyes seemed to be laughing at him.

Sol had to hit him two more times before the skin split enough to cause an adequate amount of blood to flow. Mr. Coulton-Jones slapped the handkerchief over his eye, and the two men hurried to Dr. Pelham’s examination room, which was on the same floor as Mrs. Price’s room.

Leaving him with Dr. Pelham, Sol returned to Sir Derrick’s office. He was rather surprised that he was able to easily convince Sir Derrick that Mr. Coulton-Jones should be included in the raid.

Sol at last made his way to his own office, which was little more than a closet. He was rarely there, and it mostly served merely as a depository for papers and reports he was supposed to read but hadn’t.

No sooner had he dropped into the seat behind his desk when the door opened and Miss Nell entered, carrying a tray with a pot of tea, a cup, and a plate of biscuits.

“Miss Nell,” he said, “you should not have gone through the trouble for me.”

“It was no trouble.” She balanced the tray as she skillfully shoved papers aside, clearing a space for it. “I was making tea for Sir Derrick anyway.”

“I thank you for your help with Mr. Villager.”

Miss Nell straightened from setting the tray upon his desk. “He’s a good boy. You’ve trained him well.”

Sol was surprised. He had rarely ever heard Miss Nell compliment anyone. “He was Glanville’s agent at the Foreign Office before he came to me.”

“He’s grown in confidence and stability since he came here under your aegis,” she said. “Was he able to find Lady Wynwood?”

“No.”

“I hope you will find her soon.” Miss Nell didn’t quite smile, but the corners of her mouth curled up, and there was compassion in her brown eyes. She nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

How ironic that out of everyone at the Ramparts, only Miss Nell seemed to care about Laura.

Sol poured himself some tea and bit into a Savoy biscuit. After the risk that Mr. Coulton-Jones had taken, after all the effort that he and Lady Aymer had gone through, Sol wished that they had been able to find a trace of Laura. The rooms atop the theater would be useful since they seemed to be Jack’s more personal places, but they didn’t seem to directly connect to Laura.

Only now, when he was alone and had a chance to simply sit with his own thoughts, his worry for her felt like a raging river trying to drown him. He had difficulty breathing, and he forced himself to drink some of the strong tea.

The only thing keeping his hopes up was the fact that the Gentians obviously needed Laura alive. They would not kill her—at least, not right away.

Sol didn’t know what he would do if there was nothing at the laboratory to point to Laura’s location. Perhaps he shouldn’t have sent Phoebe away …

No, that had been the right decision. He knew it in his gut.

Laura would tell him to pray, but he had not prayed in decades. Would God even listen to him now?

As he stared at his cooling teacup, he felt the urge to speak to the Almighty, even though it would be hypocritical of him. The guilt was flooding his lungs instead of air, making him feel suffocated. He wished for some of the peace and strength that Laura always exhibited even in stressful situations.

He didn’t quite pray. He didn’t close his eyes or fold his hands. He didn’t kneel. But the same sentence repeated over and over in his head:

I just want to find her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

They would have to do better than that if they wanted to break her.

Ironically, Wynwood had caused Laura to be more toughened up, like old shoe leather. Compared to her deceased husband, Dr. Heddetch was merely poking at her.

Laura sat on the bed in the tiny attic room. She was in pain, but it was nowhere near as bad as when Wynwood had hit her. He would continue punching and kicking her and would not stop until he grew tired.

In general, Heddetch followed the same pattern—he would strike her and question her in between—but his battering was not half as hard as Wynwood’s had been. Dr. Heddetch also did not have the same stamina, so he grew tired more quickly and his blows grew weaker.

So it was fortunate that Dr. Heddetch was not as strong as her dead husband, nor was he as accustomed to beating women. The doctor bruised her ribs but didn’t break any bones, as far as she could tell. He also didn’t think to throw her on the floor and kick her. He slapped her across the face only once.

Immediately, the pale-eyed man—no, he had said his name was Mr. Seyward—admonished him. “I already told you that you mustn’t injure her where it could be covered up.”

Laura assumed it was because they may require her to appear in public with them. Wynwood had been the same most of the time, unless his anger got the better of him.

All in all, Dr. Heddetch spent more time yelling and questioning her than thrashing her, but she found herself ignoring his words just as she had with Wynwood—the words themselves were never important, so she had stopped trying to understand what her husband shouted at her. Dr. Heddetch asked about “items” and “books” that Wynwood hid for Bianca, but Laura remained silent.

Dr. Heddetch’s frustration with her obstinacy seemed to be driving him to drink, because in between his bouts of shouting at her, he would leave her alone for a couple hours at a time and then return smelling like alcohol. This continued throughout the day.

Mr. Seyward usually lounged in a chair that had been set near the wall. At one point, Dr. Heddetch spotted him yawning, and he turned his frustration upon his partner. “Why don’t you question her if you’re so bored?”

“My dear doctor,” he drawled, “you were placed in charge, and therefore you should do this. Are you admitting that you are unable to get the information from her?”

“Surely you would be better at this sort of thing,” Dr. Heddetch said snidely.

“On the contrary, this is more the kind of activity at which Jack excels.”

At the mention of Jack’s name, Dr. Heddetch stiffened.

Mr. Seyward continued, “It seems to me that perhaps you are too reluctant to seriously assault milady. Perhaps it was wrong to allow you to lead. Indeed, it might have been better if it had been Jack.”

“Mr. Dix would have accidentally killed her,” Dr. Heddetch snapped.

“He might have acquired the information before he did,” Mr. Seyward mused.

Dr. Heddetch was already breathing heavily from the physical strain of repeatedly punching her, but now his boiling emotions caused him to storm out of the room.

Mr. Seyward remained seated as he watched him leave. He waited a few moments, then stood and gave Laura a mocking bow. He also left the room.

She remained tied to the chair for several hours—she was not certain exactly how long. However, from the darker yellow color of the sun through the dirty windows, she thought perhaps it was mid or late afternoon when Mr. Seyward returned and untied her from the chair.

“Have you finished for the day?” she asked as though she were speaking to a maid cleaning her chambers.

Mr. Seyward gave her an amused glance. “I must start cooking dinner soon.”

“I should love a joint of beef. I rather think it might be necessary after what the doctor did to me today.”

“I do apologize.” Mr. Seyward led her out of the room and up the stairs. “He’s under a great deal of pressure. He has been given an important task by our compatriot.”

“And what might that be?”

He smiled at her and did not answer.

The first thing she saw was that her apricot-colored shawl had been folded and lay on the bed. It had fallen when Dr. Heddetch dragged her to the basement, so the fine wool lace had not been damaged by the doctor’s pummeling. She couldn’t see Dr. Heddetch retrieving it for her, so Mr. Seyward had likely brought it.

She suspected that he was kind to her in order to cause her to lower her guard. The contrast of his behavior with Dr. Heddetch’s animosity might have made her more willing to answer his questions. However, he said nothing to her before locking her in her room.

Laura waited until she heard his steps head back down the stairs, then gingerly touched her ribs. She lifted her skirt and tore strips from her muslin petticoat, then carefully undressed and bound her ribs with the strips. She was clumsy, for Aya had always bound her ribs for her before, but she was familiar with the process. Dressing herself again took a bit longer—she had left her corset loose for comfort, but now she tried to pull the strings taut to help support her torso. It was awkward to tighten them herself and try to tie it behind her, which caused her pain. Then she had to endure more pain as she twisted her arms to tie the back of her gown, which was higher up her back, but finally it was done. The fit was looser than before, but she thought that might be for the best.

She went to the window shutters. As they had before, they stuck after only a few inches. It took a long while, but she finally managed to open them all the way.

It was a sheer drop down from the window. However, since these were dormer windows, she thought perhaps she could climb out to the side and walk up the slope of the roof.

There was just enough light to see the tree line several yards distant. It was very close to the house, and the forest beyond was thick and extended quite far. She was more certain than ever that she was in a hunting lodge. Its remote location would serve the purposes of Dr. Heddetch and the pale-eyed man.

A sharp wind blew from outside, making the trees whisper, and she shivered. She draped the apricot-colored shawl around herself, feeling as though she were embraced. It gave her a sense of comfort.

Mr. Seyward again led her downstairs to eat dinner with him and the doctor. It was simple fare—some brown bread, boiled potatoes, and slices of cold roast beef, which Mr. Seyward served to her with a smile. “As you requested.” It was all accompanied by a simple rustic soup filled with coarsely chopped vegetables and flavored with a bit of bacon.

However, the dining room was almost uncomfortably dim. Dr. Heddetch was in a foul mood, snapping at anything Mr. Seyward said to him. The pale-eyed man seemed to be deliberately baiting him. Laura didn’t wish to draw their attention by asking that a candle be lit.

But even as she had that thought, she glanced at the few windows in the room. There were dirty and lacking in any curtains, so any light would be clearly seen from the outside. It was almost as though they were reluctant to reveal that the building was occupied. She wondered if the men had not rented this hunting lodge, but simply found it empty and decided to use it.

It was Dr. Heddetch who led her back upstairs to her room. Just before leaving her, he gave her a nasty smile. “I feel obliged to warn you, before you start getting grand ideas, but there is no way for you to escape.” He locked the door behind him.

She waited several hours as the night grew dark and the house grew quiet. She spent the time alone in prayer, although it seemed as though she was simply repeating herself as she prayed for guidance, as she prayed for rescue.

At one point, she also realized that her thoughts were strangely calm, considering her circumstances. Perhaps the Lord had stilled her mind. She spent some time thanking God for this small mercy. She wondered if perhaps she might have been hysterical or in tears or both if not for this peace blanketing her mind.

At last, she heard footsteps in the room beneath hers, followed by the creak of ropes holding the mattress of a bed. She wasn’t certain how long she waited after that in silence, but she wanted to ensure that whoever was in the room beneath hers was truly asleep.

She made her way to the window. She expected the sight to be dark and black, but instead the world was a silvery dark gray. In the distance, she saw moonlight gilding the tops of the trees, but the house cast a deep shadow so that she could not see the tree line. It was just as well, since she might have lost her nerve if she had been able to see the ground. She was thankful for the small bit of moonlight behind the house, for it would enable her to better see her surroundings.

Laura tied the ends of her shawl into a knot so that it would not slip from her shoulders. Then she grasped the sides of the windows and cautiously, painfully climbed out. She made her way up the roof with great care so that she would not slip, and looked around.

There was a half-moon high in the sky, with a finger of a cloud drifting across it. By its light, she immediately saw that there was a large tree growing near the house, old and quite tall. She crept closer to it and saw that the tree branches extended near but did not quite touch the roof. The distance to the ground was difficult to make out in the moonlight, but as she peered down, her heart thudded. Dare she attempt it?

She continued walking about the roof to look at the land around her. The house seemed very much like a small hunting lodge, a bit shabby, but surrounded by thick forest. Remote, with no lights shining through the trees.

Laura made her way to the opposite side of the house, where she saw a track through the trees leading up to the driveway in front. Then, one of the shadows near the track moved.

She immediately dropped to her belly. After a moment, she peered up again. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw a small animal cross the driveway and melt into the trees.

There were no guards, then. She had wondered, but she had only dined with Dr. Heddetch and Mr. Seyward.

She continued traversing the roof and saw a faint glow in the distance. Perhaps a village, many miles away.

It would need to be the tree, then. Well, it was very fortunate that she was not afraid of heights.

She returned to the corner of the roof closest to the most outstretched branches several feet away. They looked thin and fragile, but there were many of them. She would have to hope that she could grab at them, and if they could not bear her weight, at the very least they would break her fall.

She turned around and made her way back so that she could take a running leap at the tree, but sudden movement to her left made her start.

A dark figure swung up from another dormer window and began running toward her.

She hadn’t realized that there was another attic room, and that one of the men may been sleeping there.

She did not have as much room to run as she had hoped to have, but it would have to do. She hiked up her skirts and sprinted away from the figure and toward the edge to try to jump into the arms of the tree.

She had thought the man was quite far away, but suddenly from behind, an arm clamped around her waist and held her fast, like a bar of iron. He jerked her against his body. Heedless of the pain of her bruised ribs, she kicked and struggled, but he held her with hardly any effort.

Mr. Seyward’s voice whispered in her ear, “You would not have made it.”

She ceased fighting him and stood there stiffly, staring at the tree. She didn’t want to believe that he was correct, but in looking at the distance now, she wondered.

Laura became aware that his hand gripped the base of her neck, as if holding her head still. He wore no gloves and his bare skin touched hers.

She remembered him touching Dr. Heddetch, and his hands burned her skin. “Release me,” she said frostily.

Surprisingly, he did. She turned to look at him.

It was not as dark as it could have been, because of the half-moon, but it was as if his face were covered by a gray veil. However, she could see that his eyes were open wide in shock as he stared at her.

His expression surprised her. She didn’t know what to say.

He looked down at his bare hand. “I saw nothing …” he whispered.

“I beg your pardon?”

At her words, he seemed to remember himself and his face transformed from bewildered to gentle, a faint smile on his lips. He studied her, and she thought perhaps she amused him.

But behind his eyes, hollowed in darkness as if they were bruised, a black fire raged.

“Would you like to hit me?” Mr. Seyward asked in a mild voice to contrast the hissing wrath behind his eyes. “I’ll give you a free shot.”

Ignoring his question, Laura suddenly asked, “Why are you so angry?”

She had not intended to say that, but it caused him to go as still as if he were a black marble statue.

Laura wasn’t certain why, but she kept speaking. “I can see the rage inside of you, like a fire billowing black smoke. You hate Dr. Heddetch very much, and yet at the same time, you want to draw closer to him, even as you are leading him away from his goal.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Then he whispered, “How do you see so much?”

“I see what God shows to me.”

Now, the rage she had seen seemed to surge out of him in a cloud. “My father was … very devout,” he said in a venomous voice, “but it only made him weak.”

Laura wondered what he had been about to say before he said his father was devout. “Almighty God has no need to make people weak,” she said. “People make people weak.”

His lips curled into a snarl. He was so unnaturally swift that she didn’t see him move, but suddenly his hand grabbed the front of her dress through her shawl. He yanked her face closer to him, making her ribs ache as her back bent. He bared his teeth at her. “So by your definition,” he snarled, “I am the reason my father resented me for taking his wife away from him? I am the reason he was too weak to stand up for himself or teach his son to do so?”

She should have been frightened. She was frightened, and yet at the same time, it was as though she had been given permission to peer into a window and see a truth even he did not know about himself. And what she saw were lesions on his soul. “He hurt you so much,” she whispered.

“No,” he snapped, “I despised him.”

He was taller than Laura, and he tugged her up so that she was balancing on her tiptoes. Her pulse jumped as she realized he needed only release her with a slight push and let her fall off the slanted roof.

“He always said to simply turn the other cheek,” he said through gritted teeth, “to fade into the background.”

And Laura realized that Mr. Seyward hated the fact that he had turned out exactly as his father had wanted him to be. In the background.

His hand, gripping her clothes, was trembling. With anger, or fear?

“Being kind, being taken for granted, being robbed. Avoiding confrontation.” His voice also began to shake, and he took a step forward, making her stumble. She was leaning backwards slightly, with more of her weight hanging from that point of connection where his fist crumpled her dress. “His God made him weak,” he spat.

She should appease him. She should apologize. She should tell him she had been wrong, and she was sorry for saying such foolish things that angered him so much.

But words came out of her mouth before she could censor them. “No. He made himself weak, and he neglected his son.”

As soon as she spoke, her throat closed up. Would her words enrage him further? Would he drop her?

But somehow, his expression displayed shock, like ice water thrown over a fire. He blinked, and the cold fury she had seen was again shuttered behind his eyes, shadowed by the darkness except for a pinpoint glimmer from the half-moon above.

He abruptly stepped back, releasing the front of her gown while placing his hand on her shoulder to steady her. He smiled at her, and while it was a gentle smile, somehow all Laura could see was the ghastly grin of a skeleton. And behind all that, she saw his pain, deeply rooted in his soul, feeding off of him and draining his lifeblood.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then he spoke.

“You are wonderful,” was all he said.

Then he took her hand and dragged her back to her room.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next day was Sunday, and Keriah allowed herself to be bullied into attending an early morning service at a small chapel situated near her sister’s house. Phoebe and Lady Wynwood usually attended services at the church near her townhouse, but considering her father knew her habits, they avoided the place today.

Keriah hadn’t wanted to attend church because of her fractious relationship with God at the moment. It didn’t help that the service was extremely early in the morning, and Phoebe had to literally grab Keriah’s hand and pull her off the bed in order to wake her up. Coming awake via a knock on the head after falling to the floor did not put Keriah in a good mood.

However, as she sat in the simple wooden pew, her grumpiness eventually melted away. There was a strange peace in this tiny, dim place, where she usually felt cold and alone. Maybe it was because Phoebe was there with her. Maybe it was because they both were praying fervently for Lady Wynwood’s safety and for help and for guidance so that they would find her quickly.

As they left the church building, Keriah grudgingly admitted to herself that it certainly didn’t hurt to pray for divine assistance in what they were about to do.

Phoebe had never criticized Keriah for her lack of faith, but she wasn’t shy about talking about her own and how it sustained her in difficult times. Inwardly, Keriah had scoffed at that, because although Phoebe’s father had often ignored her and taken her for granted, she had not experienced the trauma of violence and physical injury as Keriah had done. Phoebe had only been a young child when her mother died, whereas Keriah had been fourteen when her sister had bled to death in front of her eyes. Phoebe hadn’t been the cause of her mother’s death, while Keriah had replayed that day over and over in her mind, wondering if she had said or done something different, her sister would still be alive.

But now, Keriah had to admit that Phoebe’s troubles seemed to be piling on top of each other. Her father had stolen from her, had kicked her out of her home, and now was trying to kidnap her to force her into marriage to a stranger who would take her away to the Colonies. And yet in the midst of all these terrible things happening to her, while Phoebe had moments of anger—which were to be expected—there were also many moments where she forced herself to be calm and focused. Phoebe felt some guilt that she had not been present at the hotel when Lady Wynwood was taken, but despite the panic and confusion of the situation, she had been able to control her emotions and think about what she should do to try to save her aunt rather than wallowing in regrets.

And when it seemed that they had reached a dead-end, Phoebe had prayed. What was more, she actually came up with an idea.

Keriah still wasn’t convinced that it had been God answering her friend’s prayer, but she also couldn’t explain why Phoebe’s prayer and then her decision to go to Ibstone made something inside of Keriah feel more steady. It was like the sensation of a wooden chair teetering on two legs, about to fall, but suddenly being righted again. She didn’t understand her feelings.

At that moment, Mr. Rosmont had also looked discomforted by Phoebe’s prayer, however, he hadn’t reacted with scorn as he had done once or twice before. Perhaps he had felt what Keriah had felt at that moment.

Keriah remembered how he had encouraged her in the laundry house. It had utterly galled her that he had been forced to roughly haul her up when she’d fallen.

But his brusque words had encouraged her in a different way from Phoebe’s warmth and acceptance of her disabilities. His own experiences with his injuries made her realize that she could adjust her movements to accommodate for her damaged leg and still accomplish her goals. Rather than feeling sorry for her or trying to push her to do things that she couldn’t, he exhorted her to be smarter and more creative. Even though she had seen the various injuries sustained by Mr. Coulton-Jones, Mr. Ackett, and Mr. Rosmont, it hadn’t occurred to her that agents would also have to adjust their actions after injury.

Keriah’s sister and brother-in-law were still asleep when they returned to the house from the church service, and there was very little the two of them needed to do to prepare to leave. They sat listlessly in the drawing room, but they didn’t wait long before they heard the sound of horses’ hooves. Upon hurrying to the window, Keriah spotted Lady Wynwood’s traveling coach pulling up in front of the house. Soon, they were all underway on the road out of London, with Mr. Rosmont riding his horse alongside them. Calvin sat with Mr. Havner in the box, while Clara and Jane, the maid taking Aya’s place, rode inside with Keriah, Phoebe, and Lady Aymer.

“It was nearly dinner when I returned home last night and spoke to Thorne,” Isabella said to them, “and since my mother was there, he could not speak to me in private. Have you thought about what you will do once we reach Ibstone?”

”Since we must visit Lord Wynwood as soon as we enter the area,” Phoebe said, “we thought it best to ask him for the names of attorneys in Ibstone and Ronsby who might handle the renting of properties.”

“I agree that the Gentians would be unlikely to take Lady Wynwood to an inn in Ibstone,” Isabella said. “Would the villagers recognize her? How many years has it been since her husband died?”

“It has been ten years, but she has visited the current Lord Wynwood fairly often,” Phoebe said.

“Then the Gentians certainly wouldn’t want her to be seen,” Isabella said. “What of Ronsby?”

“Aunt Laura would be recognized in Ronsby, as well, since she socialized with many of the families there.”

“In that case, staying in a house in the area would be the safest for them,” Isabella agreed, “but they are not nobles. They would not rent an extravagant, well-known manor home. They could stay somewhere quite small and unknown, renting through a private transaction. They may even choose to stay with someone the Gentians are acquainted with who lives in the area.”

“I thought about what I know of Dr. Heddetch,” Phoebe said. “He has a distaste for dirt on his person. He also would always wear clothing that was clean, well-made and maintained with care. His coat, hat, and gloves were never shabby or worn. Because of his fastidious nature, I do not believe he would stand for staying in a home filthy or common. He would want something respectable and comfortable.”

Isabella tipped her head to the side as she considered it. “Thorne did mention that Dr. Heddetch’s house was very tidy, and while it didn’t contain many valuables, the items he used every day were of good quality, such as the solidly-built desk and the leather-covered notebook.”

“In order to arrange for renting an appropriate place, he would speak to a local attorney,” Phoebe concluded. “However, if it is instead the pale-eyed man who is responsible for their accommodations, I am not as certain that he would choose the same sort of lodgings.”

“We know very little about him,” Isabella said. “Michael saw him briefly before he was turned into …” Pain and anger flashed across Isabella’s face as she remembered what her brother had endured. Then it smoothed again to pale marble. “And Mr. Ackett also described the pale-eyed man when he was captured in the stable.”

Keriah’s heart gave a painful twist, as if it were being wrung out in two different directions. What had happened to him after he boarded the carriage with Lady Wynwood? Was he still alive? After what Mr. Drydale had discovered at the house of Lord Ammler, it seemed likely that the Gentians had forced him to act against his will by threatening his sister. But was that the truth, or had he betrayed them from the very beginning?

“From what Mr. Ackett described of the pale-eyed man’s clothing,” Phoebe said, “they were of good quality, but did not strike him as fastidious as Dr. Heddetch. He also was comfortable to be interacting with Jack and his men in the stable.”

“Didn’t he kneel in front of Mr. Ackett?” Keriah asked. “He had no thought for his clothes then.”

Isabella nodded. “Yes, now I recall Mr. Ackett mentioned that. If that is the case, then he may be satisfied with a tenant’s cottage or a gamekeeper’s hut. Somewhere remote.”

“If that’s the case, how would we possibly find them?” Keriah asked.

To her surprise, Isabella gave a triumphant grin. “This happens to be an area in which I have had extensive experience.”

Keriah had seen Lady Aymer in polite society, and yet she had also seen her perfectly disguised as a street urchin. However, it wasn’t until this moment that she realized the many missions Isabella must have embarked upon in order for her to have her experience in disguise. And an unremarkable street urchin would mostly be used for missions where she needed to ferret out information. Like right now.

“When searching for a specific person who has moved into an area, you must look at what is different,” Isabella said.

“Do you mean strangers in the area?” Phoebe asked. “We plan for Jane, Mr. Havner, and Mr. Rosmont to speak to the innkeepers, stable masters, and tavern owners in Ibstone and Ronsby about any new arrivals.”

Aya had objected to being left behind, but her injury was too fresh for Keriah to feel comfortable allowing her to travel with them. So Jane, an upper housemaid who also happened to be Mr. Havner’s niece, joined them instead.

“But someone in hiding will not show their faces because a stranger is often what is most gossiped about in a small village,” Keriah said.

Phoebe’s brow wrinkled. “Even if strangers are not about on the street, they will cause changes in other things. In the behavior of other people.”

“In the behavior of local people,” Keriah realized. “If someone from a small village changes their normal routine, it would be easily seen.”

“Changes like food,” Phoebe said, picking up on Keriah’s thread of logic. “Even if a stranger remains indoors, they still need to eat. And if someone in the village is cooking for them, that person will change their usual food purchases.”

“Exactly,” Isabella said, looking like a proud governess praising a star pupil.

“Ibstone has a butcher and bakery that have been there since I was a girl,” Phoebe said. “However, they have a weekly market for vegetables rather than a grocer. And I know nothing of Ronsby.”

“There may also be new shops that have sprung up since you were last here,” Isabella said. “Once we arrive in Ibstone, we intend to leave Jane at the inn, is that correct?”

Jane, sitting across from her, nodded. “I’ll be unpacking your things, but I shall also speak to the innkeeper about any strangers in the area.”

“Please also ask about places where a villager would shop for food,” Isabella instructed her.

“Wouldn’t her questions seem strange?” Keriah asked.

“I would suggest this excuse, which I have used in the past,” Isabella said to Jane. “Tell the innkeeper that you have been given permission to spend the day with an old friend in Ronsby, and you wish to buy some food and drink as a gift. You want to see what is available in both Ibstone and Ronsby before your visit.”

“Did you also wish me to speak to the Ibstone butcher and baker?” Jane asked.

“In my experience, not all merchants will gossip about their customers,” Isabella said, “but there are always customers who will question the merchant and speak to each other while shopping. And they will notice shifts in patterns because they will naturally wonder what has happened. That is when being small and unnoticed will be to your advantage.” She smiled at Clara, who had thus far sat in the coach without speaking. The young girl smiled back.

“I see. That’s why you often dress as a street urchin,” Keriah said.

Isabella nodded. “It is fortunate that Clara and Calvin are with us. They can each station themselves close to the shops in Ibstone and listen for gossip. If they discover nothing of note, I shall don a disguise and go with them to the shops in Ronsby tomorrow. But these are not methods that will discover information quickly. What else have you decided upon?”

“Mr. Rosmont mentioned that Lady Wynwood may be … injured,” Keriah said, her voice faltering. He had tried to be vague, but Keriah thought she understood the darkness he hinted at. She had been with her uncle when he treated an old sailor who had been captured and escaped from the French several years earlier. He hadn’t spoken of his experience, but she had seen the scars and old injuries on his body. A part inside her screamed in horror that something similar might be happening to Lady Wynwood, but she tried to keep herself calm rather than falling into hysterics. “So I suggested that we speak to local apothecaries.”

Isabella hesitated, then said, “The Gentians may not bother to treat her wounds.”

“If they intend to use Aunt Laura to gain access to Uncle Wynwood’s properties,” Phoebe said in a hard voice, “they will ensure she looks healthy, at the very least.”

Keriah laid a hand on Phoebe’s arm. “Lady Wynwood is already bruised because of Dr. Heddetch. If the kidnappers bruise her further, it will take another one or two weeks before she can go out in public. It will give us more time to find her.”

Phoebe nodded tightly.

A part of Keriah hoped that the kidnappers would have gone to an apothecary to buy supplies to help Mr. Ackett, but she knew that if they had shot him, they had wanted to kill him, not make him well again. She felt a pang at the thought. She knew it was foolish, but she wanted to believe he might still be alive.

“Are you familiar with the apothecaries in Ibstone and Ronsby?” Isabella asked.

“I haven’t needed a visit from Dr. Murgatroyd since I last scraped my knee,” Phoebe said, “And when I was a child, he was already older than my father, so he may have sold his practice to a younger doctor by now.”

“In addition, the local surgeon is not the only healer with whom we should speak,” Keriah added.

“Not the only healer?” Isabella’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“I know from my experiences in my own village that while many local families might rely upon the most respectable surgeons, there are always other individuals whom the villagers and tenant farmers may call upon who are more affordable,” Keriah said. “Herb women and men who call themselves apothecaries.”

“Ah, I see.” Isabella glanced at Phoebe. “However, I take it you don’t know who these people might be?”

Phoebe shook her head. “Lord Wynwood would hardly call upon such people. Even for the servants, his housekeeper sent for Dr. Murgatroyd.”

“In Brestwick, the village near my family’s estate, the locals all know the names of such unorthodox practitioners,” Keriah said, “but they would not trust a stranger enough to give their names. We must speak to someone who has either lived in the area a long time, or who has garnered the trust of the locals. And I highly doubt Lord Wynwood would know.”

“Mr. Havner said he knows a young woman working for Lord Wynwood,” Phoebe said. “He and Mr. Rosmont met her when they were searching for Mr. Ackett. They brought the girl to Aunt Laura and asked for her help to find a home for her outside of London.”

“I remember now,” Isabella said. “Thorne told me about her. He was … very concerned about her.” A shadow passed over her eyes, faint and fleeting, and Keriah wondered if she imagined seeing it.

“Aunt Laura mentioned she wanted someone to keep watch at Glencowe Castle because of an incident involving the Gentians that occurred earlier this year at Helsey Park,” Phoebe said.

Realization dawned on Isabella’s face. “Now I recall her telling us about the Meynhill birthday celebration. So she had Lord Wynwood hire the girl not only to gain her a position, but also so that she will be able to alert Lady Wynwood if something unusual happens?”

Phoebe nodded. “While we visit with Lord Wynwood, Mr. Havner will have time to find the maid Hetty.”

“Hetty may not know the names of those questionable healers,” Keriah said, “but at the very least, she can vouch for Mr. Havner to the other maids, and they may trust him enough to tell him if they know.”

Isabella smiled at Keriah. “You have thought this through carefully and leveraged your own experiences as a healer helping your surgeon uncle. Well done.”

Hearing a master spy like le petit prince praise her lifted Keriah’s spirits despite the heaviness of worry over Lady Wynwood.

“And after the visit, we can return to the inn to hear if Jane discovered anything from speaking to the innkeeper,” Phoebe said. “Then we can begin our search of the neighborhood.”

Isabella’s brow furrowed. “Staying at the inn in Ibstone will give us freedom to search the area, but are you certain that Lord Wynwood shall not invite us to stay at Glencowe Castle?”

“No, no,” Phoebe said breezily. “He broke his leg six or eight weeks ago—it is the reason he did not go to town for the Season this year. Also, we will have descended upon him all unawares, and we are too large a party. He will not feel the need to invite us.”

***

“You must stay here at Glencowe Castle,” Lord Wynwood said with a wide smile. “I insist.”

The current Lord Wynwood had been surprised but pleased when the three women and Mr. Rosmont arrived at his doorstep. Keriah was amazed to find that he was not confined to his bedroom with his broken leg, despite the fact that Phoebe said he had only fractured his tibia.

Phoebe had predicted that she alone would attend to him for a few minutes in his bedroom as a courtesy call upon her relation, and then they would leave. Instead, Lord Wynwood instructed through his butler for them to wait in the drawing room, and he soon arrived hobbling along with a pair of crutches in order to welcome them.

The drawing room was large and airy, filled with family heirloom furniture that had been well cared for. There was harmony somehow in the differing colors and fabrics of the seats and the drapes covering wide windows. Clouds darkened the sky outside—otherwise, Lord Wynwood preferred to open a set of doors that led to a wide stone terrace and steps leading down to an elaborate garden.

Lord Wynwood had cheerfully asked Phoebe to pour the tea for them as he relaxed into a navy blue brocade chair. With his long nose and sharp chin, he would never be truly handsome, but there was something gallant and strong in his warm brown eyes. He always had an air of wisdom about him—or perhaps it was because of his prematurely receding hairline, or the ashen sheen to his light-brown hair.

“I insist that you recall your servants from the inn and bring them to the castle.” Lord Wynwood accepted his teacup. “You are family. I shall not allow you to remain at a public coaching house.”

Keriah’s throat tightened. They had had such meticulous plans in the coach, but Lord Wynwood’s friendliness unraveled them all in an instant.

“You are magnanimous, my lord, but we can hardly expect you to take in strangers such as myself and Thorne,” Isabella said.

“Surely we are not strangers,” Lord Wynwood said. “Have we not met at dozens of parties in London for many years now? However, my lady, I was unaware that you were so close to Phoebe and Miss Gardinier.”

“To be honest, I have quite infringed upon their kindness,” Isabella said with a disarming smile. “When I heard that they were in need of a chaperone, I immediately offered to accompany them in exchange for some of the tisane that Miss Gardinier shall be making.”

“Tisane?”

“It is the reason we have come to Ibstone, my lord,” Keriah said. “Lady Wynwood is sick from something she ate, and I have a tisane receipt from my Aunt Carmelia that is quite effective. However, the herbs used are more effective if they are freshly picked.” This was the story they had concocted in order to explain their presence in the area.

“I happen to know exactly where to find these herbs in the forests around Ibstone,” Phoebe said, “and I thought it would be best to travel here rather than traipsing about the area near London, but not being certain that we will find them. Originally we intended to come only for the day, although it would cause us to return to London quite late at night.”

“My mother is also ill from indigestion,” Isabella said. “I am afraid it was upon my insistence that they expanded their party and arranged to instead stay in Ibstone overnight.” Mr. Rosmont had informed her of their fabricated ruse last night so that she could leave a note for her mother before she left the house this morning.

“I am grieved to hear that Lady Wynwood and Mrs. Coulton-Jones are both feeling poorly,” Lord Wynwood said. “It can be quite dangerous to return to London after dark, so I am relieved that you did not attempt to do so. Please do stay here at Glencowe Castle for as long as you need.”

“You are too kind, my lord. We thank you.” Phoebe’s smile was full of relief and gratitude. She was so good at acting that even Keriah couldn’t tell that inside, she was probably grimacing in frustration that their plans would need to be changed.

“You must be famished,” Lord Wynwood said. “I have instructed my chef to serve a light repast for all of us.”

“You needn’t inconvenience your servants,” Phoebe said. “Your chef’s scones are always quite filling and delicious.” Indeed, a heaping plate of them had accompanied the tea, although Mr. Rosmont had eaten half of the mountain of scones already.

“It is no trouble.” Lord Wynwood waved his hand, disregarding the flurry of busyness that had surely erupted below stairs as soon as the visitors arrived. However, Keriah knew that the servants at Glencowe Castle were of the highest caliber, and they had likely anticipated their master’s hospitality as soon as they spotted the coach trundling up the drive toward the castle.

“Would it be possible for us to freshen ourselves in a guest bedroom before eating?” Lady Aymer asked.

“Also, my lord, might I borrow a writing desk so that I may send a note to our servants at the inn?” Phoebe added.

“Of course, of course.” Lord Wynwood nodded to the footman who had been standing at attention near the drawing room door. “James, please show the ladies to the Emerald Bedroom.”

Although it was called a castle, Glencowe was constructed more of wood than stone now, since the ruined building had been renovated barely one hundred years earlier by a distant cousin who had inherited the title from his profligate ancestor. Glencowe Castle had been rebuilt from wood rather than reconstructed exactly as it had been when it was a stone fortress, so most of the rooms were spacious and brightly lit from large windows.

The Emerald Bedroom was elegant and lavish. Green silk lined the walls, and the same silk upholstered the sofa and chairs. The bed drapes, pillows, and coverlet were all in different patterns of rich green damask, while a gray and cream carpet covered the floor.

As soon as the three ladies were alone in the bedroom, Keriah collapsed upon a chair in front of the fireplace. “Phoebe, I had known that your relation is a kind and generous man, but I admit I am rather put out that he is so impulsively hospitable.”

Phoebe sat at a small round table in front of a writing desk, and sighed. “I shouldn’t have so confidently stated that he would not insist we stay with him. As soon as I said it, it was inevitable he would do exactly that. I wonder if he is lonely?”

“Regardless, we shall need to change our plans.” Isabella sat at the table across from Phoebe.

“Mr. Havner will not be able to speak to the servants at the moment,” Phoebe said. “Instead, he shall have to be sent back to the inn to collect Jane, the twins, and our luggage.”

“They will not be able to eavesdrop on the local butcher and baker as we had planned. And now we shall need to go ‘collect herbs’ in truth this afternoon,” Keriah complained.

“Not necessarily.” Isabella propped her chin in her hand. “Phoebe, please write a note to Jane, instructing her to come to the castle with the twins, but then to send them back to the inn to collect something she forgot. That will get them away from the castle.”

“That is a good idea.” Phoebe reached for a sheet of paper. “I will also ask Jane to be sure that she has spoken to the innkeeper or his wife to find the names and direction of the local butcher and baker, in the event it has changed since I was last here.”

She had barely finished her note when a servant arrived, telling them that Lord Wynwood awaited them in the dining room.

Lord Wynwood’s idea of a “light repast” was a table full of dishes that would not have been out of place at a dinner party. Keriah found herself to be quite hungry and enjoyed the fricasseed chicken while Mr. Rosmont made his way through two servings of hare pie.

Phoebe spun a story about a comrade in her botanical association who desired to rent a home in the vicinity of Ibstone or Ronsby in order to study local herbs and flowers in the summer. Both Phoebe and Isabella had agreed that the Gentians would likely prefer somewhere remote so that neighbors would not hear or see what they did. Phoebe obviously could not ask Lord Wynwood specifically for an isolated cottage, since she couldn’t think of a reason a “gentleman from the botanical association” would want a house like that except for some nefarious reason. However, if they could discover the locations of all the small cottages for let in the area, they could visit each one to search for Lady Wynwood.

Lord Wynwood not only gave her the name of his attorney in Ibstone, but also promised letters of introduction to both his attorney and the one in Ronsby, who was used by Lord Meynhill and Mr. Carver.

They chatted of other things, although Lord Wynwood mostly asked questions about who was in town this Season and what events had been held. Phoebe teased that he was a gossipy old woman, but perhaps Lord Wynwood missed the bustle of the social Season since he had been forced to remain in the country this year. It made more sense that he would invite them to stay.

Near the end of the meal, Lord Wynwood said, “I have a small landau that you may borrow while you gather herbs this afternoon. It shall be more convenient than using Lady Wynwood’s traveling coach.”

Keriah reflexively swallowed. If one of Lord Wynwood’s grooms accompanied them with the carriage, then they would need to keep up the pretense and go herb-gathering all afternoon instead. “That is very generous of you. Would it be possible to have Lady Wynwood’s coachman to drive us rather than one of your grooms?”

Lord Wynwood looked confused for a moment, but then Phoebe quickly added, “Mr. Havner has said that he may know the location of some of the herbs we are seeking.”

“Then of course he must drive you,” Lord Wynwood said.

Keriah gave Phoebe a brief, grateful look. She hadn’t quite thought about how odd the request might have sounded to Lord Wynwood.

The ladies returned to the Emerald Bedroom to don their bonnets, which they had removed for their meal. Jane had arrived at the castle by now and was unpacking their few belongings, but they had left their outerwear in this room.

“I admit I had not really expected to learn anything useful from Lord Wynwood,” Phoebe said. “He is an excellent landlord, but hardly well-versed in the questions I put to him. However, I’m pleasantly surprised by the letters of introduction for the attorneys, as well as their names.”

“I just realized that it may be fortuitous that we are staying the night at Glencowe Castle,” Keriah added. “Our visit has brought to Lord Wynwood’s attention our story about Lady Wynwood being ill. The Gentians may very well bring her here in the next week or so, under the presence of a short visit and using her presence to gain access to the castle. If that is the case, Lord Wynwood would certainly press for her to remain with him until she feels better.”

“Or they may wish to avoid the necessity of Lady Wynwood showing her face, and simply attempt to sneak into the castle under cover of night,” Isabella said.

“The more I think about it, the more I am convinced they will not do too much to harm Lady Wynwood,” Keriah said, although she wasn’t certain if it was simply wishful thinking on her part. “Phoebe, you yourself said that Lord Wynwood was unlikely to have hidden anything important inside Glencowe Castle, in which case the Gentians will want to search his other properties. Lady Wynwood must look hale enough that they may use her to gain entry into those houses.”

“I’m not certain that the Gentians would plan that far ahead,” Isabella said.

“I hope they will,” Phoebe said quietly.

Keriah reached out to squeeze her hand and was surprised to find that her fingers were cold.

They gathered in the front entrance hall to wait. Once Mr. Rosmont joined them, Isabella led them out the front door into what used to be the central courtyard of the original castle. The original stone curtain walls rose above them, shading the small potted plants along the edges. The space was too small for a carriage to comfortably turn around, and so they continued through the arch which used to house a portcullis that now was permanently kept open.

The driveway in front of the curtain walls was covered in fine gravel, and since the small rooms in the curtain wall that used to be used for castle defenders to drop boiling oil or to shoot arrows was no longer being used, there was no one to eavesdrop upon them.

“We shall still need to gather some herbs in order to keep up the pretense,” Isabella said, “but afterward, we can still follow our original intentions and speak to the local surgeon, Dr. Murgatroyd.”

“I know where his rooms are in Ibstone,” Phoebe said. “We could also speak to Lord Wynwood’s attorney today.”

“I suppose we shall have to trust Mr. Havner to speak to the maids this evening,” Keriah said.

“He could also ask if any other reputable doctor has set up shop in Ibstone and Ronsby,” Phoebe said. “My own memories are from several years ago.”

Surprisingly, Mr. Rosmont spoke up, speaking slowly. “I think that I might be able to speak to Hetty this afternoon instead of Mr. Havner.”

“What do you mean …” Keriah began, but they were interrupted by the sound of uneven footsteps behind them.

Lord Wynwood hobbled out toward them, leaning heavily on the crutches.

“My lord,” Phoebe said, striding toward him, “surely it would be better for you to rest your leg. There is no need for you to see us off.”

He waved away her concerns. “I’ve been cooped up in the castle for too many days. I can no longer ride or even walk in the garden, so allow me this indulgence for the few feet across the courtyard.”

At that moment, the carriage turned the corner from the stables at the side of the house. As it approached, Lord Wynwood squinted up at the cloudy sky and then turned toward Phoebe. “Do be careful, for it looks as though it might rain later this afternoon. Luckily, the landau’s hood is quite snug. Are you quite certain you shall not need a groom to accompany you?”

“You are very thoughtful, my lord,” Phoebe said warmly, “but it is unnecessary.”

The landau was not quite as small as Lord Wynwood had made it out to be, for it would seat four quite comfortably. However, Mr. Rosmont pretended to suddenly make a decision before turning to Lord Wynwood. “I believe it might be best for myself and Isabella to stay behind,” he said. “I am certain that we shall not be of any use for gathering herbs.”

At first Keriah was surprised, but then she realized that while she and Phoebe were out, Mr. Rosmont would try to speak to Hetty. It had been mostly Mr. Havner who had taken care of Hetty, but Mr. Rosmont must have a reason why he thought the young woman would speak to him. Also, it didn’t look odd in the least for him and Isabella not to accompany them to gather herbs.

But Keriah was again surprised when Isabella spoke up. “I think I should like to pick herbs and learn a little bit about botany.” She turned to Keriah. “Miss Gardinier, would you mind staying behind instead, to keep Thorne company?”

It took her a moment to realize what Isabella was doing. If Mr. Rosmont would be speaking to Hetty and the servants about local healers, it would be best if Keriah were with him, to hear their answers and be able to guide the conversation.

“I do not mind at all,” Keriah said. “In truth, Phoebe likely knows better than I which herbs to gather, since her knowledge of plants is superior to mine.”

And so Isabella and Phoebe climbed into the carriage, and they disappeared down the drive, leaving Keriah and Mr. Rosmont with Lord Wynwood.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mr. Rosmont turned to Keriah. “Miss Gardinier, perhaps I could ask you to show me the gardens?”

“That is a good idea,” Lord Wynwood said. “They are looking quite lovely at the moment, although I would have wished the day were sunnier.”

Lord Wynwood said he would be in his study if they had need of him, and they made their way through the house. They exited a side door that led directly to an extensive garden and began strolling the flagstone walks between the flowerbeds.

Keriah glanced at Mr. Rosmont’s face. He never looked particularly cheerful, but he always gave an air of confidence. Now however, his brow was wrinkled and he looked unsure of himself.

“Do you think it will be difficult to speak to Hetty or the other servants?” she asked.

“I’m not certain if Hetty will wish to speak to me,” he said in a low voice.

It was not the answer she had been expecting. “Why do you think so?”

“I accidentally broke her arm when we were trying to get away from Jack’s man.”

“Oh.” Belatedly she remembered him mentioning it when he was telling the team what had happened. Keriah had never met Hetty, but she had heard that Dr. Shokes had taken care of her broken arm. “Surely she knows that you did not intend to hurt her,” she said, trying to be encouraging.

He nodded, but in an absent way. “I shall still try to speak to her.”

After a ridiculously abbreviated tour of the gardens, Keriah led them toward a small sitting room, where she knew that they were unlikely to be overheard by Lord Wynwood or the servants. On the way there, she stopped a passing maid. “Could we please have tea brought to the solar?” she asked.

“Of course, miss,” the maid said.

Before she could walk away, Keriah added, “Might I also request that the maid Hetty wait upon us? One of Lady Wynwood’s servants in town knows Hetty and wanted to know how she was doing.”

The maid was startled at the request, but simply smiled and nodded before heading off.

The solar, a small private room that led off of the large entry hall via a staircase and a narrow passage, was small and private, but had a lovely view of an avenue of trees through numerous large windows. The furniture was plain, in light colored wood upholstered in patterns of mostly yellow and orange. The room was comfortably warm, despite the overcast sky outside, but Keriah paced in front of the windows, barely taking in the view. Ironically, she seemed more nervous than Mr. Rosmont, who leaned casually against the mantle of the fireplace.

Hetty finally arrived, awkwardly carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. She bobbed a curtsy when she saw Keriah first, but her face froze when she caught sight of Mr. Rosmont.

He kept his face mostly expressionless, but perhaps because Keriah had been working with him for several weeks, she noticed the tightening around his eyes that indicated that Hetty’s reaction had pained him.

Keriah hurriedly turned toward the maid to try to put her at ease. “Thank you so much for seeing us,” she said as Hetty laid the tray down upon the table in front of the fireplace. “Mr. Havner wished to speak to you, to ascertain how you are doing, but he was needed this afternoon, so I am afraid you must put up with the two of us.”

Hetty glanced at her when she mentioned Mr. Havner. “I am grateful for his concern,” she said in a soft voice. “I hope he is doing well.”

Keriah was about to answer with something innocuous when Mr. Rosmont spoke first. “Hetty, I sincerely apologize for hurting you. I hope you are recovered?”

She blinked in surprise, then looked down at her clasped hands. “I am well. The staff is quite kind and do not ask me to carry heavy things.”

Keriah hadn’t noticed it at first, but her long sleeve on her left arm looked tighter than the other, likely hiding a splint and bandages on her forearm.

There was an awkward silence, but then Mr. Rosmont said, “I feel we should explain to you exactly why we are here. I must ask that you not reveal to anyone what I am about to tell you.”

Both Keriah and Hetty looked at him in surprise. But Keriah remained silent. He must have a reason why he had decided to confide in Hetty.

“Lady Wynwood was kidnapped,” he said, “and we believe that she is in the vicinity of either Ibstone or Ronsby.”

Hetty gave a soft gasp and covered her mouth with her hand.

“We think that one way in which we could find her is to speak to any local apothecaries,” Keriah said, “but not simply the surgeon used by the castle. We are especially interested in disreputable ones that poorer tenant farmers or local bandits might use.”

Hetty shook her head. “I have not been here for very long. I know of no such people.”

“The local maids or footmen might know,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“We are trying every means that we may think of to find her,” Keriah said. “We think one possibility is that her captor may have need of medical supplies to treat her. If they visit an apothecary, that may be how we may find her.”

“How shocking …” Hetty whispered. She glanced up at them, resolution shining in her pale blue eyes. “I owe Lady Wynwood a great deal, and I am more than happy to help.” She laid a hand upon her breast and gave a relieved sigh. “When I first saw Mr. Rosmont, at first I worried that perhaps Jack might have come searching for me.”

Keriah realized that Hetty’s reaction to Mr. Rosmont had not been fear of him, but fear of Jack. He dipped his head briefly, as if in thought, and Keriah thought that perhaps the maid’s words had relieved him, as well.

“Your arm does not pain you too much?” he asked.

This time, Hetty gave a small smile. “You must not worry about me. I am safe thanks to you and Mr. Havner, and I owe everything to Lady Wynwood for helping me to escape from London.” Her brow furrowed. “I am not certain how to bring up the subject, however …”

“We have a story to explain why we must learn about illicit apothecaries,” Keriah said.

“In my experience,” Mr. Rosmont said, “it might be more convincing if I tell the story to the maids myself. Would you allow us to speak to several of them?”

“At this hour, there are probably several in the kitchen,” Hetty said. “Lord Wynwood generously allows the servants to have a sort of teatime in the kitchen after lunch and before dinner preparations begin.”

Hetty led the way to the kitchen, which was large and had been renovated with the rest of the house. They heard the friendly chatter long before they entered the open doorway and saw a handful of maids sitting at a long table in the center of the room. Upon catching sight of them, the servants were shocked and hastened to jump to their feet.

Mr. Rosmont held his hands out, and his face transformed into a smile nearly as charming as Mr. Coulton-Jones’s social façade. Keriah privately thought that if he smiled more, he would have less of a reputation for being so grumpy.

His smile obviously eased the young women’s fears, for they visibly relaxed.

“We beg your pardon for interrupting you,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“This is Mr. Rosmont,” Hetty said, although her voice wavered slightly. “This is the man who saved me in London.” She had apparently spoken a little about her past.

“I admit I coerced Hetty into bringing us here because I had a question I wished to ask all of you,” Mr. Rosmont said.

“Us?” a young maid asked.

“I am certain we wouldn’t know anything that might be of interest to you.” The cook’s voice was a bit stern, indicating that she, at least, had not been fully swayed by Mr. Rosmont’s smile.

“I think that all of you will know precisely the information I am seeking.” Mr. Rosmont somehow managed to make his expression both debonair and endearing at the same time. The cook’s eyes were a bit dazed by his beguiling aura. “Several months ago, my aunt stopped in Ibstone on her way to London, and she bought a tonic from a local man who claimed to be able to heal a rash on her hands. She applied it and let it sit upon her skin for a time, and was shocked when it worked quite well.”

“A rash?” one of the maids asked. “My mother has had a rash on her hands for several months.”

“What was the tonic?” another maid asked. “Who sold it to her?”

“My mother didn’t know if the man made it himself or bought the tonic from a local or woman or apothecary,” Mr. Rosmont said. “She said that the man did not look very reputable, which made me think that perhaps he may not have bought it from a proper doctor. Since I was coming to Glencowe Castle, I decided to try to seek out all the local medical practitioners to see if any of them knew about the tonic.”

Keriah rather felt like Mr. Rosmont was almost a different person, with the open expression on his face and the fervor in his voice as he told his story. It was not simply acting, but it was enticing the maids and the cook to be concerned and interested in helping him.

“My uncle is a surgeon,” Keriah said, speaking up for the first time. “I am also interested in the tonic, if we can find it. I suggested to Mr. Rosmont that he ask the servants at Glencowe Castle, since you may know of the type of local healers who would sell something of the sort.”

“Surely we would have heard about a tonic such as that,” one of the maids said.

“But how would any of us have known that it even exists?” another maid asked. “Perhaps it is simply that we never asked anyone for something of the sort.”

“But wouldn’t one of the other women in town have mentioned it if they tried it and it worked?”

There was sudden movement behind them, and Keriah turned to see the head maid and housekeeper of the castle approaching. They entered the kitchen and looked around at all of them.

“Might I ask what is going on?” The housekeeper’s words were polite, but her tone was suspicious.

Mr. Rosmont once again spun his tale, and it seemed that the maids became even more excited at the second telling.

However, the head maid’s face grew colder as she listened. “I have never heard of a tonic for skin rashes,” she said curtly.

Mr. Rosmont was not put off by her tone. “Of course, I asked Lady Wynwood about the matter, and she had not heard about the tonic, either. However, she thought that perhaps the man who sold it may have acquired it from someone in Ronsby.”

Keriah could tell from the expressions of the women in the room that they were considering the matter. One maid opened her mouth, but then she glanced at the housekeeper and abruptly shut it.

“I think that your aunt must be mistaken.” The housekeeper’s voice dripped with suspicion. She turned back to the maids and clapped her hands sharply. “Back to work, all of you.” She gave Keriah and Mr. Rosmont a curtsy. “Perhaps the two of you could return to the drawing room? I shall have someone send up tea.” It was a clear dismissal from the servants’ domain.

***

Keriah and Mr. Rosmont returned to the solar, where she slumped in one of the sofas in front of the fireplace. They had accomplished nothing besides drawing the ire of Lord Wynwood’s head servants.

Mr. Rosmont sat on a chair across from her. Noticing her low mood, he said, “Mr. Havner may accomplish more tonight if he manages to speak to Hetty or the grooms in the stables.” His face was once again the impassive, slightly stern look that was his normal expression.

“I didn’t know you could act so well. You even thought up new stories in a moment.”

His cheekbones turned a little pink, and he said gruffly, “I learned it all from Isabella.”

“She is amazing, also. She has given advice to both Phoebe and myself.”

“You would do well to learn her tricks if you wish to continue doing … things such as this.” He was referring to their work for Mr. Drydale.

“Have you worked with her very often?”

“I accompanied her on missions whenever Michael couldn’t do it.” His face pinched with heartache as he added, “After Richard died and Michael quit the Foreign Office, I did almost all of Isabella’s missions with her.”

“How did she manage to continue to go on missions after her brother’s death?” Keriah whispered. “I wouldn’t be able to do that.” The death of her own sister had devastated her. Even aside from her leg injury, she had had no interest in anything outside of her bedroom for a year afterward.

“I think that she used the work in order to prevent herself from brooding. Also …” He stared blankly at the fireplace for a moment. “She does not simply enjoy the work. It has become a part of her. Somehow, it gives her strength.”

“She is already strong.”

Mr. Rosmont gave an awkward chuckle. “She was a cocky teenager when we were younger.” Then his expression grew more grave. “But then after her husband died, I have seen her grow stronger than I would have ever imagined she could be.”

His words made Keriah want to be stronger too. And yet she did not know how she could do that. She remembered feeling so full of life when she was younger, but now, she had grown used to thinking of herself as weak. It weighed her down, like chains she couldn’t break.

Her melancholy thoughts were interrupted at the sound of footsteps outside the solar door. To their surprise, it was Hetty who entered, bringing a fresh pot of tea despite the old tea tray sitting untouched on the table in front of them. She set the pot down next to the old one.

“I apologize if we have caused difficulties for you,” Keriah said.

Hetty looked up at her in surprise. “You mustn’t think that, miss.” She glanced quickly at the closed door, then reached into a pocket of her apron and brought out a piece of scrap paper. In a hushed voice, she said, “A couple of the maids were interested in the, er, ‘tonic,’ so they told me the names of apothecaries and asked me to pass it on to you.”

Keriah sat bolt upright in the chair.

Hetty continued, “Ibstone has one surgeon used by the people of the castle, Dr. Murgatroyd, but apparently there is also a more disreputable apothecary who lives on the outskirts of the village, Old Syson.”

“How can we find him?” Mr. Rosmont asked quietly.

“Follow Straight Street on the way north, and when it forks, take the left fork. About a mile down, there is a house on the left. It looks almost abandoned, and there is ivy covering the entire front wall of the house, but he lives there.”

Keriah’s spirits soared. “I know that building. When we were younger, Phoebe and I would visit the old gardener that was pensioned off from Glencowe Castle, and our carriage passed that house. I know the shortest route there from the castle. Did they know of any apothecaries from Ronsby?”

“Helsey Park and Ronsby House usually call upon Dr. Murgatroyd, but the maids said that in Ronsby, there are also two herb women who are in fierce competition with each other. Mama Platt is more known for superior products but higher prices, while Mrs. Drake has dubious quality but cheaper prices.”

“Did they know where the two women live?”

“No, but they said that Mama Platt resides somewhere near the curate in Ronsby, and he will be able to direct you to her house. Mrs. Drake’s brother runs the Lucky Pig tavern in Ronsby, and you can ask him about her.”

Keriah rose and reached out to clasp Hetty’s hands in hers. “Thank you,” she said fervently.

There was worry, but also steely resolve in Hetty’s eyes, turning the pale blue almost silver. “Please find Lady Wynwood.” She picked up the old tea tray, balancing it quite deftly even with her splinted arm, and left.

Mr. Rosmont rose to his feet. “We are leaving now to visit Old Syson.” He had a scampish glint in his eye. “Your assignment, Agent, is to come up with an excuse for Lord Wynwood.” He then opened the door and strode out.

Keriah stood unmoving in surprise for a moment and had to run to catch up with him. Unfortunately, the solar was not too far from Lord Wynwood’s study, and all too soon they were standing in front of his door as Mr. Rosmont knocked.

“Come in,” Lord Wynwood called from inside.

He sat behind a heavy wooden desk with a surface larger than the door. However, his chair was angled such that he could raise his injured leg upon a footstool. He seemed to be making notes as he referred to his ledger, but a look of relief crossed his face as he saw them, and he immediately dropped his pen.

Keriah’s mind was blank, and the silence stretched as Mr. Rosmont simply glanced at her. She swallowed. She hadn’t had enough time. But shouldn’t an agent be able to adapt when put on the spot?

She almost didn’t think before the words came tumbling out of her mouth. “Might we borrow a small cart, my lord? I realized that this might be a good opportunity to visit your local surgeon.”

Confusion crossed Lord Wynwood’s face. “Your uncle and aunt are surely the equal of any in Ibstone. And yet you wish to speak to Dr. Murgatroyd?”

“My Aunt Carmelia wrote to me last week. She complained that lately, an increased number of people have come to her for small cuts and bruises, and she worries that she will run out of her usual pastes and poultices. It occurred to me that perhaps Dr. Murgatroyd might dispense different medications for simple wounds, and I should like to ask him about them. He may use some of the herbs grown in this area, in which case I can also send them to my aunt.”

There was no suspicion in his face as he completely swallowed her excuse. “Of course, you are welcome to borrow any conveyance in my stables. Perhaps a gig?”

“That should be fine, since we shall not be gone long.”

“I would be happy to drive,” Mr. Rosmont added.

Lord Wynwood sent a footman to lead them to the stables, and to assure the head groom that they had permission to take a dogcart and a horse.

As they headed toward the stables, Keriah found herself wanting to pray. But something inside of her hesitated—perhaps out of habit since she had been so resistant to God for so many years, perhaps because of her guilt that she wanted to suddenly petition the Almighty for help when she had not wanted to speak to God much before.

And so instead she simply thought to herself, I hope we shall find some indication that Lady Wynwood is in the area. I hope we will not be too late.

But her wishful thoughts only left her feeling more empty and scared.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Michael hadn’t returned to Heddetch’s laboratory since they’d raided it a few evenings ago, and it seemed odd to find his way there in the light of morning rather than in the dark. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside, but he climbed the outside stairs to the first floor doorway and tried the latch. The door was locked.

He heard footsteps from within, partly because the occupant didn’t bother to try to hide his presence, but also because the hole Michael had kicked into the wall beside the door during the raid hadn’t been repaired and still gaped open.

“I’ve come to see Mr. Honeysett,” Michael said in a voice low enough that the person inside could hear him, but which wouldn’t be easily overheard by anyone in the buildings around the laboratory.

There was barely a pause after he’d given the passcode phrase before the door was unlocked and swung inward. Whoever had opened it was behind the door, but Michael entered without hesitating.

The room was empty. When he turned to look behind him at whoever had opened the door, he was surprised to see Mr. Drydale alone.

“How did you know I would be here?” he asked as he folded a letter he had been holding in his hands.

Michael caught a glimpse of a family crest on the broken seal, and the paper was thick and smooth, the stationery of a nobleman or a nobleman’s attorney. Mr. Drydale frowned deeply at the paper as he put it away.

“When I returned to the Ramparts this morning and asked around for you, Miss Nell said you had requested the services of the two chemists,” Michael said. “I guessed you had wanted them to look through the laboratory, and I also guessed you wouldn’t allow them to poke around without supervising them yourself.”

Like Michael, Mr. Drydale had dressed in plain, coarse clothing so that he would not look out of place in this area of London. “You arrived here alone, sir?” Michael asked. He didn’t like the idea of his superior officer traveling alone in this area without an agent to guard him. A man walking alone could be targeted by thieves who didn’t much care if their victim lived or died.

Mr. Drydale gave a wry smile at his concern. “You may not believe it, but I was once a young agent like yourself, and I have survived in worse places than this.”

Michael flushed slightly. He really should have remembered that Mr. Drydale had been an agent with the Ramparts for many years now. It had even been rumored that he had worked in France during the turbulent times of the Terror. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“I am only tweaking you.” He slapped Michael on the shoulder. “I am aware of the limits of my abilities, and while I am capable of dissuading most ne’er-do-wells, I also have no hesitation in taking to my heels from a losing fight.”

“When will the chemists arrive?”

“They should have been here already.” The frown reappeared, but then his eyes searched Michael’s face. “Did you get any sleep last night after showing the agents the location of Jack’s theater?”

Michael scrubbed his face with his hand. “I didn’t rest well because I was worried about Lady Wynwood.” It was now Sunday, and she had been taken Friday night. What were they doing to her? Why had they wanted her in the first place? And did they already obtain what they were after?

Mr. Drydale’s expression also tightened in torment.

Despite the fact their relationship appeared to the rest of the ton to be merely close friends, Mr. Drydale’s reaction after Lady Wynwood had been taken had been deeply emotional, more than Michael had expected. Perhaps he cared about her more than he revealed—not only to society, but to the lady as well?

Michael sighed. He was the last person to speculate on affairs of the heart. He had only ever engaged in brief, meaningless encounters because he had been closing his heart from deeper feelings for any woman. He had no experience in true affection.

Miss Sauber’s sea-foam green eyes, crinkled with laughter, flashed in his mind’s eye.

Until now.

Feet stomped up the outside stairs, and Michael could hear one man grumbling under his breath about the early morning summons. There was a firm knock, and a man called, “Message for Mr. Honeysett.”

Michael moved to open the door, sensing three men on the landing outside. He stood half-hidden by the door and frowned at the Ramparts agent who entered first, recognizing him as Mr. Barker. He should have ushered his guests within ahead of him so that he could protect their flank.

He was followed by two figures Michael had not met before. Mr. Drydale was not particularly at ease with them, but he was not alarmed by their presence, so Michael assumed they were the two Ramparts chemists.

The older one was taller than the other, lanky but hunched. His eyes immediately swept the room, his right eye in a slight squint compared to his left. His stringy hair had been tied back in a queue, but strands were already escaping and he brushed them impatiently away from his face.

The other also looked around the laboratory, eyes observant and not as quick in his movements as the other. He dressed with more care than his companion, in clean clothing that, while not as rich and fine as a gentleman’s, were nonetheless well-tailored and of high quality. He removed his hat to reveal thick brown hair, although its fullness only emphasized the narrowness of his face. His full lower lip made it look as though he were sulking as he addressed Mr. Drydale. “Just this room?”

Michael was surprised at his curtness toward a superior officer. Mr. Drydale’s jaw tightened briefly, but he made no comment on the man’s rudeness and simply nodded. “Yes, Mr. Brady.”

The two men separated to opposite sides of the laboratory, not even bothering to introduce themselves to Michael.

“Will that be all, sir?” asked the agent who had accompanied them. “I’m needed back at the Ramparts.” Mr. Barker’s tone wasn’t quite disrespectful, but there was a faint sneer at the corner of his mouth, and his manner indicated he had more important things to do.

Mr. Drydale’s eyes hardened as he stared at the man.

The silence stretched, and Mr. Barker swallowed. “Did you wish for me to stay here, sir?” he asked with a bit more humility.

Mr. Drydale held the man’s gaze for a few seconds longer before shaking his head. “No, thank you, Mr. Barker. You may leave.”

Mr. Barker’s mouth tightened as he gave a short bow and exited the room.

“Mr. Lowald,” Mr. Drydale barked. He had not even turned around to look at the scientist where he was rooting through a cabinet.

The tall man jumped, then spun around with a frown on his face, but also looking a trifle guilty. “Yes? What?” he demanded.

“You are simply to record the contents of the room.” Mr. Drydale slowly turned to stare at him with a narrow gaze. “You are not to remove any of the contents.”

Mr. Lowald frown deepened. “Of course.” He turned back to his work, but Michael noticed his hand dipping into his coat pocket to remove something and replace it in the cabinet.

Mr. Brady glanced across the room at Mr. Lowald with a contemptuous look in his eye, then returned to his own investigation of some apparatus on the workbench.

Mr. Drydale kept his eyes firmly upon the two men, so Michael stood next to him and did the same. He along with Thorne, Sep, and Isabella had briefly searched the room right after the raid, before the Ramparts agents arrived to help them transport the prisoners. They hadn’t found anything of note, but they also hadn’t had much time to search, and it was entirely possible they’d missed something important.

However, he’d slipped the keys to the laboratory to Miss Sauber. At that time, Mr. Drydale had also given Michael some messages for Miss Nell to temporarily cancel the guard shifts for the laboratory.

“Did, um …” Michael lowered his voice. “Did Mr. Antingham or Mr. Uppleby notice that the keys to this laboratory were missing?”

Mr. Drydale gave a subtle shake of his head.

“There aren’t any obvious signs the women were here,” Michael murmured.

“Phoebe is intelligent. I would guess they managed to search the laboratory directly after leaving the Ramparts yesterday in the early morning hours.”

Which was why Mr. Drydale had gotten rid of the guards for her.

As if reading his mind, Mr. Drydale added, “I reinstated the guard shifts just before coming here. Two of them should arrive soon.”

That must have also been why he had arranged for these scientists to have permission to enter the laboratory now, only after giving the women time to search.

“Mr. Villager, report on what happened last night,” Mr. Drydale said.

In a low voice that the two chemists could not hear, Michael told him what happened after Dr. Pelham had seen him for the “injuries” delivered by Mr. Antingham’s agents. “I led several agents to the theater that Isabella and I had discovered earlier. It was late evening, so a crowd of people milled about the dressing rooms, and we were able to enter without drawing notice from anyone. But when I led the agents to the door backstage, the manager appeared and demanded to know what we were doing.”

Mr. Drydale’s eyebrows rose. “I thought you were all in disguise.”

“We were, but … only one of the agents bothered to act like a bored young man attending the theater. The others looked like Bow Street Runners working on an investigation.” If Michael had been alone, he likely would not have drawn the manager’s attention, but the group of men acting in stiff, suspicious manners in an area normally only occupied by stagehands had stood out too much.

Mr. Drydale gave a weary sigh, which somehow indicated he hadn’t expected much from the agents. “What did you do?”

“I pretended to be a belligerent drunk.” Michael grinned. “Works every time.”

“Not if the men with you look shocked and confused.”

“The one agent in character helped me out. We began arguing about if a certain actress worked there or at the Kitten Theater. The manager was affronted when we mentioned a rival theater and told us to get lost.”

“So you never entered the stairwell up to Jack’s laboratory?”

“No, but it was obvious we wouldn’t be able to watch the stairwell entrance from within the building.” Michael had told this to the agents, but they had wanted to try to see the stairwell regardless, and he couldn’t blame them. “We found spots in the surrounding buildings where they could observe the theater entrances. One team is on the roof of the adjoining building where Isabella and I were able to climb onto the roof of the theater.”

“I would have thought you’d gone back there this morning rather than helping me to mind the children.” He glared at the two chemists, although they had moved closer together and were arguing about something, ignoring the two agents entirely.

“Mr. Elsbury led the team,” Michael said simply.

Mr. Drydale groaned and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips.

“He ordered me to leave, insisting it was his team and he could choose who was on it,” Michael continued. “I went back to the Ramparts, but you’d already left. Sir Derrick happened to see me and tell me to get some sleep, since the raid is likely to be tonight.” To be honest, he was grateful for the reprieve. The last time Michael had slept had been the night before Lady Wynwood was taken, so he had been awake for nearly two days straight.

“Yes, that’s why I wanted Mr. Lowald and Mr. Brady to look around this laboratory today. They’ll likely be busy with Jack’s laboratory after the raid. Mr. Lowald, Mr. Brady,” Mr. Drydale called. “May I ask what you are arguing so vociferously about?”

The two men turned toward them, and for a moment, they looked almost related because of the exact same nature and shape of their frowns. They each held pages of paper that they’d found in a drawer.

“I am merely insisting upon my rights as eldest scientist present,” Mr. Lowald said in a gravely voice. “These papers should be mine to study. I have the seniority.”

“Mr. Lowald has only a rudimentary understanding of botany,” Mr. Brady said with a sneer. “These papers mean less than nothing to him.”

“It is not so difficult to reference a book,” Mr. Lowald shot back.

“Neither of you will take anything,” Mr. Drydale said sharply. “You are merely here to determine if there is any piece of information adding to our understanding of the work being done here or the owner of this laboratory.”

“Any half-wit would have done that. We are here for our scientific expertise.” Mr. Lowald shook the pages he held. “I won’t know if these notes are clever or merely trash until I spend time looking at them.”

“You wouldn’t be able to understand them if you had a decade,” Mr. Brady said.

“You will need to rein in your scientific curiosity,” Mr. Drydale said. “In fact, we will require both of you to strip completely before you leave this room. We will search your clothing thoroughly.”

Both mouths dropped open, and both eyes bugged out their heads. They really did look almost like brothers. Or perhaps uncle and nephew.

“You dare—!”

“We are hardly criminals!”

“I am senior officer here.” Mr. Drydale’s voice cracked like a whip, and both men subsided immediately. “I find the task extremely distasteful myself, but I do not trust either of you after seeing Mr. Lowald pocket a paper packet from that drawer and Mr. Brady a tool from that workbench.”

The men’s anger transformed to shock with a splash of guilt.

Mr. Drydale crossed his arms over his wide chest. “Is your task completed already?”

Both men turned back to looking through the drawers. “I will look here,” Mr. Lowald said.

“I shall follow behind you,” Mr. Brady said derisively. “You are not always so thorough as you ought to be.”

The two entered into a sniping argument, but Mr. Drydale simply sighed as he watched them.

“I don’t think they will find any clues to point us toward Laura, but they may find something to point us toward Heddetch and where he might have taken her.”

“It’s possible Jack rather than Heddetch took her. When we were getting into position around the theater, the rooms at the top floor remained dark, despite the lateness of the hour.” Michael thought back to the beginning of his investigation into his brother’s murder, when he’d been seeking to speak to Apothecary Jack about the poison used in the club. “When Jack had been working out of the Kitten Theater, his hours had been erratic, but he usually left in the evening, ostensibly to return home. I believe that the smaller room next to the laboratory is Jack’s apartment, and yet he never appeared last night while I was there. And if he had returned, I would have heard about it when I went to the Ramparts this morning.”

“You may be right. Or you may be wrong. Jack is simply too unpredictable,” Mr. Drydale said gravely.

Mr. Lowald was quick and impatient, but sloppy. Mr. Brady compensated for him by being slow and meticulous, but often becoming too distracted and taking too long. The entire process of searching the laboratory took nearly two hours, and Michael was ready to tear out his hair.

The two scientists finally approached Mr. Drydale with their report. “There’s nothing of interest here,” Mr. Lowald said dismissively. “What a waste of time.”

Mr. Brady glanced at him, looking as though he disliked agreeing with his partner and not quite giving a nod of assent. “What is more, the laboratory has not been used in several weeks, perhaps even several months.”

“There is a small area on the workbench that was used,” Mr. Lowald said contentiously.

“And that was all.” Mr. Brady’s sneer was back on his face as he added, “This was obviously a trap for your team when you were deceived into raiding it.”

Michael’s temper flared and he took a step forward, but Mr. Drydale held up a hand to stop him. Then with a nasty smile, he told the two chemists, “Excellent work. Now, as we discussed, please strip.”

Both men’s faces turned red with anger—or perhaps embarrassment—but Mr. Drydale’s gaze had become positively steely.

After the distasteful task of searching the two men—and Michael found a page of crossed out chemical formulas that had been stuffed down Mr. Lowald’s breeches while Mr. Drydale discovered a large amount of potting soil in Mr. Brady’s boot—they were about to escort the two chemists back to the Ramparts when two agents arrived for their shift to guard the building. They sent the chemists with one of them, leaving the other agent to remain within the locked laboratory to guard it. The agent looked disgruntled to be stuck with the uninspiring task, and Michael almost sympathized with him.

He walked beside Mr. Drydale as they headed down the street toward an area where they could find a hackney to take them back to the Ramparts.

“Miss Gardinier would have noticed that the laboratory wasn’t used recently,” Michael said. “We would have discovered this sooner if you had let them stay.”

Rather than reprimanding him for his complaining tone, Mr. Drydale gave him a slight smile, which surprised him.

“Would you rather they were stuck at the Ramparts, being ignored and belittled because they are women and not trained agents? Or would you rather they were out on the streets following their leads?”

Michael blinked at him. “Were you planning for them to be dismissed by Sir Derrick?”

“Not exactly, but I suspected Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby would harass Sir Derrick about the women until he did something. They have already embarrassed them—as scientists, they have shown their superior moral merit compared to Mr. Uppleby’s recruits and accomplished a great deal to forward this investigation, and as agents, they bested Mr. Antingham’s trained men.”

“Did you send Mr. Rosmont after them?”

“Ah, did you overhear when I was murmuring to him?”

Michael shook his head. “I knew you were telling him something, but my hearing is not as sensitive in a loud, enclosed space. I only guessed that might be the case after you sent Miss Sauber away with the key to the laboratory.”

“We can only trust them with their own hunt for clues, but I think they will turn up something. All three of them are skilled in their own fields of expertise. Meanwhile, we shall follow whatever leads we may have.”

“Will the raid be tonight?”

“I think not. Sir Derrick is still planning it and said he wants more information from the agents watching the theater. The raid shall likely be tomorrow night, rather than tonight.”

“What do you wish for me to do?”

“I will speak to Sir Derrick and have you assigned to watch the theater.”

Michael frowned. “Mr. Elsbury—”

“Is lazy. Surely you’ve noticed by now? He will have left the area mere hours after you did last night. And I would hazard a guess that by now, the agents left behind are full of resentment that they were stuck with such a boring task. They will not be as belligerent as they were last night.”

“Did you want me to try to sneak inside?”

“No, don’t arouse Jack’s suspicions. Simply observe the building carefully and bring me ideas for the raid tomorrow night.”

“Yes, sir.” Michael continued walking, but his fears caused him to add, “I worry that, like this laboratory, Jack’s laboratory and rooms will not tell us where they took Lady Wynwood.”

“Yes,” was all Mr. Drydale said, but his voice was a barren desert, and there was foreboding shadowing his eyes. “However, it is all we have. Jack’s laboratory is our only clue.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Michael said, “Sir, the Ramparts don’t seem to care about Lady Wynwood. They seem more interested in the men who took her.”

“That is why we must be intimately involved in this investigation, to ensure it does not completely forget about her.”

Michael felt they had already forgotten. His nerves were on edge, as if his skin were aflame, telling him that Jack’s laboratory was the wrong direction.

And in the meantime, time was running out for Lady Wynwood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Laura’s captors thought she was the victim. But in actuality, she was a spy.

At least, that was what she told herself as Mr. Seyward politely knocked on her door in the morning and escorted her down to the small dining room for breakfast. Yesterday, she had not known what to expect, but today, she would try to ferret out their secrets.

She was surprised to find that breakfast was delicious—he had made simple, rustic-style muffins with coarsely ground wheat, piping hot. He even provided a small pot of honey, which he said he’d bought from the weekly market, so that she could drizzle it on top of the butter as it melted on her muffin.

He made light conversation with her, not quite as skilled as a society hostess, but politely and with genuine interest. He asked her about the kinds of things she did in town, the people she socialized with.

His manner of speech and vocabulary was cultured, but there was still a slight country accent in his voice. She found the reason for his well-mannered conversation when he inquired about her hobbies.

“I enjoy reading,” she said. Here was finally an opportunity where she could ask him about himself. “Do you also enjoy books?” She had a feeling she knew the answer.

He smiled. “Yes. I mostly read psychology, spirituality, and philosophy.”

“Those are weighty topics.”

“I love thinking about various things. I love new thoughts. I am especially fascinated by French literature and both the successes and failures of the unrest in France.”

“What about those things interest you?”

“I enjoy observing society.” He sipped his tea. “It was intriguing how the theories of various philosophers were put into practice in Paris. The actions of the few influenced a great many people. Or sometimes, they influenced simply the few specific leaders who were the impetus for events to occur. We live in such exhilarating times.”

She wouldn’t have considered the Terror to be exhilarating. His choice of words may have been unconscious, or he may have used them deliberately to see how she would respond. He obviously enjoyed complex ideas, but with an edge of ruthlessness. It was likely to be expected, since he was a man who had managed to thrive in the seedier areas of London alongside Apothecary Jack.

“You enjoy studying these things?” she asked.

“A great deal. It is stimulating to see how mere words can influence a man, to cause him to do what you desire, or to change his very thoughts.”

That matched up with what she had seen of him yesterday. He seemed to relish in the opportunities to manipulate people. It was entertaining for him to cause others to act according to his will.

“It is not only man who influences other men. God also directs our actions and our paths.” She was deliberately bringing the conversation around to this topic because she was curious how he would react to it now.

She had not been able to see his face very clearly in the dark, but now she caught the tightening of the skin around his eyes, betraying his annoyance and distaste for the subject “I do not believe in Providence.” His voice was neutral as he hid his true feelings, and he was mostly successful—but not from her.

“You do not believe in Jesus Christ?” she said, intentionally using the name.

A vicious hatred flashed across his face and was gone. She had never seen anyone so strongly reactive to the mention of Christ. It appeared to be an instinctual reaction, something that he was unable to completely suppress. “I believe that the many religions in the world are all simply ideas in which foolish men put their faith.”

Something about the way he said “foolish men” made her think of what he had revealed about his father to her last night. His reaction may be fostered by anger, perhaps even betrayal at the hands of the devout father he had mentioned to her.

“‘For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, He taketh the wise in their own craftiness,’” she said, quoting First Corinthians.

But he shocked her when he responded in kind. “‘Every man is brutish in his knowledge: every founder is confounded by the graven image: for his molten image is falsehood, and there is no breath in them.’”

He was far more well-versed in the Bible than most of the people she knew. He must have known that her quote had come from the Bible, for he had quoted Scripture in response. In addition, the verse he spoke, from the book of Jeremiah, was not particularly well known. Was he perhaps the son of a rector?

Her questions about God unfortunately dulled his interest in speaking to her. He stood and escorted her back to her room, since Dr. Heddetch had not put in an appearance at breakfast.

She had half expected Mr. Seyward to take over Dr. Heddetch’s duties and try to question her about Wynwood, and when he did not, her heart raced, making her feel as if she had exerted herself to climb an especially steep hill only to reach the top and find a clouded view that showed nothing. She would have expected to be relieved, and she did not exactly feel disappointment, but she felt that her tension had been released in an unpleasant way.

She prayed in her room until Mr. Seyward returned to escort her downstairs for a light lunch. It was a cold kidney pie which he had likely bought at an Inn or a tavern. He himself drank a glass of wine, but he had also quite considerately made tea for her.

He again asked her about how she spent her time, this time inquiring of the places she had traveled. She gave only vague references to the family members she had visited at their estates, not wishing to reveal a location which might seem like a place where Wynwood would have hidden something important. He listened attentively, but the edges of his mouth curled up slightly, as if he knew what she was doing with her indirect references.

They were suddenly interrupted by the sound of stumbling footsteps coming down the stairs. Dr. Heddetch staggered into the room, again reeking of alcohol.

Laura was not certain if she was relieved or afraid that the doctor had awoken even later today. He was in a far more foul mood.

She watched him carefully as he shoveled down some of the pie and tossed back several glasses of wine. Now that the moment was upon her, she prepared herself. She realized it was similar to how she had steeled herself when she knew that an argument with Wynwood was imminent.

He finished eating and glared balefully at her for a long moment, but she returned the look placidly. Yesterday, Dr. Heddetch had quickly become livid and frustrated because she wouldn’t answer his questions or even respond fearfully to his blows. But she had never cowed before Wynwood, no matter how much he beat her, and she certainly wouldn’t cow before Heddetch.

He seemed to take her look as a challenge, because he lumbered to his feet and circled the table to yank at her arm. He dragged her to her feet, then prodded her toward the same room as before.

She didn’t go willingly, although there wasn’t much strength to her attempts to pull away from him. She might have a bruised rib from Heddetch’s blows yesterday, but if so, it was not a bad injury. Her ribs had certainly suffered worse before, at the hands of her husband.

She fought Heddetch, but did not show fear. She felt remarkably clear-headed today.

Yesterday, she had simply wanted to withstand whatever these men would do to her and not reveal anything in response to the interrogation. But today would be different.

She had noticed that despite the fact he’d taken the Root, Dr. Heddetch did not have a great deal of stamina. Perhaps the Root could only enhance what a man already had to a limited extent. In comparison to her husband, Heddetch could only keep up the exertion of a beating for a scant one or two minutes before becoming winded and forced to stop.

It should not be different today. And it would give her a chance to rest and observe.

So instead of simply withstanding it all, she aimed to actively uncover information about the Citadel. If she had to endure, she would at the very least acquire something useful for taking them down, something that she could tell Sol later.

And she would tell him later. She trusted that Sol would find her and rescue her.

Dr. Heddetch took his time in finding a different chair for her to sit upon. The one from before had been a simple wooden affair, but today he brought out a wide chair with leather cushions on the seat and seat back, and curved armrests. He tied her ankles to the two feet in front, but because it was made for a large man, her legs were pulled open, drawing her petticoat taut. He then tied her wrists to the armrests, leaving her hands free.

“I was only going easy on you yesterday.” Dr. Heddetch grunted as he pulled the ropes tight. “Well, I’m done being soft on you.”

The door opened and Mr. Seyward walked into the room. However, he said nothing to either of them and sat again in the same chair against the wall behind the doctor.

Dr. Heddetch likewise ignored him, instead grabbing Laura’s left hand. His own hands trembled in a way she recognized—Wynwood’s hands had been the same in the mornings, especially after a night of drinking. It had made him clumsy for a few hours, which often aroused his frustration and childish temper.

“Now, milady.” Dr. Heddetch leaned his face close to hers, giving her a full view of bloodshot gray eyes, even more heavy-lidded than normal. “What else did you find with the keys and the pocket watch? If you don’t speak, I shall break your fingers one by one.”

His voice was low and raspy, and Laura should have been frightened down to her bones. Instead, the time she had spent in prayer this morning in her room was like a suit of armor around her heart. She said nothing.

Dr. Heddetch grimaced at her silence, and he grasped her pinky finger. “You have ten seconds. I’ll break it. I swear I will.”

Laura stared directly into his eyes, defiant and unspeaking. She felt the hard pulse of her heartbeat. It all came back to her so easily, unfortunately—the way her breath matched his, so that the timing could be just right.

He blinked, perhaps in surprise that she refused to submit to him. Then he looked down at his hands and grasped her finger more securely.

She tensed all her muscles just before he jerked his hands, a timing she’d perfected with Wynwood, because it made it harder for him to break her bones. Dr. Heddetch tried to break her finger, but he hadn’t committed to it, so the motion was sloppy and shallow. She felt tendons tearing.

It was painful, but she swallowed any cries she might have made. Instead, she drew in a sharp breath, then tossed him a scornful look. “Are you truly a doctor?” she asked disdainfully, hoping to goad him. “Perhaps you need to take more classes in anatomy. You obviously can’t do it despite threatening me that you would.”

His face flushed in response to her taunting, and he snapped the bone.

She cried out. This kind of pain wasn’t something she could swallow.

When she opened her eyes, Dr. Heddetch’s triumphant expression floated in front of her vision, which was hazy with agony. But she shifted her gaze to the side and behind him, catching sight of Mr. Seyward.

He was not looking at her, but at Dr. Heddetch. And something inside his eyes had come alive. It struck her that Mr. Seyward didn’t particularly enjoy watching her suffer as much as he loved watching Dr. Heddetch’s savagery. Observing that violence seemed to fill an emptiness inside him—his pale eyes always seemed to have a shadow of loneliness, like the slightly shabby appearance of a house long abandoned, but observing the doctor’s violence seemed to fill that emptiness inside him, chasing away the loneliness. The realization made her both want to reach out for him in pity and shudder in revulsion.

It took several hard breaths for her to gain control of herself again, but she thought she accomplished it rather quickly. She even managed to twist her lips into a mockery of a smile as she looked up at Dr. Heddetch. “Did you forget? Wynwood broke that one already. You splinted it yourself.”

The doctor was at first shocked, then livid—although if it was rage or embarrassment, she couldn’t quite tell. Probably both.

In contrast, Mr. Seyward’s lips curled into a smile as his gaze shifted from the doctor to her. But the smile remained as he returned his attention to Dr. Heddetch. Mr. Seyward was immensely satisfied to see him like this—furious, aggravated, impotent.

Why did he seem to want Dr. Heddetch to fail? She suspected he was part of the inner circle of the Citadel, while Heddetch had confessed to her that he was an outsider.

But she had years of experience watching the social theater of the London haut ton, and in comparison, Mr. Seyward did not carry himself like a leader. Instead, his mannerisms, his voice and choice of words, his very posture spoke of a follower.

Yet he had also conveyed that he was frustrated with his own group, so she knew that the Citadel was not united in their opinions and purpose. She guessed that Mr. Seyward’s strange deference to Dr. Heddetch now, while questioning her, was something caught up in that internal discord.

Laura could use their dislike of each other to not only discover information about the doctor, but also about Mr. Seyward. She had to set up everything just so, like planning a particularly intricate embroidery pattern.

But she also needed to be careful. Sol had managed to guess at her ability to tell lies, and she couldn’t allow these men to also discover it. She especially suspected Mr. Seyward was observant enough that he might figure her out if she wasn’t careful. She had to use all her skills as a society hostess to its fullest extent, to nudge the conversation in the direction she desired without the men being aware they were being led.

She was still panting slightly from the pain, but she did her best to hide it. “Would you like to play a game?” she asked Dr. Heddetch.

“If you’ve had enough, you could just tell me what I want.” The doctor tried to sound sinister, but there was a slight petulance in his tone.

“You mistake my meaning. Watching your frustrated face was entertaining at first, but it’s becoming quite boring.”

He choked, his mouth curling into a sneer even as his hands curled into fists. He was trembling.

He didn’t seem to notice the soft sound from behind him as Mr. Seyward also choked—except he was trying not to laugh, covering his mouth with his long-fingered hand.

She let the doctor stew for a few moments, stoking his ire for just the right amount of time. She couldn’t cook in the least, but she was skilled in this kind of coaxing of emotional flames.

“I suggest a game of true or false,” she finally said. “One person will make a statement about the other, and the other must confess if it is a truth or a falsehood.”

Her words puzzled him, although she could tell that he was still furious and trying not to lose control of his temper. “How would either of us know if the other is lying when they answer if we are correct or not?”

“We don’t. That is what makes the game appealing.”

Dr. Heddetch frowned, but suddenly Mr. Seyward’s voice sounded softly from behind him. “That sounds rather fun.”

The doctor turned to glare at him. “Your opinion is not required at the moment.”

“At least she’ll be talking,” Mr. Seyward said in a reasonable voice, which she was certain he did on purpose in order to annoy the doctor. “She’s said more in the past five minutes than you got her to speak all yesterday.”

Dr. Heddetch turned his back on Mr. Seyward, his face again turning a dusky rose color. She could have sworn he was pouting—he obviously didn’t care for being mocked, but he was also feeling the pressure from his partner.

“Very well,” he snapped. Then he gave her a sickly smile. “Please go first, milady.”

“Tell me, Dr. Heddetch, is this true or false: You hate Apothecary Jack from the bottom of your heart.”

His sickly smile faded, and it seemed as if a scarlet flame erupted behind his gray eyes. He did not want to answer her, not in front of Mr. Seyward.

Mr. Seyward’s eyebrows had risen as he glanced at her. Perhaps he hadn’t known that Dr. Heddetch hated Jack—or perhaps he hadn’t known that Laura knew it. His gaze returned to the back of the doctor’s head, his thin lips curling in delight.

It took several heartbeats before Dr. Heddetch recovered control over his face. He swallowed, then cleared his throat. He tried to smile, but his face was stiff. “I do not hate him,” he lied, “but it is well known that we often have differences of opinion.” His eyes flickered to the side, almost as if he were about to turn his head to look behind at Mr. Seyward, but he did not.

Ah, he did not want his companion to know the depths of his envy of Jack. Perhaps he had told him he didn’t mind working with him, or that he and Jack got along better than they truly did.

He recovered his composure as he said, “My turn. True or false: You found other things that your husband hid along with the pocket watch.”

“Do you mean items related to the Citadel?”

His eyelid flickered. He hadn’t wanted her to know that name.

She continued, “He hid the watch under the floorboards of his bedroom, but there was nothing else. We also found another hidden storage behind a wall in his dressing room. We found the keys along with a seal with the gentian flower symbol. The rest of the hidden storage area was empty. We have checked everywhere in the house and found nothing more.”

He had taken an excited breath when she mentioned the spot in the dressing room, but he deflated as she finished speaking.

An ember of confusion glowed in Mr. Seyward’s eyes, so she spoke quickly, before he could pick up on the fact that she had inserted pieces of truths in such a way that they could be misinterpreted. She also didn’t want him to notice that she qualified her answer as pertaining only to the townhouse. Leaning her head to the side to get a better view of him, she asked him, “Will you also play?”

“As diverting as your game is, it should only involve you and the good doctor, don’t you agree?” Mr. Seyward asked. “I should not be involved.”

She was disappointed, but she regally bowed her head. “As you wish.” She said to Dr. Heddetch, “True or false: You are jealous that the Citadel picked Jack instead of you as one of their inner circle.”

Laura had asked the question of the doctor, but her gaze flickered toward Mr. Seyward. She had a difficult time reading his expressions exactly, but she noticed that he seemed to possess a great deal of self-confidence when she said the words “inner circle.” Perhaps because he did indeed belong to it? In which case, why was he deferring to Dr. Heddetch? Was there a leader above him who had ordered him to do so? Even if that were the case, why would they want him to give such power and control to someone not among their members?

At her question, Dr. Heddetch’s face had grown ugly. Mr. Seyward couldn’t see it, but he might have noticed the trembling in the doctor’s hands and shoulders.

“False,” he said hotly. “I am quite useful and a close colleague to—” He cut himself off.

To whom? She suspected the name he had been about to say was Dr. Ward, the man who had written him that letter which he treasured.

“How strange,” she said in a wondering voice. “I would have thought you’d be terribly upset that they picked Jack, who is younger, smarter—”

“He’s not smarter!” Dr. Heddetch lashed out at her with a fist to her cheek.

Even though he was on the Root, his strength was not much more than Wynwood’s had been. Even so, she knew the blow would leave a dark bruise on her face. He followed up with two more strikes to her face before Mr. Seyward had rushed forward to stop him.

“Control yourself!” Mr. Seyward grabbed Dr. Heddetch’s wrists, but he quite effortlessly held them aloft despite the doctor’s anger, amplified by the Root. Mr. Ackett had suspected that Jack and probably the pale-eyed man were not taking the Root, but something more powerful, which made them much stronger than the men they led.

Even as Mr. Seyward fought him, looking down into the doctor’s enraged face, his own expression revealed satisfaction. He enjoyed seeing the man lose control in this way. He had wanted this to happen—it had turned out exactly as he had planned.

It only solidified her belief that he reveled in manipulating people. It wasn’t clear whether he liked the feeling of power, or if he thrived on the challenge in making someone do what they otherwise would not, but it was there in his face, the ecstasy of watching the doctor become unbalanced.

Mr. Seyward’s pale eyes then slid to Laura. He knew precisely what she was doing, needling the doctor. She would have thought he’d be upset at her, but instead, he gave her an approving smile.

That smile chilled her.

Perhaps he simply admired her efforts to influence the doctor, just as he had. But she suspected he was playing some dark game, and her actions exactly fell into his schemes.

She became aware of pain in her mouth. The doctor’s second blow had split her lip, and her teeth had cut the inside of her cheek. There was blood filling her mouth, which she would have to spit out before she could speak. She didn’t think she had spit in front a boy since she was six years old and had entered into a contest spitting crickets with her cousin Edward.

Suddenly, Mr. Seyward stilled. He turned to look at the closed door to the room, and his hands tightened on Dr. Heddetch’s wrists, making the man wince.

“You’ll break my—” the doctor began.

But Mr. Seyward hissed at him, “Be silent! A horse just rode up to the house.”

Laura had heard nothing, although Dr. Heddetch had been grunting loudly and he fought his captor. She also remembered Phoebe telling her that she had seen the pale-eyed man approaching the factory where they had herded Mr. Coulton-Jones when he turned into a Berserker, and although she had been on an elevated floor, when she whispered Jack’s name, the pale-eyed man had heard her and responded. If that man had been Mr. Seyward, then his hearing was abnormally sensitive.

Whether because the doctor stopped struggling or because Mr. Seyward decided to release him, the two men separated from each other. Dr. Heddetch rubbed his wrists while glaring at Mr. Seyward, but he remained silent.

After several minutes, Mr. Seyward’s shoulders relaxed. “It’s Jack.”

“How do you know?” Dr. Heddetch asked.

“Because he’s skipping,” Mr. Seyward said in a dry voice.

Dr. Heddetch’s brow lowered, and he muttered, “Lunatic …”

Now Laura could hear the rhythmic steps as they approached the room. The door suddenly burst open with a bang! as it slammed against the wall.

Framed in the doorway stood a slender man in a rather lovely purple waistcoat and a dark green coat, his arms wide apart in a dramatic pose. “I am present at long last! Did you have fun without me?” His voice was slightly higher pitched than she would have expected, but with a hoarse quality that made her suspect it was actually quite deep.

Mr. Seyward sighed. “I’m quite glad you took my advice to dress so as not to be noticed.”

“Aren’t you glad I didn’t wear that eye-wateringly bright yellow coat?” the man asked.

Dr. Heddetch had been blinking in surprise throughout this exchange. “Ja—er, Mr. Dix?”

Laura couldn’t hide her shock if she wanted. This was Apothecary Jack without cosmetics on his face. Although Mr. Coulton-Jones and Phoebe had seen him without face-paint on the street outside his greenhouse, she had never thought she would see him thus.

His hair was a dirty blond color, and it was cut short and very ragged. But as he removed his green top hat and ran a careless hand through the fine, straight locks, she realized that the varying lengths would enable him to adopt different looks depending upon how it was combed.

His jaw was square, and a sharp, aquiline nose slashed down his face. That narrow nose was the first thing that she would have remarked upon if she’d been introduced to him at a party, and yet none of the descriptions of Jack had mentioned it, probably because it was less noticeable when his face was swirled with colors.

Beneath his high cheekbone, his scar cut down almost to the corner of his mouth. It was long and bumpy, flesh-colored except for streaks of dried blood. He had scratched at it recently. As he walked into the room, she saw that there was cleverly mixed face-paint covering the color of the scar, making it less prominent. Considering the uneven texture, it was likely a sickly pink color that would have stood out against his skin if he didn’t try to hide it.

Jack smiled at Dr. Heddetch, his mouth wide and the corners sharp. “Took you a minute, didn’t it?”

The doctor pressed his lips shut in irritation, but there was avid curiosity in his eyes at the sight.

“You weren’t due to arrive until tomorrow. What brings you here so early?” Mr. Seyward asked with mild curiosity.

“Nothing much,” Jack said in a listless voice, strolling toward Dr. Heddetch. He reached for something inside his coat.

It was almost too fast for Laura to see. He pulled out a knife and stabbed it straight into Dr. Heddetch’s heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Laura screamed.

Dr. Heddetch’s face froze, eyes wide, mouth half-open. At first he appeared to be shocked, but then pain tightened the edges of his face and he gasped, but no sound came forth. Trembling hands reached up to where the knife hilt protruded from his chest, but he couldn’t grasp it firmly.

Jack had stepped back a pace, head tilted, pursing his lips at Heddetch and looking bored. He circled his hand, signaling for the doctor to hurry up.

Dr. Heddetch’s shaking knees collapsed under him and he fell first to a kneeling position, then toppled face forward. There was a slight jerk as his weight thrust the knife even deeper into his chest.

Jack leisurely slipped a fine leather boot under the man’s shoulder and flipped his body over. Dr. Heddetch was gasping but each breath looked torturous. His eyes were only cracked open, and he stared dazedly at the ceiling.

Jack then leaned down and yanked the knife out. Blood rapidly flowed from his chest, running down his ribs in rivulets.

Laura squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body trembling. Would Jack kill her next?

Dear Lord, help me!

For long moments, all she could hear was her heartbeat drubbing in her ears in a rapid cadence. But then a soft voice resounded in her mind.

She did not hear it with her ears, and the voice was not that of anyone she knew, and yet somehow she was familiar with the voice. She knew this person, and He knew her intimately.

And, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.

She was not alone. She was not forsaken. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, was beside her. And her life was in His hands.

Laura opened her eyes to the sight of Dr. Heddetch’s still form. The blood had formed a pool on the stone floor around his torso, but it had stopped expanding mere inches from her foot. Jack had finished wiping his knife with a handkerchief and replaced the blade in the depths of his coat, but tossed the dirtied cloth onto the body.

Mr. Seyward had stepped back when Jack attacked the doctor, and he had remained standing at a distance the entire time. He frowned at Jack, although his voice sounded more puzzled than upset as he asked, “Why did you do that?”

“It is a very long, winding story.” He twirled his finger in the air in a figure eight, like tracing the flight of a lazy bumblebee. “Heddetch apparently wrote to Ward the day before yesterday, even before you two trapped our little bird.”

Jack turned to Laura, and his smile was almost tender. She shrank back from him, but couldn’t move more than an inch because she was still tied to the chair.

He walked toward Mr. Seyward. “Ward was so alarmed by whatever the doctor wrote to him that yesterday morning he sent me an express letter. I received it just after lunch.”

This man, Ward, must be the same one who had written the letter Dr. Heddetch had cherished, the one that Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Rosmont had found. That in itself wasn’t very interesting, but she perked her ears at Jack’s words as he described the sequence of events.

If this Ward had sent an express letter yesterday morning that reached Jack yesterday after noon, then Ward wasn’t very far from London. It may not be useful at the moment, but she filed the tidbit away.

“I couldn’t leave London right away, no matter how urgent Ward made it sound. I finally left in the late afternoon, and there was no possible way in which I could make it here last night.” Jack sounded far from regretful that he hadn’t been able to obey the injunction he’d been given. “I hurried as best I could.”

Laura again wondered at the interactions between these men within the Citadel. Mr. Seyward had been obeying orders to defer to Dr. Heddetch, while at the same time setting him up to fail. Jack had been ordered by Ward, but rebelled in his own way. Was Ward the leader? And yet these men did not have the attitudes of followers. They did not have the personalities of men who would willingly put themselves under the yoke of another. Perhaps their obedience was forced?

“I stayed overnight at an inn,” Jack said. “They had the most wonderful breakfast—large amounts of food and with slow service so that I was forced to take an extraordinarily long time about it. And here I am!” He flung his arms out wide, just as he had when he first entered the room.

“I didn’t need to hear your itinerary,” Mr. Seyward said.

His voice was mild, but Laura could tell that he was upset and doing his best not to reveal it to Jack. But she had the impression that he wasn’t upset about Jack taking his time. What had angered him?

“What about the men you were supposed to bring with you?” Mr. Seyward asked.

“They’ll arrive later today,” Jack said absently while staring down at Dr. Heddetch’s body. “Or maybe tomorrow. You wouldn’t believe how many of them couldn’t ride a horse.”

“Are you certain your face is … acceptable?” Mr. Seyward’s eyes slid to Laura.

Her breath caught. Dr. Heddetch had been shocked to see Jack without his face-paint for the first time, but Jack hadn’t cared because he’d been intending to kill the doctor when he arrived. Was he intending to kill her also?

Jack bent over, bringing his face close to hers while leering at her. This close, she realized that his eyes were a watery blue color, and he was surprisingly young. Sol had said that Jack appeared in London a year after Wynwood died, and he couldn’t have been a mere teenager when he rose to prominence, yet he looked no older than Phoebe.

She also noted the smears of flesh-colored face-paint that only imperfectly covered the scar. But from a distance of only a few feet away, it would look more like pox scars or pimples. Most people wouldn’t even notice the long jagged line at all.

“You can keep a secret, riiiiight?” he drawled. He placed a fingertip delicately against his lips.

She shivered. They most certainly intended to kill her. It didn’t matter that she’d seen Jack’s true face.

Mr. Seyward’s voice cut in, rather sharper than she had heard him thus far. “Why did you kill Heddetch? I thought you were using him.” He was attempting to sound disinterested, but she spotted the thread of tension forming lines across his brow.

“Ward wanted him dead,” Jack said with a sigh. “The entire letter was him gnashing his teeth over Heddetch’s stupidity and ordering me to kill him posthaste.” His eyes flattened. “I was tempted to ignore him since he was ordering me around, but …” He shrugged carelessly as he turned back toward Mr. Seyward. “I was getting tired of the doctor’s whining anyway.”

Mr. Seyward’s expression suddenly grew cold and still, like a copse of dead trees rotting in the midst of a freezing winter night. “So the two of you decided to get rid of him. Without consulting me.” His voice was always slightly soft-spoken, but with a harsh edge like shards of glass. But now his voice had sharpened—no, it felt as if he were chewing on broken knife blades, and she half-expected it to cause his mouth to bleed.

She had never seen him as angry as this, even when she had provoked him upon the rooftop last night. This slight affected him far worse than any of Dr. Heddetch’s other insults, and his fury slashed through the air in the room in a deadly whirlwind.

Laura also noted that Mr. Seyward had said the two of them. Were there only the three men in the Citadel’s inner circle?

Jack raised his hands, palm outward in a placating gesture. Despite the frivolous manner in which he acted, he apparently wasn’t entirely obtuse. “Don’t be angry.” He needled and whined like a child. “You didn’t need him, did you?”

“It wasn’t about Heddetch,” Mr. Seyward said in a deep voice. “The decision was made without even telling me.”

He wasn’t angered so much because the control had been taken out of his hands, but instead perhaps because his authority was disregarded. She studied his face carefully and noted the thread of loneliness that had returned to his eyes. Was that the source of it all? Was he perhaps insecure that he was suddenly the outsider? She recalled what he’d said to her last night about his father.

“He always said to simply turn the other cheek, to fade into the background.”

“His God made him weak.”

She wasn’t entirely certain, but a part of her suspected that Mr. Seyward had a deep-seated fear and resentment at being overlooked.

Jack’s back straightened, and his breathing grew even. Without a trace of his usual flippant tone, he said, “I would never do anything to betray you, Maxham. I owe you too much.”

Maxham? That had been the other name mentioned in Dr. Heddetch’s letter. But he had said his name was Seyward. Had he been lying? Was Seyward perhaps his first name? Or his surname?

She then remembered one set of initials on the paper that they had found in Wynwood’s pocket watch—S. M.

Seyward Maxham?

Jack’s words appeared to have had an effect because the freezing, cutting aura in the room gradually warmed and dulled. Laura dropped her eyes, hoping she looked frightened.

She had only been able to closely observe Mr. Seyward because he had been so angry, but now that he was calming himself, he would be more likely to notice that she was perhaps more interested in their conversation than a prisoner would normally be.

Ward. Seyward Maxham. Citadel. She had learned a great many names.

Her eyes shifted toward Dr. Heddetch’s body. Her information had been bought with a horrible price in blood.

Jack had obeyed Ward’s orders to kill the doctor, and yet he had made a great effort to placate Mr. Seyward. The pale-eyed man was likely superior to Heddetch, since he appeared to be part of the Citadel’s inner circle while the doctor was not.

Dr. Heddetch had been envious of Jack, who had been chosen instead of himself. Jack’s attitude toward Mr. Seyward only made it more likely that the pale-eyed man was one of that same inner group which had chosen Jack over Heddetch.

And yet Mr. Seyward had deferred to the doctor, possibly on orders from this same Ward. Mr. Seyward had been manipulating Dr. Heddetch into doing his wishes, while the doctor had been too blind or too ambitious to notice.

The doctor had also been on the Root, and Laura’s resistance had only frustrated and angered him. Perhaps the rage of the Berserkers, which Mr. Rosmont had briefly succumbed to, had also played a part in the doctor’s uncontrolled temper and the ease with which Mr. Seyward had molded his emotions?

From Ward’s letter to Dr. Heddetch, he had appeared to be in a position of authority in the Citadel. Yet when he ordered Jack to kill the doctor without consulting Mr. Seyward, it had angered him. That type of strong reaction would only be expected if Mr. Seyward and Ward were equals within the group. In that instance, Ward’s instructions to Jack slighted Mr. Seyward’s position of authority.

In many ways, it had been easier for her to deal with Dr. Heddetch. He had been emotional—on the verge of unstable—and yet also more predictable. She could insult him and prod him with her words as if they were swords, and he would immediately respond with the emotions she would have expected.

On the surface, Mr. Seyward was more reasonable, but on the contrary, he was far more dangerous to her. He was harder for her to read, not simply because he was more skilled at concealing his thoughts, but also because he was more observant and perceptive than Heddetch had been. She had to exert herself more, be more clever, in order to prevent him from noticing that she was watching him so closely.

Jack … was like a boiling kettle about to explode. He seemed to thrive on contrariness and unpredictability. On chaos.

Her path to escape had just become much harder.

She became more aware of the throbbing of her cheek and the blood welling in her mouth. It disgusted her, but she allowed some of the blood to dribble from the corner of her mouth. “Could I have a handkerchief?” she asked hoarsely, the blood bubbling on her lips. “And water.” Thankfully, the way the blood obstructed her mouth made her sound as though she were weaker and in more pain than she actually was.

Laura kept her head down, not wanting Mr. Seyward to somehow discover she was exaggerating, and so his silence after her request unnerved her. Could he tell she was play-acting?

Finally he spoke. “Jack, could you fetch some water from the kitchen downstairs?” His voice was the same as it had been before, soft with that jagged touch around the edges.

She caught a flash of metal at the corner of her vision and jerked away, although her bonds kept her trapped in the chair. But then she realized that Mr. Seyward was cutting the bonds that tied her hand to the chair armrest. Surprisingly, he tried to be gentle as he sawed at the rope, but it still jarred her broken finger and she whimpered.

“I beg your pardon.” He sounded rather penitent. However, Laura didn’t risk looking at him in order to see his expression.

He cut her other hand free and then pressed a clean linen handkerchief into her palm. She immediately wiped her mouth with a corner, then pressed the clean portion of the handkerchief over her left eye, where Dr. Heddetch had hit her. She hadn’t noticed until the soft cloth touched her skin, but it had begun to throb with heat and feel uncomfortably stretched.

Thankfully the handkerchief was large, and she positioned it to cover most of her face. It was the primary reason she had requested it—so that she could conceal her expression from Mr. Seyward, because she strongly suspected he would be able to tell when she was lying.

“I don’t suppose you would fetch an apothecary for me?” She hadn’t intended her voice to sound quite so helpless, but it came out that way nonetheless. She cleared her throat. “I would like a poultice for my face, and I know from experience that I need someone to set my broken finger.”

“I am afraid not, milady.” Mr. Seyward sounded rather regretful. “However, I can set the bone for you. I have done it before. I shall also get a poultice and bandages from the local apothecary and whittle a splint for you.”

She kept her eyes downcast while inwardly she rejoiced. If Phoebe figured out where she’d been taken, Keriah would surely think to speak to the local doctor or apothecary about any strangers in the area. Mr. Seyward and the doctor had not appeared to have any other servants, so he would need to go himself. Just as she had planned.

Please, Lord God, she prayed, help Phoebe and Sol to find me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Phoebe alighted from the carriage in the village of Ronsby, some miles distant from Glencowe Castle, but was immediately struck with a feeling of profound dismay.

The main street down the center of the village was full of gentlemen—riding horses, trying to maneuver high-perch phaetons around farmer’s carts, walking along in small groups, either splashing unheeding through the mud puddles as they talked animatedly with one another or frowning in extreme displeasure at the ruination of expensive boots.

“What in the world?” Isabella had followed her out of the carriage and gaped at the crowd.

They had traveled to Ronsby this morning in hopes of learning about any strangers who might have appeared in the past few days—except that Ronsby was full of strangers.

Mr. Rosmont tooled Lord Wynwood’s dogcart next to the carriage, Keriah sitting beside him. She also looked disheartened at the crowd of people.

“I overheard two young men who happened to be talking quite loudly,” Mr. Rosmont said as he climbed down from the vehicle. “From what they said, it appears there’s a spontaneous horse race nearby. It will take place this afternoon.”

“I suppose we should be glad we already asked around in Ibstone yesterday,” Keriah muttered. She remained seated in the cart since they would be heading out again soon.

The day before, just before leaving the inn where they had taken rooms, Jane had spoken with the innkeeper but discovered there hadn’t been any strangers who stayed lately, just a few familiar merchants who passed through every few months or so. She hadn’t had time for more than that before receiving Phoebe’s note to pack up their things again and transport them to the castle.

Jane did manage to send the twins into town, and they had loitered around the local butcher and baker establishments for a few hours while Phoebe and Isabella went “herb picking.” However, they similarly heard nothing about any new faces.

Upon learning about the more unconventional healers in the area, Keriah and Mr. Rosmont had gone off to visit Dr. Murgatroyd, the surgeon called upon by the residents of the castle. However, he hadn’t given out anything for injuries lately except for the squire’s son, who’d gone to gather honey to slather on a burn on his arm and had gotten stung by a bee.

They had also gone to visit Old Syson, an aging apothecary who lived on the outskirts of Ibstone. Keriah had apparently been appalled at the disgusting state of his stillroom, covered in dirt and with jars of rotting herbs that he used for the tinctures and powders he sold cheaply. However, after a bit of bullying by Mr. Rosmont, they’d learned that the majority of his sales this week had been regular orders for things like stimulants that wives picked up for their husbands.

“Well, there’s no help for it,” Isabella said in a bracing tone. “We each have our marching orders, yes?”

The twins, who had traveled in the carriage with Phoebe and Isabella, were to be set loose to dawdle about close to the local butcher’s shop. Ronsby didn’t have a bakery, so they could choose where the other would go. “We’ll listen for any gossip about strangers in the area,” Clara said, “but I’m not sure what we’ll find with all these people here.”

“Do your best,” Phoebe said.

“Concentrate on people who appeared several days ago,” Isabella told them. “The horse race sounds to be a last-minute thing, while Lady Wynwood was taken three days ago.”

“You can meet up with Mr. Havner at the Lucky Pig in a few hours,” Phoebe added. Ronsby had no inn, only a tavern, but Mr. Havner was tasked with spending a few hours getting comfortable with the tavern owner and any locals to listen to gossip and ask questions.

“We’ll meet you there, as well,” Keriah said as Mr. Rosmont climbed back into the dogcart. As they had done yesterday, the pair was going to speak to local healers. They would need to first speak to the Lucky Pig owner for the direction to his sister, Mrs. Drake, and then to the curate for the location of Mama Platt’s house.

Originally it had been Phoebe and Keriah who would go, since Phoebe could drive the cart, but Isabella had insisted that Mr. Rosmont accompany Keriah instead, since there might be potential dangers in visiting the two herb women, who catered not only to the poor but also to bandits who had need of medical services.

On foot, Phoebe and Isabella walked down the main thoroughfare, avoiding the press of gentlemen as best they could. Phoebe was tall enough to look most gentlemen in the eye, and she had discovered that when she walked upright and confidently, it was unfeminine enough to cause many men to avoid speaking to her. For the rest, Isabella’s ability to skewer them with her glare like an icicle through the heart deterred them from trying to engage the lone females.

However, entitled gentlemen with the poor judgment to imbibe spirits at such an hour of the morning always have the ability to exceed all expected heights of stupidity.

Two gentlemen whose identically colored reddish-gold hair and amber eyes stumbled up to the two women. They both looked to have recently graduated from university and were in the process of acquiring town polish, but their boyish smiles, blurred by drink, betrayed their maturity level (or lack of it).

“Ladies, you have blinded my eyes with your brilliance,” one of them slurred. He looked to perhaps be the older of the two, but they were so close in age that it would be difficult to say for certain.

“Surely you are not alone? You must join us for libations at the local esh-establishment,” said the other.

“No, thank you,” Phoebe said curtly as she and Isabella attempted to sidestep away from them.

However, they were remarkably agile despite being saturated with the local ale. Phoebe had to stop abruptly to prevent herself from running into one of them, but he had moved quite close to her, more so than if they had been dancing. She wanted to step back from him, but Mr. Armstrong, her trainer at the Ramparts, had warned her that sometimes a woman’s retreat triggered a hunting instinct that would prod him to chase her.

“Don’t be so cold,” the man chided her.

Phoebe was slightly embarrassed to admit it, but she had hardly ever been approached by gentlemen. Her father had often scolded her to hunch her shoulders, dip her head down, and flutter her eyelashes to better attract men, but she couldn’t bring herself to try to cloak herself in a cuteness she did not possess and did not even want. Perhaps it was the example of her Aunt Laura, but she couldn’t pretend to a helplessness that she simply didn’t feel, even if it would make men want to protect her and coddle her like so many of the Incomparables of Seasons past.

As she glared at the young man standing in her way, her thoughts immediately went to the vulnerable point of his throat, or his solar plexus, or his crotch, all points which she could attack with a well-aimed jab of her fist.

Surely there was something wrong with her, if bodily harm was her first instinctual reaction to an unwelcome advance.

Unfortunately, their public location and the many surrounding gentlemen made her hesitate. Before, in front of her aunt’s townhouse, she had moved to engage with the men who had attacked Mr. Coulton-Jones first, and Phoebe had been trying to protect her aunt. Now, these gentlemen were only annoying (so far) and not attempting anything nefarious such as, oh, kidnapping her.

“Cat got your tongue, kitten?” The man leaned closer, his foul breath wafting over her.

She came up with the wonderful idea of dissuading him by vomiting all over the expensive-looking boots he wore. No, an even better idea would be to vomit on his sky blue, purple, and orange striped waistcoat instead. It would surely be a justice for tailors everywhere to ruin such an atrocity.

Isabella rescued her from more plans of destroying the gentleman’s toilette. She heaved a mighty sigh as she removed a tiny drawstring pouch from her reticule. “I so detest using this,” she muttered as she opened the pouch and dumped something into her gloved palm. “Phoebe.” There was steel in her voice as she looked directly at Phoebe, closed her eyes, then opened them again.

Phoebe screwed her eyes shut immediately.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” one of the men asked Isabella.

“Lean close and see,” Isabella said in a voice so dripping with honey and treacle that it made Phoebe’s teeth ache. “I guarantee that you will see me in your dreams tonight if you do.”

There was a pause. Then the two men began coughing and gasping.

Phoebe had turned her head away and the sides of her bonnet protected her face so that it took a few moments before she smelled it—hartshorn stronger than anything she’d smelled before, floating on the breeze.

At the same moment, Isabella grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the two young men, who sounded as though they were trying to heave and cry and sneeze at the same time.

Phoebe snapped her eyes open to glance behind her, but all she saw were the figures of the two men, bent over, while other gentlemen on the street looked curiously at them. “What did you do?”

“A quantity of soot and hartshorn, blown directly into their faces. Young men are unbelievably gullible whenever a woman looks small and defenseless.”

“Soot?”

“It makes the hartshorn stick to their eyeballs,” Isabella said heartlessly.

“Thank the good Lord you are my friend,” Phoebe said.

“Now you sound just like Thorne.” Isabella’s smile had the heavenly glory of an angel, making it hard to believe she’d just done something so dastardly.

A man was gesticulating wildly to his friend as they walked and his hand nearly clocked Phoebe in the forehead. Perhaps it was because she had been honing her reflexes when training with Mr. Armstrong, but she smoothly dodged the incoming projectile, which did not even brush the feather on her straw bonnet.

“Beg pardon,” the man said with a nod, but he didn’t even wait for her response before continuing his story to his fellows.

“There are so many people here,” Phoebe murmured. “If Aunt Laura were taken to somewhere near Ronsby, we may never find her.”

“If the twins hear nothing today, I shall find a way to change into costume and go out with them tomorrow.” Isabella had brought a boy’s costume with her in the carriage so that she could change at a moment’s notice. She couldn’t change in the castle because Lord Wynwood had insisted upon providing a lady’s maid for her.

She had told Phoebe, “As ridiculous as it sounds, it would have been easier to search for Lady Wynwood if your relative were less generous and considerate.”

They finally left the high street and went down a less congested side avenue, according to the instructions Lord Wynwood had given to Phoebe. She had never met Mr. Eleson, the attorney who dealt with the local business of Lord Meynhill and Mr. Carver, but she was armed with a letter of introduction from Lord Wynwood.

Yesterday, after practically rushing through a meadow to gather enough herbs to show for their efforts, Phoebe and Isabella had visited Mr. Kershaw, the attorney in Ibstone who managed all of Lord Wynwood’s local business. They gave the same story about a friend from the botanical association who desired a cottage for the summer, preferably in a remote area with many unusual plants to find. Phoebe already knew of a small riverside lodge on the Glencowe estate that was available to let, and Mr. Kershaw had given them the directions to several other homes available to rent in the area.

Mr. Kershaw had said that the riverside lodge was to be leased to a small merchant family in a few weeks, but they drove by the place regardless. It had stood empty, waiting for the new renters. They had spent the rest of the afternoon looking at other places, but there was no sign of Aunt Laura. They hadn’t even managed to visit all of them before being forced to return to the castle to dress for dinner.

Phoebe was beginning to worry that her wild flight into Bedfordshire had been all for naught. Perhaps Aunt Laura was not in the area at all.

They found Mr. Eleson’s offices easily since he had a modest but elegant sign next to the front door. Unfortunately, he was quite busy and had two other appointments, so they were forced to wait for over an hour, sipping tea in a private conference room. But as soon as he was available, their letter of introduction from Lord Wynwood ushered them into his office.

He was a tall, spare man, with flyaway blond hair almost the same color as his skin—or perhaps that was because he was partially balding atop his pointed head. His spectacles perched atop a high, narrow nose, but his smile was wide and friendly, and his blue eyes twinkled.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, Miss Sauber, but I am afraid I have only a few minutes before my next appointment.” He seated them at a table in his office. “I have been very busy today because of the sudden excitement in the village.”

“A horse race, is that correct?” Phoebe asked.

“From what I have heard, it came about because of an argument between two hot bloods at Brook’s about their respective horseflesh.”

“Brook’s?” Isabella asked. “How did such an argument come to involve Ronsby?”

“Ronsby was suggested by one of their friends, since there was another race here last year. The two men will race each other from the village green to London this afternoon. As you can see, many gentlemen from London arrived last night and this morning. I was shocked to find so many men suddenly with various legal needs.” He gave them an apologetic look. “However, I will do my utmost to be of service to you. If I cannot help you now, I shall clear some time for you for this afternoon.”

“We do apologize,” Isabella said in gracious tones. “We are quite imposing upon your time.”

“Our request is very small.” Phoebe again repeated the story about looking for a remote house to let for her friend.

“There are several small places appropriate for a single gentleman. You likely heard of some of them from Mr. Kershaw in Ibstone.” Mr. Eleson found a large map and unfurled it upon the table, then used small chips to mark different residences.

Several of the places were nearby the village, but there was one house in a remote area that Phoebe thought might appeal to the Gentians.

“Leekes Hall is here.” Mr. Eleson indicated a spot on the map in Mr. Carver’s property, but close to the border of Lord Meynhill’s estate. “It was the old squire’s house. Decades ago, after a fire, the squire rebuilt his home on a grander scale on the other side of the property in a more visually appealing location.” He pointed to another area on the map, almost on the other side of Mr. Carver’s property. “That house eventually was refurbished over the years into Ronsby House, where Mr. Carver resides now. However, the old house was rebuilt by the squire’s son for his mother-in-law. Now, Mr. Carver lets the house and it is currently occupied by a merchant, who moved to the country for the health of his sickly wife.”

“Are there any houses not officially to let?” Phoebe asked. “Places which Lord Meynhill or Mr. Carver might lease to someone whom I can vouch for? I am well known by both gentlemen, since I have visited them often since I was a little girl.”

Mr. Eleson thought for a moment. “If I were to include houses not normally leased …” He again marked half a dozen houses, but they were all quite near to Ronsby.

Except for two.

“This used to be a gamekeeper’s hut.” He pointed to an area among the woods on Mr. Carver’s property. “However, it was renovated by a previous owner into a rather spacious cottage. Mr. Carver does not usually let it out, but he might relent if it is someone with whom you are acquainted, Miss Sauber. I do not advise this location, however, for the cottage does not have all the latest amenities, and may not please a discerning gentleman.”

A small place, surrounded by trees. Dr. Heddetch might care about the lack of comforts, but Phoebe didn’t know if the pale-eyed man would be bothered by it. And since it was not normally rented, no one would know it was occupied if the kidnappers simply moved in.

The second possibility was a home on Lord Meynhill’s property. “This is a hunting lodge.” Mr. Eleson placed another chip on the map. “As you can see, it is a great distance from the village—it is halfway to Ibstone—but Lord Meynhill keeps the woods well-stocked. It is not usually let, for Lord Meynhill’s sons like to use it several times a year, and there is an elderly couple who reside there as caretakers. You would need to use all your wiles to convince Lord Meynhill to rent it to your friend, Miss Sauber.” He smiled to indicate he was teasing her.

“If it seems appropriate for my friend, I shall do my best, Mr. Eleson.” She tried to look carefree and winsome despite the ache in her chest at the thought of her aunt in such a far away location.

It was perhaps fortunate that the gentleman who had made an appointment with Mr. Eleson arrived then. The attorney was forced to apologetically usher them out, and he did not have time to ask any more questions about why they had come to Ronsby.

Phoebe and Isabella returned to the tavern, the Lucky Pig, where they had instructed Mr. Havner to reserve a private room for them. While Isabella spoke with the tavern owner to order lunch, Phoebe managed to find a few minutes to speak privately to the coachman.

After taking care of the horses, Mr. Havner had spent his time in the taproom and spoken to the tavern owner. “He said that he hadn’t seen any strangers in the area until last night, miss,” Mr. Havner told her, “and he thinks they were men who arrived for the horse race.”

Phoebe and Isabella settled into the private room they had reserved on the first floor. She was disappointed to find it empty, but hopefully Keriah would return soon. A maid arrived with tea only a few minutes after they sat down.

“When do you think the twins will return?” she asked as Isabella poured some tea for them both.

“Finding information through eavesdropping is a task that takes a great deal of time, so they shall remain until the butcher closes shop.” She gave Phoebe a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Be patient. They may discover something yet.”

“I don’t want to be patient.” Phoebe knew she sounded sulky and childish but was unable to help herself. “Aunt Laura could be in pain or despair even now. I want to be doing all I can to try to find her, not spinning stories about renting houses or trying to fend off the advances of inebriated gentlemen who need to have their neckcloths shoved up their—”

“Yes, yes. Good gracious, you need this tea more than I realized.” Isabella plopped another nugget of sugar into the cup and shoved it toward her.

Phoebe frowned at her teacup. She didn’t prefer her tea quite so sweet, but stirred and sipped anyway.

Then Isabella opened her (apparently bottomless) reticule and removed another drawstring pouch. This pouch was larger than the soot-hartshorn she had used earlier on the young men.

Phoebe leaned back in her chair as far away as she could manage. “What are you intending to do?” she asked warily.

“Medicine.” She opened the pouch and placed an irregularly shaped object on Phoebe’s saucer.

“What is this?”

“Candied walnuts.” Isabella popped one into her mouth.

“Why do I need candied walnuts?”

“You need the sugar, specifically.” Isabella (rudely) pointed a finger at her while stabbing her with a freezing glare. “I understand why you have been anxious all day, but your smile to Mr. Eleson was positively sickly. We shall not find your aunt if you look as though you are on the verge of hysterics. Nor if you erupt into violence in the middle of the high street—yes, I noticed you looking as though you’d like to crush that man’s genitals to a pulp. You are irritable and this—” She stabbed the finger at the walnut. “—is merely to take the edge off.”

Phoebe pouted a little as she sipped her tea and nibbled at the walnut (which was really quite delicious). Perhaps she had been a bit testy with the drunken young gentleman, but surely her smile at Mr. Eleson hadn’t been that horrid. She managed to finish her tea and Isabella immediately poured her another cup, with another two lumps of sugar, accompanied by another walnut.

By the time she had finally drained her cup, she was forced to admit she felt a bit calmer.

They had been sitting in silence for some time, but Isabella now spoke softly. “I realize that everything feels … terrible. But you are not searching for her alone. We have our team, and we have God. I cannot believe the Almighty would forsake one such as Lady Wynwood.”

She was correct, of course, but Phoebe had been driven to be out and about, straining with all her mind and might to find Aunt Laura. However, if she wandered aimlessly, she would not be drawing closer to finding her aunt. Instead, she would be getting farther away.

Uncle Sol had trusted Phoebe when he had sent her away from the Ramparts but arranged for Mr. Coulton-Jones to give her the key to Bianca’s laboratory, and likely also arranged for there to be no guards when they snuck into the building. He had put her on a path to follow that clue toward Aunt Laura, confident she would not fail him if she discovered something important.

The laboratory had proven to be a dead end, but Phoebe remembered the encouragement she had received afterward from Cookie Cribble when they had eaten a meal at the woman’s boarding house. She remembered the peace that had blanketed her after she’d prayed. Only after that prayer did the conversation lead her to suspect the Gentians had taken Aunt Laura here, to Ibstone or Ronsby.

Phoebe had to trust that in all things, God was leading her. She had to trust that God was watching over Aunt Laura.

She had to remember to trust and pray.

Lord, please help us to find her, she prayed. I pray that You protect her.

The words seemed to swirl in her mind rather than winging their way to God. Had He heard her prayer? Would He answer her?

Her doubts increased as she and Isabella waited. A cold lunch arrived, but neither Keriah nor the twins returned.

An hour, they waited. Then another.

Even Isabella began to pace in the small room, looking out the tiny window that faced the street. “Where could they be?”

“Could something have happened to them?” Phoebe didn’t want to know the answer, but the words came out of her mouth regardless.

Isabella shook her head. “I cannot believe that. Not with Thorne with her.” And yet she still looked out the window.

She returned to sit at the table with Phoebe, and there was silence for several minutes. At last, Phoebe rose to her feet. “I must do something.”

“What will you do?”

“I will send Mr. Havner to try to find them. I will try to find Calvin and Clara—”

Isabella suddenly raised her hand up, silencing Phoebe. “I hear rushing footsteps on the stairs.”

Soon, Phoebe also heard it—light steps accompanied by a heavier tread. The tavern only had two private rooms on this floor, and the footsteps were heading here.

Then the door to the room burst open and Keriah rushed in, eyes wide.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Keriah climbed back into the dogcart with Mr. Rosmont’s help, and they drove away from Mama Platt’s little cottage. It was a small but charming building, outside of the village but not too far, and absolutely festooned with roses. The rain last night had shaken some petals from the leaves, but there were still many blooms in various colors that had started to blossom with the coming advent of summer. The perfume in the air dwindled as they rode farther away.

She sighed. The friendly woman had enjoyed gossiping with them, even though they were strangers, although the reason Mama Platt warmed up to them may have been when Keriah mentioned visiting Glencowe Castle many times with Phoebe and Lady Wynwood. However, Mama Platt readily admitted she hadn’t had any business from strangers in the past few days, only her normal customers buying their normal supplies. She had hesitated, but ultimately suggested they visit Mrs. Drake, clear on the other side of the village.

“Don’t be too offended if Mrs. Drake is a mite crotchety,” Mama Platt said. “Poor thing can’t find a cure for her broken heart these twenty years past.” She then delayed their departure by several minutes as she regaled them with Mrs. Drake’s tempestuous marriage with a dashing man who died when he tried his hand at highway banditry, and how she could never overcome her great love, drowning her sorrows in drink.

Keriah sighed again, and Mr. Rosmont glanced at her. He fidgeted in his seat, then with the reins. Finally he said, “We may still discover something with Mrs. Drake.”

She realized he was trying to comfort her, despite how awkward it made him feel. She didn’t want to disregard his attempt, but each time she’d spoken to a doctor or apothecary, her feelings seemed to grow heavier and weigh on her like wet mud settling into her stomach. “She is the last one. Are these visits truly doing anything helpful in finding Lady Wynwood?”

“We would not know unless we tried.”

“It has been three days—today is Monday, and my lady was taken on Friday night. What have the kidnappers done to her in all that time?”

“You mustn’t think about that,” Mr. Rosmont said with a firmness to his voice. “That kind of imagining will not help you to accomplish your objective, which is to gather information.”

“I know that information is important, but I still feel as though we are doing very little.”

“It is better to have a plan to follow. We could hardly barge into every house in the parish, searching for Lady Wynwood. Your idea to speak to local healers was a good one—more purposeful than simply trying to overhear local gossip about strangers in the area.”

“Especially now that the village is full of strangers.” Keriah’s tone grew more doleful. “It still feels as though we are grasping at straws. After all, would the kidnappers even bother to try to treat her wounds?”

And was Mr. Ackett truly dead?

“Perhaps Lady Wynwood is not wounded at all,” Mr. Rosmont said, oblivious to Keriah’s thoughts. “In that case, discovering nothing from the local healers is in actuality a good sign.”

The drive to Mrs. Drake’s home took a long time since they had to follow the winding country roads, and it was clear on the other side of Ronsby village. It nestled at the edge of the forest, so small that they nearly missed it, and it had an eerie aura to it, just what Keriah might have imagined a witch’s house to look like.

The hut had a thatch-covered roof, and dead bramble branches covered almost the entire front wall. A garden of herbs lined the stone-strewn path up to the front door, but the plants were sickly. Phoebe would likely be offended at the poor gardening and know exactly what Mrs. Drake was doing to cause her plants to look as though she romped through them each day rather than caring for them.

They knocked on the weathered plank front door, but received no answer. Mr. Rosmont knocked again, harder this time, and an irate voice from within hollered, “What do you want?”

Eyeing the leafless thorny branches that covered the two shuttered front windows and framed the doorway, Keriah was tempted to answer flippantly, “We’ve come to wake the sleeping princess,” but refrained.

“We’ve come for medicine,” Mr. Rosmont called out.

“Well, then, come in. Did you need someone to open the door for you or some such?”

The door was unlocked, and Mr. Rosmont had to bend nearly double to maneuver inside the small doorway. The inside of the one-room hut was dark, which Keriah should have expected since the windows had been closed. Only one window was cracked open near a fireplace that smoked quite a bit, likely from a blocked chimney. The burned smell in the air melded with other scents—pungent dried herbs, animal fat that was slightly rancid, and a strong odor of fermentation. A gray-colored cloth hung between the walls, closing off the back of the hut, and the front portion looked to be a kitchen and work area combined, with a large wooden table along one wall, filled with various implements.

A squat, wrinkled figure sat in front of the fireplace wrapped in a shawl that might have been red at one point, but which was so stained that it looked more like dried blood. An equally dirty mobcap covered oily, iron-gray locks that escaped to hang listlessly against her sagging cheeks.

“What do you need?” demanded the irate voice, and she punctuated her words with a swig from a jug in her hand. Keriah caught the whiff of alcohol, and noticed the bleariness in the small, dark eyes.

However, through working with her surgeon uncle, Keriah had experience dealing with all sorts of characters, from nobility down to the grumpy sailors whose speech contained more profanity than regular words. “Good day, Mrs. Drake. We were hoping you might give us information, which will cost you nothing and require little effort on your part.”

“What sort of information?” Mrs. Drake squinted at Keriah, whom she likely couldn’t see well in the dark room.

“We’d like to know if anyone has bought unusual supplies from you, or things they do not normally purchase.”

“I am not the sort to gossip about my customers,” Mrs. Drake snapped.

Mr. Rosmont produced a gold piece in his hand, almost by magic.

Mrs. Drake’s eyes gleamed as she eyed it for a long minute. But then she only frowned more deeply and shook her head, turning away so that she couldn’t see it. “I’d lose all my customers if they knew I was blabbing about them.”

She must know quite disreputable characters indeed if she was so vehement about protecting their identities in order to protect herself. Keriah shuddered to think what sorts of local criminals might come to Mrs. Drake.

Perhaps if Keriah only asked about strangers in town? But the Gentians might be making their purchases in the village through a maid working for them, a hired local girl or even the mistress of a house in which they were guests.

However, Phoebe hadn’t believed the kidnappers would involve anyone else, in order to prevent anyone from chattering about their activities, so perhaps it would be acceptable to simply ask about strangers.

“We only wish to know of any new faces in the area,” Keriah said, “so you would not be angering your regular clients. And you need only describe their clothing and what they looked like, not their names.”

“I wouldn’t know their names, anyway.” Mrs. Drake took another pull at the bottle. The silence stretched for another long minute, but then she said, “Very well, but I want more gold.”

Three more gold coins appeared in Mr. Rosmont’s hand.

“Have any strangers come to request supplies for injuries?” Keriah’s stomach twisted even as she asked the question. Would Lady Wynwood be tortured? She had asked Mr. Rosmont what people might do to her, but he had been rather intentionally vague, likely to spare her sensibilities.

However, Keriah remembered once, when speaking to Phoebe of unusually somber topics, that she had confessed to seeing her aunt the morning after arguments with Lord Wynwood. When assisting her uncle, Keriah had also seen tenant wives battered and bruised—lips cut, teeth broken, yellow and purple coloring on face and arms and legs, broken bones, and torn tendons.

Keriah didn’t know what Dr. Heddetch was capable of when he desired this knowledge from Lady Wynwood. And perhaps it was not Dr. Heddetch, or he was accompanied by the pale-eyed man, or Jack, or Jack’s men.

“A few young men last night and this morning with bloodied faces,” Mrs. Drake said grudgingly. “They likely came for the horse race and got into a brawl or two.”

“No bullet wounds?” Keriah’s voice cracked, and Mr. Rosmont looked at her a bit sharply, but said nothing.

“Nothing like that,” Mrs. Drake said.

Keriah wasn’t certain if she was relieved or disappointed. Mr. Rosmont was still looking strangely at her, so she rushed on, “Have you sold any supplies for bruising or broken bones?” She recalled Lady Wynwood and the tenant wives. “Broken fingers or toes, or broken arms, or any slings for dislocated shoulders?”

Now Mr. Rosmont’s eyebrows rose in surprise, while his eyes shone with respect. He likely hadn’t thought of those types of injuries associated with torture.

Keriah suppressed a shudder. She had never expected to be asking about such injuries, or to be forced to think about men harming Lady Wynwood.

There was a long pause, and Mrs. Drake’s wrinkled mouth seemed to be working, as if she were a cow chewing its cud. Then the thin lips parted and she said in a reedy voice, “A man I didn’t recognize asked for a poultice for a bruise.”

Keriah tried not to feel hopeful, but her breathing quickened. “When did he visit you?”

“Yesterday.”

“Did he buy anything else from you?”

Mrs. Drake’s mouth worked again, but she answered after only a few seconds of silence this time. “He also bought bandages and wooden sticks to be used as a splint for a broken finger.”

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears like thundering drums. “Did he mention his name? Or where he was staying?” she blurted, then remembered she had promised not to ask anything more than a description.

Her avid interest made Mrs. Drake’s eyes widen, and her mouth immediately snapped shut, her shoulders growing stiff under the dirty red shawl.

Keriah twisted her hands in her gloves, uncertain what to do now that she had frightened Mrs. Drake. She wasn’t as skilled at this sort of thing as Phoebe or even Lady Wynwood.

Mr. Rosmont rescued her by dropping more gold coins into his open palm. “You need only describe what he was wearing,” he told Mrs. Drake.

The herb woman eyed the gold, then held out a hand encased in a dirty fingerless mitten. “I want the coins now.”

Mr. Rosmont deposited them in her hand, and the coins disappeared somewhere under her motley brown-colored apron.

“Nice waistcoat,” Mrs. Drake croaked. “Good material, but plain, not fancy.”

“What about the coat?” Mr. Rosmont asked.

“Fine material, but plain brown.”

“Was it a riding jacket?”

Mrs. Drake glared at him. “And how would someone like meself know?”

Mr. Rosmont raised a hand in apology. “Was he wearing breeches and boots?”

She thought a moment, then shook her head. “Boots, but trousers.”

“Did he ride a horse here?”

“I didn’t see it, certainly, but he smelled like horse. I think I remember hearing horse’s hooves as he rode up.”

So he hadn’t been in riding costume, but had ridden a horse. Which would be what she’d expect if a man rode a carriage into the county, but then needed to ride a horse to visit Mrs. Drake.

“Did he have dirt or mud on his boots or his clothes?” Mr. Rosmont’s gaze was a little more intense now.

Mrs. Drake hesitated. “He was covered in mud. He didn’t bother to brush himself off before coming inside, but …” She swallowed. “I was too afraid of his cold expression to complain to him.”

Mud. It had rained late yesterday afternoon, starting just before they began dressing for dinner.

“What time did he arrive?” Mr. Rosmont asked.

“After dinner,” Mrs. Drake said. “I don’t know what time, but it was full dark.”

“Was he very wet?”

Mrs. Drake thought a moment. “No,” she said, almost reluctantly. “His coat was only a bit damp.”

Keriah’s breath caught in her throat. By the time he arrived here, it had been raining for at least an hour or more. And yet he had been only a bit damp.

He had come from nearby.

Mr. Rosmont didn’t hesitate and dropped more coins into Mrs. Drake’s lap. “What did he look like?”

Perhaps it was the gleam of the gold, but she acquiesced far easier than Keriah would have thought. She realized that Mr. Rosmont had paid the woman for small bits of information, a little at a time, and as she agreed and told them each small piece, it made it easier for her to agree to a more substantial request. Keriah would have to remember this.

“He had a plain face, something you wouldn’t look at twice on the street,” Mrs. Drake said. “But … there was something about him that made me afraid for my life. And I’ve had to serve all types, so I’ve learned to protect myself.”

Her obvious fear made Keriah begin to be afraid, also.

“What of his hair and eyes?” Mr. Rosmont asked in a gentle voice, trying not to alarm her further. “Or the color of his skin?”

“His hair was brownish—a light brown, almost like ash. His skin was pasty like he didn’t see much sunlight. It made him stand out since most of my customers have skin like tanned leather. He looked almost like a ghost, standing in my house like that.”

Mrs. Drake suddenly shivered, despite the fireplace and her shawl. Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “He looked at me as if I was nothing but a bug he was going to squash under his foot. His face might have been plainer than a lump of dough, but I’ll never forget those eyes.” She hunched in her chair. “Cold. And the palest color I’ve ever seen.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Phoebe was relieved that Keriah’s discovery that a pale-eyed man, at least, had visited Mrs. Drake clear on the other side of Ronsby narrowed the search area. Two remote houses that Mr. Eleson had mentioned, the old squire’s house and the hunting lodge, were both in that direction, so they decided to start their search there. If they didn’t find Aunt Laura, then they’d need to search all the other houses available for rent one by one.

Luckily, the twins returned to the tavern soon after Keriah. The butcher had apparently closed early since he’d had good business today and wanted to catch the race this afternoon. The butcher had been more of a gossipy sort than the one in Ibstone, and he had chatted freely with all his customers. None of them had mentioned anything about strangers in town before last night—they mostly complained about the gentlemen filling the streets today and the brawls that had taken place the evening before at the tavern. The butcher had been happy he’d sold more meat than normal, but he attributed it to the tavern serving more food and a few houses ordering a little more, perhaps because of guests come for the horse race.

Leekes Hall seemed an unlikely place for the Gentians to occupy, since a merchant family had been staying there for several months now, but the hunting lodge seemed equally unlikely since there were caretakers in residence. However, the hunting lodge was by far the most remote of all the places Mr. Eleson had mentioned, so they decided to start there. If it was empty, they would stop by Leekes Hall, since it was nearby.

It took over an hour to drive out there since the country lanes wandered and none led directly to their destination. The late afternoon sunlight gave everything a slightly orange cast, and the tall trees on one side of the road shadowed it so they almost didn’t see the driveway to the hunting lodge. Narrow and overgrown, since it was seldom used but for the caretakers, it cut through the thick trees toward the house.

The main road they were following continued onward and would eventually make its way to Ibstone. Instead of turning, they followed the road some ways past the driveway they had spotted, finally parking both the carriage and the dogcart in a small grassy area they found along the side of the road.

Phoebe and Keriah stood beside the carriage as Isabella changed into a costume. Phoebe’s entire body was tense, trying not to release the hope that had started to flutter in her chest. This hunting lodge was near Mrs. Drake’s house, and her description must have been of the pale-eyed man. Surely Aunt Laura would be here.

Isabella emerged from the carriage in breeches and a shabby oversized coat, looking like a village boy. “If we must investigate the hunting lodge without being seen by the occupants,” Isabella said, “it should be only Thorne and I who approach, since we have training and experience in these things.”

“We can help,” Calvin protested. “We’ll be quiet.”

Isabella still looked skeptical, so Phoebe added, “Aunt Laura takes the twins out to the country for a few hours at least once a month. She says that children need to romp about in God’s creation rather than always remaining in the cities of men.”

“We practiced sneaking around in the forest,” Clara said.

“We don’t know if there will be guards in the forest,” Mr. Rosmont said to Isabella. “It might be useful to have the twins keep watch for any woodsmen.” Until he mentioned it, Phoebe hadn’t considered that there might be guards roaming the woods around the property, but it seemed something Jack would think to do, to capture any visitors that might surprise him. However, she wasn’t certain if Jack had joined the kidnappers or not.

As the senior agent present, Isabella had the final decision, and she eventually nodded.

“Please allow me come with you,” Phoebe said. “I doubt Aunt Laura would be allowed outside the house, and she may not even be visible in a window, but that is not so for the other occupants. I know what Dr. Heddetch looks like, as well as the pale-eyed man. Neither of you have seen either of their faces, and the twins only know the doctor.”

Mr. Rosmont frowned, but Isabella looked as though she were reluctantly considering the request.

“Since the twins will be keeping watch, there is less of a chance that I will give us all away,” Phoebe said. “I shall do my best to be as quiet as possible.”

“Do you promise to obey orders without question?” Isabella asked. At that moment, she was not their teammate, nor was she Lady Aymer. She was the experienced Ramparts agent, and her gaze was stern as she stared at Phoebe.

“I promise.”

Keriah looked as though she also wanted to speak up to ask to go with them, but instead she bit her lip and looked down at the ground. Her left hand fisted, crumpling her skirt. But after a moment, her face cleared and she looked up at Isabella. “What would you like for me to do?” she asked in a calm voice.

Isabella’s half-smile seemed to approve of Keriah’s businesslike demeanor. “Remain in sight of the road. You and Mr. Havner should keep watch for any vehicles that pass. If anything happens, send Mr. Havner into the woods after us.”

Keriah nodded. “I shall search for herbs to allay any suspicions, since we will be returning to Glencowe Castle tonight.” They had already arranged with Lord Wynwood to remain so that Phoebe could ostensibly look at the houses for let in the area, while Keriah had asked to borrow the stillroom, where she would concoct something for an upset stomach with the herbs Phoebe had collected yesterday so that they would supposedly be at their freshest when processed.

They entered the thick of the woods, picking their way silently alongside the driveway track. The air was sharply cool in the dimness, while the earth smelled of wet leaves and mud. The twins had melted into the trees, and Phoebe only caught glimpses of movement.

In contrast, she felt she was blundering quite loudly. She had to be mindful of her skirt so that it would not snag on bushes or rough tree trunks—she did not care so much about tears in her gown as much as the sight and sound of branches moving from being caught on the fabric. She should have thought to bring breeches in which to change.

She observed Mr. Rosmont and Isabella closely, how they placed their steps, the soft rolling motion of their feet. She copied them, keeping close to tree trunks and moving cautiously.

They walked for almost half an hour before she spotted light ahead through the trunks. The trees ended quite abruptly, revealing an area cleared of foliage with a compact hunting lodge standing in the center. It was three stories tall, with the attic rising above the treetops. There wasn’t a lawn, but a dirt area circled in front for vehicles, and a narrow rutted track ran along the side of the house, probably leading to a stable at the back.

Mr. Rosmont suddenly thrust his hand out, signaling for them to be still. Phoebe hadn’t been moving, but she still froze, holding her breath, listening and watching.

The front of the house had two small windows, and both were dark. Then a hand moved the edge of a curtain aside, and a dark figure looked out. It was difficult to tell for certain, but the tall figure was likely a man. There was at least one person keeping watch over the front of the house.

Mr. Rosmont signaled again, this time for them to follow him, and they crept through the trees, keeping out of sight of the house windows. They circled to the back, where there was an overgrown yard, but Mr. Rosmont signaled again for them to stop.

The forest had started to encroach upon the back yard, but there was room enough for the vestiges of a forlorn vegetable garden, a privy, and a block for chopping wood. Near the backdoor stood a small hut that looked as though it might house firewood. Closest to their position, right up against the tree line, rose a small stable that looked to be just large enough for a horse or two and a cart.

And on the far side of the yard, on the other side of the vegetable garden, a lone man was digging something.

He had stopped and straightened, looking around the yard, but his gaze was idle and not alert. He soon returned to digging.

Mr. Rosmont pointed to his nose, then to a tree root near his foot.

Phoebe held her breath. He had smelled the Root, which was why he had made them stop so far away from the man. If he was on the Root, he might have heard them if they drew too close.

She released her breath slowly, then smelled the air. She had become slowly aware of a terrible odor, and had first thought it might be the privy, but she realized it didn’t smell quite right. It reminded her of the compost heap at Sauber Hill, where the gardener would throw animal carcasses in addition to grass and leaves.

She thought the smell came from the opposite side of the yard, where the man was digging.

With the tall trees and the late time of afternoon, the back yard was in shade. Lamplight shone from a ground floor window at the back of the house, but it didn’t reach where the man was digging, and Phoebe couldn’t see him clearly. It didn’t quite look like Dr. Heddetch, and she hadn’t paid as much attention to the figure of the pale-eyed man when she distracted him outside the library at the Farrimond’s party. However, something about this man seemed familiar.

She had to see his face. Otherwise, he might finish his business and return to the house, and she would lose her chance.

Phoebe started to move at an excruciatingly slow pace through the trees, watching where she placed her feet so that she didn’t step on twigs, holding her skirt in her hands so that it wouldn’t catch on anything. She hadn’t known she’d be sneaking through the woods, but now she was glad she had dressed in a dark-colored dress and matching spencer jacket, which was more likely to help her blend into the shadows.

Mr. Rosmont and Isabella followed behind her. He was scowling at her, while Isabella looked concerned, but Phoebe continued forward, moving without haste. The strange, foul smell grew stronger.

She stopped when she could hunch down and look between a large tree trunk and a bush at the man. At first, she only saw the width of his back, but then he turned in the act of throwing the dirt to the side. A vicious scar ran down the left side of his face.

Apothecary Jack.

A silent scream rose in her throat, and she pressed her lips together. This was why he had looked familiar to her. She had seen him without his face-paint only once, when she and Mr. Coulton-Jones had discovered Jack’s greenhouse on the top floor of a boarding house. They had left the boarding house only minutes before they happened to pass by Jack on the street, where Mr. Coulton-Jones had recognized him at once from a picture his brother had drawn.

Her heart pounded. Jack was much more dangerous than Dr. Heddetch, perhaps even more so than the pale-eyed man, because his behavior was so erratic. If Mr. Ackett had been correct, Jack was taking something different from the Root, which made him even stronger than his men and Dr. Heddetch.

She was about to try to sneak away when the back door of the house opened. She held her breath again as the pale-eyed man walked out to where Jack was digging.

“Why are you doing this?” the pale-eyed man asked Jack. “You should have simply ordered one of your men to do it.”

“They’re doing what they’re supposed to do. I was bored.” He scooped another shovelful of dirt, and the putrid smell wafted toward her. Jack suddenly coughed, although the sound ended on a gag. “You should have done this when you arrived.”

“I had to watch that idiot Heddetch, because he was likely to kill her if I didn’t.” The pale-eyed man’s tone was irritated. “I didn’t have time to bury them.”

“You should have told Heddetch to do it.” Jack scooped more dirt.

The pale-eyed man heaved a heavy sigh. “Ward was the one who told me to let Heddetch take the lead, so I couldn’t exactly order him around, could I? If you have an issue with it, by all means, go and complain to him.”

Jack stabbed his shovel upright into the ground and leaned on it. “Why does Ward order us about when he’s holed up in his house? If he wants something done, he should be here himself doing it.”

“No, you should be glad Ward isn’t here. He is maddeningly vexatious to deal with even on his good days.” The pale-eyed man turned back toward the house. “Leave that for now. Dinner’s ready.”

“Finally.” Jack dropped the shovel and hurried after him.

Phoebe waited, and soon the light left the back window—which she thought might be the kitchen—and seemed to move toward the front of the house. She glanced back to where Mr. Rosmont was crouched a few feet away. He appeared to listen intently, then shook his head. No one was near.

She moved through the trees until she was closest to where Jack had been digging, followed by Mr. Rosmont and Isabella. She paused, but Mr. Rosmont again gave a shake of his head to indicate he heard nothing.

Isabella took the lead and slipped out of the tree line, motioning with her hand for Phoebe to follow her. They crept forward, almost on their hands and knees. Mr. Rosmont remained behind, out of sight in the shadows of the forest.

It wasn’t far. Just beyond the small pile of dirt was a wide, shallow hole. And next to the hole, half-hidden in the weeds, lay three bodies.

One was Dr. Heddetch, his unseeing eyes staring at the darkening sky above. The other two were an old man and an old woman, but their bodies had begun to rot. The smell came from the two of them.

Phoebe began to shake uncontrollably.

Then Isabella was beside her, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her away from the sight. They crawled back across the ground, through the weeds and mud, until they were safely inside the trees again.

Mr. Rosmont took the lead and they snuck away from the house, drawing deeper into the forest and far from the cart track. They paused in a small glade, and the twins appeared from the shadows like ghosts.

“We’ve seen no one in the woods,” Clara said in a quiet voice.

“What did you see?” Mr. Rosmont asked Isabella.

“Three bodies,” she said curtly. “Heddetch and the old couple who were the caretakers of the house.”

The exertion of slipping quietly through the forest had seemed to help Phoebe find her breath again. “The man burying them is Jack without his face-paint,” she whispered.

The twins stiffened, while Mr. Rosmont and Isabella glanced at each other, exchanging some silent communication. “Did you recognize the other man?” Isabella asked.

“The pale-eyed man I saw at the Farrimonds’ party.” What Phoebe had seen was horrible, but her fear had begun to recede, and she could feel a burning in her chest as she remembered the conversation between the two men. “He mentioned ‘her.’ Aunt Laura must be here if Jack, that pale-eyed man, and Dr. Heddetch are all here, also. And they weren’t … b-burying her body, so she must be alive.” She took another breath to steady herself. “And they mentioned that name, Ward.”

Isabella’s face was fierce and determined, but she gave Phoebe a pat on the shoulder. “You composed yourself quickly. You are becoming a magnificent agent.”

The praise forced her to take another deep breath and further calm herself.

“I shall ride back to London right now,” Mr. Rosmont said. “I should be able to find Mr. Drydale at the Ramparts and tell him everything we have learned.”

“He will surely be able to bring agents to help us to rescue Lady Wynwood,” Isabella said.

They hurried to leave the woods and return to the carriages. Phoebe followed behind Mr. Rosmont’s strong back and Isabella’s swiftly darting form in the shadows of the trees.

Hold on just a little longer, Aunt Laura. We’re coming.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Laura had been left alone all day, but rather than being at ease, she was nervous and jumpy, fearing the sound of steps on the stairs that would indicate someone was coming for her. She could still envision Dr. Heddetch’s slack expression as he died.

Would Jack kill her next? His emotions didn’t seem particularly stable. While Dr. Heddetch had allowed his emotions to get the better of him, Jack seemed even more impulsive.

He seemed like the type of man who would kill her simply because he felt like it.

Late last night, Mr. Seyward arrived at her door with a poultice for her face. He had also forced her to drink a glass of whiskey before splinting her finger. She found herself appreciating his consideration, but she’d had broken bones set many times and, although it still hurt dreadfully, she was never shocked by how much.

There was a strange moment before he set the finger when he simply held her bare hand. The silence stretched and she tried to pull away, but he held her fast, and her finger was too pained for her to resist him.

He was not even looking at her. Instead, he wore a look of profound shock as he stared at their hands. “I can see nothing,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Like that night on the roof.”

She didn’t understand what he meant and said nothing in response.

He looked up at her, studying her face as he had done two nights ago. It seemed his eyes were searching hers for answers and finding none.

Laura tried to pull her hand away again, and the action brought him back to himself. “I beg your pardon.” He gently grasped her finger.

He set the broken bone quickly and confidently, and she merely flinched as it was done. While he wrapped her finger, he gave her an admiring look. “You didn’t cry out.”

“It’s not the most painful thing I’ve ever felt.”

He was having difficulty wrapping the cloth bandages because the splint was too large. “I shall carve another set of splints for you,” he promised as he tied a knot.

Before he left her room, she dredged up the courage to ask, “Is Seyward your first name or your last?”

He smiled slightly, his pale eyes lightening even more, and he guessed what she really wanted to know. “My full name is Seyward Maxham, milady.” Then he left, locking the door behind him.

Not long after that, she had heard a carriage drive up to the house, then men’s voices filtering up from the ground floor. Their footsteps were heavy and thudded loudly, so she could tell that there were perhaps three of them, and that they stationed themselves in various places around the house.

However, at breakfast this morning, only Mr. Maxham joined her, and at lunch, she had merely Mr. Maxham and Jack for company. He colored his skin with a motley of green today, as though he had stuck fistfuls of leaves upon his face.

Lunch had been soup with overcooked grains of barley and small soaked pieces of bread. Jack had complained, but Mr. Maxham chided him. “Thanks to Heddetch, milady’s mouth is cut. She can hardly speak if it doesn’t heal, now can she?”

Jack’s smile to her had been almost angelic, in a frightening, fire-falling-from-the-sky sort of way. “Forgive me, milady. I didn’t realize.”

It had been a surreal experience, dining with Apothecary Jack and Mr. Maxham. The latter was as quiet and polite as usual, but Jack surprised her by behaving only occasionally in a slightly demented manner. The worst moment was probably when he suddenly pointed to the ceiling and cuckooed, then returned to his meal as if nothing had happened.

Mr. Maxham kept up a conversation of light, harmless topics. Laura answered politely, waiting until both men had mellowed a little from the bottle of wine that Mr. Maxham had opened for them.

“Mr. Maxham, I heard visitors last night,” she said.

“You may call me simply Maxham, milady. They were Jack’s men, here to guard us.”

Jack had just taken a large gulp of wine, but upon hearing Maxham’s answer, he spit it back into his glass and scowled at him. “Don’t tell her thaaaaaat,” he said, drawling the last word out such that his voice went up and down several notes.

Maxham didn’t comment on Jack’s uncouth drinking habits. “Why not? Wouldn’t it be better for her to know that she can’t sneak out of the house?”

Jack propped his elbow on the table and tucked his chin in his hand as he regarded Laura. “I suppose so. Yes, milady, they’re mine. My boys. My servants. My chickens.”

Maxham glared at him. “You are doing it again.”

Jack giggled in the face of Maxham’s reprimand. “Sorry, sorry. If any of them bother you, just tell me, milady.”

She would never have expected such courtesy from him. She swallowed her surprise. “Thank you, Mr. Dix.”

He giggled again. “You can call me Jack, milady. But only because you’re so cute.”

He looked to be only a few years older than Phoebe, and to be called “cute” by a young man with such wildness in his eyes was rather unnerving.

The presence of his men perhaps explained why he had applied his face-paint again. After Dr. Heddetch’s initial lack of recognition, despite the fact he had worked closely with Jack, Laura would guess that none of his men had seen him without it.

Dinner was only herself and Maxham. He again served a simple soup for her to eat, but he had apparently also roasted a chicken. Only a leg quarter was on his plate, so she assumed the rest had gone to Jack and his men. Even through the closed door of the dining room, she could hear voices in the other front room of the house, which was the drawing room.

“I asked Jack to eat with his men,” Maxham said to her. “I worried that they might frighten you. And Jack can be difficult at the best of times.”

Through the walls came Jack’s voice from the other room. “I heard that!”

Laura froze. She had somehow forgotten the superior hearing of these men.

Maxham noticed her fear. “You needn’t worry. It doesn’t bother him.”

“It doesn’t!” Jack called gleefully.

She didn’t know how to respond to Jack’s strangeness, so she remained silent and sipped her soup.

“I have made a new set of splints for you,” Maxham said. “By your leave, after dinner I shall replace the one you are wearing.”

“Thank you.” In truth, the too-large splint had shifted this morning when she was trying to bind her ribs again and tighten her corset, causing excruciating pain to radiate from her finger. As a result, her wrappings were looser today than yesterday, but her ribs were already beginning to feel better.

When she finished eating, she rose from the table. Maxham rose with her, then escorted her out of the dining room.

Out in the front hall, the door to the drawing room was open and she caught sight of Jack talking to one of his men, a tall, handsome fellow with coal-black wavy hair. His manner was extremely deferential despite the fact that he towered over his employer. When Jack dismissed him, he entered the hall and merely nodded politely to Maxham before heading to the back of the house.

“You did not use your own men?” Laura hoped Maxham would give her more tidbits about himself.

To her surprise, he answered her. “I have no men of my own.”

No men? And yet his confidence and power was equal to Jack’s, if not greater.

He continued, “And it is better than the men have their first obedience to Jack. They will react with more speed if he gives an order.”

The black-haired man had simply nodded to Maxham, as though deferring to him only after his master, even though Maxham had shown Laura that he was superior to Jack. Yet he let the men think Jack was in charge here. It matched with her impression that he was used to working in the shadows and letting others think they were in control, as he had done with Dr. Heddetch.

He left her alone in the attic room for a few minutes, then returned with more thin strips of cloth and a new splint, as well as the same decanter and glass he had brought up yesterday before splinting her finger.

She eyed the alcohol, not wanting it to cloud her thinking. “I would rather not.”

He ignored her and sloshed two fingers into the glass. “I am afraid I must insist—not for your sake, but for mine.” He held the glass out to her. “It will make it easier for me to bandage your finger if your reactions are slower.” Although he smiled gently, his eyes were feral, gleaming in the light of the candle.

She quailed before those eyes, and drank. She could not gulp it down as she had seen other men do, but she took small mouthfuls as quickly as she could stand it, as the whiskey burned down her throat. She sighed as she finished and passed the glass back to him.

They sat in two of the chairs around a small side table, and he began undoing the knotted bandage. In a conversational tone, he asked, “Have you heard of the Root?”

Her finger jerked. “Yes,” she answered quickly, trying to cover up her reaction.

What was he about? Although he’d appeared to be considerate of her, caring for her after what Dr. Heddetch had done to her, she did not trust him. She had seen how he manipulated Dr. Heddetch.

Laura suspected that he had done this on purpose—he had waited until the day after Dr. Heddetch had been killed, so that she had time to calm down. He had engaged her in polite conversation to put her at ease, and had even removed Jack from the dinner table that night.

Then in changing her splint, he developed an atmosphere of intimacy between them right before asking a surprising question that was certain to unsettle her if she knew all about the Root and its supernatural potency. She suspected it was all so that she would be more likely to reveal something she was trying to keep hidden.

She had not told them about the paper with the three books listed, but they also had not asked any questions specific enough, and she had been able to twist her words so that she was not lying to them, even if she was also not telling the entire truth. Maxham would be able to tell if she tried to lie to his face.

But what frightened her more was the risk of saying something to reveal that Maxham was not succeeding in manipulating her. She needed him to think that she was a mouse and he the cat. She might feel that way most of the time she was with him, but as she had always done with Wynwood, she kept a portion of her mind clear and calm and hard as diamond. It enabled her to survive. It enabled her to keep her wits about her. It enabled her to try to manipulate him.

“How do you know of the Root?” he asked.

He likely knew she had some sort of connection to the men who raided Bianca’s laboratory, but she had to try to deny the full extent of her relationship. She also wanted to know why he had mentioned this topic. He surely had a reason. “My niece is friends with a young woman who happens to work with a charitable group in the Long Glades. She heard about it.”

“What exactly have you heard?”

“Mostly gossip,” she said cautiously. “The rumor is that a man who went mad in the Long Glades had taken the Root. Is it true?”

Maxham nodded as he removed the last of the cloth and the splint dropped to the tabletop. “We think it was an overdose, poor man.”

He was lying. It wasn’t an overdose, nor did he feel sympathy for the man.

“Would you believe me if I told you that the Root does give superior strength?” He glanced up at her briefly.

She stared at him and said nothing.

“The elixir is made with a special plant that promotes healing. It is quite remarkable.” He placed the smaller splint around her finger, trying not to jar it too much. “If we can perfect the formula, we could accomplish many good and wonderful things in this world.”

Laura tried not to reveal her emotions, but she was nonplussed by the fact that he fully believed in everything that he said. He truly felt that his group could accomplish good in this world.

But good for whom? she realized. He may be twisting his words in order to soften her up, to make her think he wanted something noble.

“The man you met earlier, Jack Dix, makes the Root. As you observed, he is rather eccentric.” Maxham smiled at his own understatement.

What reason did he have for speaking with her about this? “He must be very … creative,” she said.

“Yes, in my opinion, that is very true. But his creativity sometimes hinders him when he encounters problems he must solve.”

He obviously wanted her to ask, so she did. “What sorts of problems?”

“He has been having difficulties lately with the plant used for the Root.” He accidentally twitched the strip of cloth he was wrapping around her finger, and she winced. “I beg your pardon.”

Laura recalled Phoebe complaining about the hybrid plants they had taken from the French spies, who had in turn stolen them from Jack’s greenhouse. She had said that the plants were not uniform—rather than all the plants being exactly the same, they were each slightly different. She had described them to Laura as being like siblings rather than like identical twins. Phoebe had thought that men had turned into Berserkers when taking the Root because of the inconsistencies of the plant matter used in the potion.

“Why are you telling this to me?” she asked in a whisper. Was he revealing so much to her because he didn’t intend for her to live to tell anyone else?

“You see, Bianca—Mrs. Jadis, your husband’s mistress, was also growing the same plant. Did you know that?”

Bianca grew plants? Laura hesitated, then shook her head, seeing no reason to try to deceive him. Mr. Coulton-Jones had discovered that Bianca’s husband, Mr. Jadis, had been a botanist, but they had not been able to discover a greenhouse or farm he might have owned, and there had been nothing about Bianca sharing his interest in plants. Even when Laura spoke to the Senhora about Bianca, she had not mentioned it.

Had Bianca hidden her hobby for some reason? Perhaps because the plants she worked on were specially used for the Root?

But no, Jack created the Root, and Sol had said he appeared in London a year or so after Bianca had died. So she had been growing the Goldensuit plants before that. But for what purpose?

“It does not fit my image of her,” Laura said.

“Bianca had many faces, and she only showed one of them to your husband. If she hadn’t been quite so clever, she would never have managed to trap Jadis in marriage.”

Laura did not need to pretend the hardness in her voice as she replied, “You will forgive me if I am not appreciative of Mrs. Jadis’s skill in beguiling men.”

Maxham smiled, and it looked genuine. “You are correct. I apologize for mentioning a topic that must be unpleasant for you, but you see, Bianca’s experiments with that special plant had remarkable results. She was attempting to lessen the toxic effects so that it could be used for medicines.”

His body language indicated he was not being entirely false. Bianca had indeed been attempting to alleviate the plant’s poison, but he was being vague. “What exactly does that mean? That it would kill only half the people who consumed it as opposed to the majority? That those who used the plant would go mad only after two doses rather than one?”

Maxham seemed to appreciate the fact she confronted his assertions. “Supposedly, she cultivated a hybrid of the plant that healed a child in a coma.”

He was not lying—or at least, he believed Bianca had saved a child’s life. “What does all this have to do with me?”

“Bianca kept detailed notes about her experiments in her notebooks, and they went missing after she died. Do you happen to know where they might be?”

“Why would I know this? You obviously knew her much better than I or my husband.” She immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say.

Maxham’s eyes narrowed and he leaned closer, peering into her face. “Your tone was quite petulant, milady. You really don’t like talking about her, do you? I wonder why. You didn’t love your husband, surely?”

“Of course not.”

He continued studying her face. “No, it appears the rumors were true and you did not harbor any affection for him. But you didn’t like Bianca at all. Why is that?” His eyes widened. “Were you jealous of her?”

She couldn’t move her eyes away from him, but she somehow knew that he could read her emotions easily.

Maxham looked genuinely perplexed. “I can’t think why you’d be jealous. You had everything Bianca wanted. What would she have had that you would want?”

But in the next moment, it appeared he had answered his own question. His eyes widened further and his mouth even cracked open. She had never seen him so honestly surprised. “You heard those rumors, didn’t you? That must be why you visited her.”

Laura felt as though she’d been thrown into a partially-frozen lake. Her body began to shiver. He was still holding her hand, nearly finished in bandaging her broken finger, so he could surely tell how he’d upset her.

If he had been Dr. Heddetch, she would have expected triumph and gloating. But because this was Maxham, and he excelled at mixing people’s emotions to form the colors he desired, she saw only pity in his eyes. “We didn’t learn about the rumors until later,” he said in a soft, sorrowful voice. “About Bianca’s pregnancy.”

She felt as though his hand was around her throat, squeezing tightly.

He finished tying the bandages to secure the splint. When he looked up at her, his pale eyes were compassionate. “Wouldn’t you like to know if it were true or not?”

The words fell like drops of blood, bleeding from her heart.

“Her notebooks would tell you,” Maxham said.

Laura answered before she could stop herself. “Why would she write about something like that in her gardening notebooks?”

“They weren’t simply gardening notebooks.” His voice dropped as though imparting a secret. “I saw it myself. Her notebook was her daily diary, where she wrote her ideas, her failures, her thoughts. I always saw her scribbling in it.”

She would have thought he’d only say such things to try to convince her of the notebooks’ importance to herself, but he seemed to be telling the truth. However, she insisted, “You’re grasping at straws. Why would she write about … that in her gardening notebook? You simply want me to think that she did.”

“No, I am quite in earnest. She obviously didn’t want me to see it, but she wrote in it so often that I caught glimpses occasionally. She was very meticulous in recording everything important that happened to her, whether it had to do with her plants or not. Why wouldn’t she mention something like a suspicion that she was pregnant?”

Laura admitted to herself that his words tempted her. For years now, she had been drowning in her own guilt, her own anger, the roiling sea of her sense of loss. Knowing the truth might buoy her flagging spirits. She wanted to know more about Bianca, who had fooled everyone into believing she was simply Wynwood’s mistress—even Wynwood himself—but who had apparently been so much more. She wanted to know if Bianca had indeed been pregnant when she died.

Maxham did not push her to answer, perhaps because he could read her indecision in her face. “After her death, we did search for the notebooks, but didn’t find them.” He scratched his cheek. “Oddly enough, we even searched that laboratory your friends invaded. I know they believed it belonged to Heddetch, but in actuality, that laboratory was hers.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She lied directly to his face, knowing he could tell she was lying, and not caring. If he insisted upon cutting open her wound, he couldn’t complain if she bled upon the conversation.

He was not upset. In fact, amusement lit his pale eyes. “I fully admit, I underestimated them. I told Heddetch to lead them to Bianca’s laboratory, because I knew they would do something, but I sincerely thought that the number of men we had left to guard the place would have been more than enough to capture them.”

They had suspected it at the time, but it had been a trap then. What would have happened if the team hadn’t worked so seamlessly together to capture the guards who had been on the Root?

“I was watching, you know. On the roof.”

She blinked at him. He had been so close to them all? Her heart pounded hard and fast for a few beats.

“I saw them come in through the back door with the key,” Maxham continued. “Only Bianca ever used that key, and we couldn’t find it after she died. We never thought she would give it to her lover to hide for her. And the men who invaded the laboratory had the key to the back door because you found it—I overheard them mentioning it.”

“It wasn’t to those men that I gave the key and the seal,” she said truthfully. Mr. Coulton-Jones had been the one to find the key, seal, and envelope in the false bottom of the drawer, and he had turned the items over to Sol directly after they had left the Lingleys’ party. Laura hadn’t even touched them. But she phrased it in hopes Maxham would interpret her words as she wanted. “I handed over the items and washed my hands of them.”

His brow furrowed as he studied her, perhaps sensing that she was telling him the truth. “Well, it doesn’t much matter. You can understand now why we wished to speak to you. Don’t you think our desires are aligned? We want the gardening notes—which certainly wouldn’t interest you since you do not have the plants—and you want answers to your questions about your husband’s mistress. And about her baby.”

There was a hint of cruelty in his tone now. He was goading her, especially now that he realized the pregnancy had upset her. She knew he was doing it, and yet she couldn’t stop herself from reacting to his words.

But perhaps it was fortunate he was trying to get a rise out of her. Her distress could be attributed wholly to his mention of the pregnancy, and he would not notice her reaction when he assumed they did not have the plants.

So she didn’t bother to try to hide her pain as she replied, “Please stop talking about that.”

And, of course, he did not obey her request. “You may not have loved him at the end, but from what I heard, you loved him once.” Maxham tilted his head to the side. “You must have wanted his child at some point. And yet that never happened.”

She couldn’t prevent the stab of pain in her stomach, or the way her body curled in on itself. He didn’t know the truth, but he could still hurt her with his words.

Her suffering seemed to feed a black fire inside of him, making his pale eyes glow with excitement, with vitality. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “How did it make you feel, when you heard about Bianca’s pregnancy? You were obviously upset enough to go to confront her.”

“Stop it.” Laura felt an ugly echo of the anger she had felt that day, to know that another woman was pregnant and she wasn’t. Until she had attacked Bianca, she hadn’t known she was capable of feeling such ferocity and hate. It was why she understood Phoebe’s rage, and the destruction it could cause if left to blaze unabated.

“Bianca upset many women, but I think you were the first woman to reveal your primal fury to her. It frightened her very badly, you know.”

How would he have known?

“I saw her that night, after you attacked her,” Maxham answered her unvoiced question. His expression grew more intense, more alive. “Think about that day, how you felt as you tried to claw at her, the savagery burning inside of you. Didn’t you feel strong? All of yourself, distilled into a single goal, a single emotion. There is beauty and purity in that.”

His eyes were strangely compelling, and something about his words stoked the suppressed fires of her jealousy. She had been enflamed with envy. She had not felt like herself. Maxham seemed to understand that.

But then words of scripture suddenly came to mind as if someone had spoken them into her head:

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.

The words of Christ doused the burning in her gut like water thrown at a fireplace. She recalled the bitter dregs of her feelings when she had returned home that day, like smoke and ash in her heart.

And she suddenly realized, He is trying to forge a connection with me, just as he did with Dr. Heddetch.

Lord, help me.

Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.

Her mind cleared as the words of the Bible reminded her that she was not alone.

She was still shaken, but she faced him without fear. “What I did to Bianca was wrong. Finding her notebook will not somehow exonerate me for that.”

Maxham seemed frustrated that she did not understand and share in his feelings. “It isn’t wrong if you expressed your true, pure emotions.”

“I expressed my true, pure selfishness.”

He smiled. “I do not believe that is a bad thing.”

“But I do. I felt agitated and disturbed until I prayed. I confessed what I did and all my feelings to Christ, who cleansed me.”

His smile faltered, and he suddenly looked lost and abandoned. She realized he had been seeking a sense of belonging with her even as he had been trying to manipulate her.

She remembered the words they had exchanged the night on the roof.

“His God made him weak.”

“No. He made himself weak, and he neglected his son.”

How alone he must feel, for this kind of behavior—the desire to connect and to control, to embrace and to crush—to become second nature to him.

He sighed in disappointment. “I had forgotten that you are very devout.”

“It is not being devout. It is the surety of knowing that God is my refuge.” She needed to somehow touch him, to let Christ touch him through her words. “We are never alone because Christ is with us.”

He would know that she was speaking the truth, and that she believed her own words. Even in this terrible situation, she was confident that God was here with her, strengthening her, covering her with His protection.

Maxham’s eyes turned into chips of dirty ice. “I’ve heard your words before. The same things you are saying were said by someone I despised.”

His father.

But he seemed to suddenly realize what he’d just said and his face was erased of all emotion. He smiled, but only with his mouth—his eyes remained dull and cold. “I wish I could convince you about the notebooks.”

Strangely, he didn’t seem very impatient or determined to force her to tell him where they might be. Where Dr. Heddetch had screamed and hit her, Maxham seemed to almost have given up on trying to convince her.

“Even if I did know,” she said, “why would I tell you? You would simply kill me. Or ask Jack to do it.”

“No, milady. I told you before, didn’t I? I have every intention of letting you go.”

He had said those words when she’d first spoken to him the carriage, and he had been lying through his teeth at the time. But this time … Perhaps she was tired, or her nerves were strung too tightly, but she could have sworn that he was telling her the truth.

Regardless, she replied, “You’ll forgive me for not believing you.”

He shrugged. “I suppose I can understand your reaction. But I assure you, all I want is the notebook.” He might have given up on pressing her, but his desperation for the notebooks was there in his voice like a vibrating chord.

“I think it must have driven all of you mad when you couldn’t find it after Bianca died.” Would she be able to goad him, as he had tried to goad her? Would he reveal something to her if she prodded him now, when his emotions had so recently risen to the surface?

Maxham stilled, but she couldn’t read his expression very clearly. His emotions seemed muddied. “What makes you say that?”

“It is obvious from the way you speak about her. She didn’t trust all of you any more than you trusted her.”

Still with that muddied, neutral expression, he replied, “I think people are deceiving themselves when they think they can trust someone. They say that they do, and they may even believe that they do, but they don’t. It is not their true self.”

“I think it is very lonely not to trust anyone.”

Emotion finally crept back into his face—a touch of bitterness. “Well, not everyone had your life, milady.”

“Yes, you are correct.” Her answer was automatic.

She didn’t notice she had reached up to touch the single streak of silver hair at her temple until she saw the confusion on his face. She dropped her hand.

Her gesture, or the look on her face, seemed to have made him uncomfortable. He rose to his feet. “Good night, milady.” He abruptly left her room, taking the lone candle with him.

In the darkness, Laura remained seated in the chair, her broken finger throbbing gently. She was convinced that Maxham’s kindness to her had all been for this conversation, but she hoped that it had not gone entirely according to his plans.

Had Dr. Heddetch mentioned the notebooks? Her memory was hazy since she hadn’t been attending to his words in between his bouts of hitting her. He had mentioned “books,” but he had also mentioned other “items” Laura might have found. Perhaps he had been hoping for a treasure trove of Bianca’s personal items, which included the notebooks.

She didn’t wish to do anything that Maxham or the Citadel wanted her to do, which certainly included finding the notebooks. But what if Bianca’s notes on the Goldensuit plant could save Mr. Coulton-Jones’s life?

But even if she figured out where Wynwood might have hidden Bianca’s notebooks, it wasn’t as though Maxham or Jack would allow her to take them back with her. They were more likely to kill her as soon as she found them.

If she died … her conscience was clear before God. She had few regrets in her life.

There were some things, like Ruby, that were not possible for her to atone for. But she did wish that she had confessed to Sol about what she did the night Wynwood died.

She should have simply told him everything rather than keeping it from him for so long. She was foolish to have feared that he would sever their friendship, because they both knew that they were not perfect people.

Laura was thankful for the years they had been friends. They had not always agreed, but they had still cared for each other. She knew that he was desperately searching for her and would not give up.

The darkness around her seemed to weigh down on her, making her feel more strongly the hopelessness of her situation. She had to fight it—she knew she had to fight, but she was simply so tired, and in so much pain.

No. She had been in more pain before, during her marriage. And she was also certain that her spiritual strength was stronger now than it had been during those terrible years with Wynwood. She knew that her trust in God was greater.

She was so desperately trying to control the chaos, to control her secrets, even to control her niece. But this dark time reminded her that she controlled nothing—that instead, she needed to trust in God.

Laura closed her eyes, although with the darkness, it didn’t change much. She couldn’t feel God with her five senses, anyway—instead, it was as if a candle burned in her heart, warming her and telling her that she was not alone. God was with her.

She didn’t know if Sol would find her before these men killed her, but she would not give them what they wanted.

Words of Scripture came to her mind, and she somehow felt … complete.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;

thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:

thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A cold, faintly damp wind blew into his face as Sol entered the boarding house room and joined the Ramparts agent seated at the open window. It looked out over a narrow street that ran behind the theater named Lovey’s Boudoir, and despite the late hour, a great many men, mostly young, loitered about the back door. The back wall of the theater rose three stories, windowless until the top floor, where the roof sloped over the attic. There were three dormer windows set into the roof, but all were dark and shuttered.

Sol pulled up another chair at the window. “Anything?”

“Nothing all day, sir,” the agent told him.

It was now late evening, and Mr. Coulton-Jones and Lady Aymer had investigated the theater the day before yesterday. In all that time, no one had entered the rooms at the top of the building.

If Mr. Coulton-Jones was correct and the rooms belonged to Apothecary Jack, he hadn’t been home since just before Mr. Coulton-Jones found the theater. Where was he? Was he with Laura?

Sol had to tamp down his frustration. He didn’t wish to be here, about to raid those rooms. It was obvious that Laura wasn’t there, and there had been no sign of Jack, Heddetch, or the pale-eyed man.

But he had no other leads, only Mr. Coulton-Jones’s report of the maid’s account of Heddetch’s use of this laboratory and the presence of Queenie, Jack’s cat. Both were merely tenuous links to the Gentians, and while Mr. Coulton-Jones had smelled the Root, he couldn’t exactly confess that to his superiors.

Sol had never felt so empty—both his heart and his hands. He tried not to think about what might be happening to Laura, because he was utterly at a loss as to where she’d been taken, or why. He didn’t even have proof that Heddetch and the Gentians were to blame. He had completely failed her, allowing her to come to danger, even after he was aware that she had been targeted by Heddetch.

“When will they begin, sir?” the agent asked.

“Sir Derrick will arrive soon. He’s bringing in a large number of men for this, and they’re all still getting into position.”

There were only two entrances to the rooms on the top floor of the theater—through the stairwell at the back of the stage, or across the roofs. So Sir Derrick had decided that they should invade the theater during the evening when there was the most number of people around. Near the ending of each performance, men would stream through the back door to visit their favorite actresses, so agents could enter the building and approach the stairwell behind the stage without attracting much notice amongst the numerous strangers wandering about.

Peering down at the street below, Sol managed to spot one or two agents who were posing as bored young bucks milling about. He missed using his team rather than agents not well known to him. If it had been Mr. Coulton-Jones and Lady Aymer below, he would not have spotted them at all.

More importantly, he worried that these men, who were loyal to Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, would prioritize discovering more about the Root over finding clues to Laura’s whereabouts.

The plan was to enter the building in two groups, in two waves of each. The first group would enter through the bottleneck of the stairway to the top floor. Men would make their way into the theater through all its entrances, congregating briefly near the doorway to the stairs before heading up. A second wave of men would then enter the theater in the same routes, again grouping at the base of the stairs before following the first cluster of men. If there were any guards within, they wouldn’t know the full numbers of the force right away.

The second group would enter through the roof. Agents remained in hiding atop the roof of the building to the south of the theater, and more agents waited on the roof to the northeast. The men in the south would go first, followed a few minutes later by the ones to the northeast. The first group would enter the laboratory, while the second would enter the living quarters.

Sol looked up at the roof of the tavern next door to the theater, where he had arranged to have Mr. Coulton-Jones join the agents waiting there. They were the second group, tasked with invading the smaller living quarters.

He heard Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby long before they entered the room along with Sir Derrick, because they were complaining loudly enough that Sol worried they might accidentally reveal information about the operation.

“It’s taking too long for them all to get into position,” Mr. Antingham was arguing as he opened the door. “It would have been far easier if we’d decided upon the original plan I had proposed.”

“You—good Lord, it’s cold in here.” Mr. Uppleby glared at Sol. “Shut that window, man.”

“The window is not glass,” Sol said evenly. “It would not be possible to observe through a wooden shutter. And we are here to observe, or am I mistaken?”

Mr. Uppleby’s face flushed quite a dramatic color of puce, but after frowning a few seconds at Sol, he turned back toward Sir Derrick, who entered the room behind them. “As I was saying, I agree with Mr. Antingham. A small team would attract less notice. We could be in and out of those rooms in a trice.”

If the rooms belonged to any normal man, the occupant would never have known others had been there. But this was Jack’s private domain. If any agents entered his rooms, Jack would know they had been there because of his sense of smell. It had been the reason Mr. Coulton-Jones had not been able to enter when he first discovered the place. A small team sent to search would alert Jack just the same as a larger force, and if there were guards on the Root, it would be safer for there to be more agents.

Luckily, at the time Mr. Antingham had suggested the proposal, Sir Derrick had remembered the privately delivered report from Mr. Coulton-Jones to explain that fact, and he’d shot down the plan.

“We’ve already been over this,” Sir Derrick said to the two men. “I have no intention of sending a small group of men with limited time to do a slipshod job of searching for information and evidence when they may need to leave at a moment’s notice in order to escape notice. I want them to thoroughly investigate what is being made inside that laboratory and any clues as to the group and their objectives.”

“Because this plan involved so many men, we couldn’t invade last night,” Mr. Antingham grumbled.

“One day will not make a difference,” Sir Derrick said.

In truth, Sol hadn’t minded the delay as much as he would otherwise, because it bought time for Phoebe. He had to trust that she might have found a different trail of clues to follow to Laura’s location. The fact he hadn’t heard from her or from Mr. Rosmont was perhaps an indication she had discovered something.

Because he sat near the open window, Sol was the first to hear the commotion.

At first, it was simply the murmur of gentlemen directly below the window, but then Sol heard the shouts of another man farther down the street.

“Laura!” the voice yelled. “Laura!”

“Poor cull’s been diddled out of his sweetheart,” one of the men on the street said to his companion.

“Or mayhap his dog,” the other replied. The two men laughed.

“Laura!” The voice was coming closer.

Even more than the name, Sol finally recognized the man’s voice.

He shot to his feet and raced away from the window, pushing past Mr. Uppleby to fling open the door and hurl himself down the stairs. In the small entrance hall of the boarding house, which doubled as the front room, he made his way past the boarding house manager, who was leaning out the front door to gape at the madman shouting in the street.

Sol tried to make his way through the crowd that had stopped to stare and gossip, but the bodies pressed too closely together and he was forced to push past some people. Cries of “Oy!” and “Watch it!” followed him as he headed toward the calls of “Laura!”

Finally he drew close enough to catch sight of Mr. Rosmont’s tall figure.

He stopped mid-yell when he spotted Sol, and hurried over, ignoring the looks his strange behavior had attracted.

However, Sol grasped his elbow and continued walking, pulling him away from the theater. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I have urgent news.”

“Wait until we have some privacy.”

Although Mr. Rosmont had made a spectacle of himself, everyone else on the street lost interest in him when he was pulled away, so they were soon able to duck into a narrow alley.

“We’ve found her,” Mr. Rosmont blurted out.

For a moment, the relief made him dizzy, then he suddenly felt blazing hot. “Explain it all to me.”

Mr. Rosmont sketched out how Phoebe had guessed the Gentians would take Laura somewhere in the vicinity of Glencowe Castle, and that she had recognized the pale-eyed man and Jack without face-paint at the hunting lodge on Lord Meynhill’s property.

Sol found himself having trouble breathing. Only Phoebe could have recognized both of their faces. If he hadn’t sent her away from the Ramparts, she would never have found them.

Laura would call this the workings of God. Even Sol was having difficulty believing the coincidence.

“When did you discover them?”

“This afternoon,” Mr. Rosmont said. “I rode straightaway for London and the Ramparts, where I was told about the attack tonight. But I didn’t know in which building you were stationed, sir, so I came up with that method to try to find you to speak to you.”

He nodded. “Let’s bring this to Sir Derrick immediately.”

Sol led Mr. Rosmont back to the boarding house, where he again explained Phoebe’s discovery.

“We should ride for Bedfordshire immediately,” Sol said as soon as Mr. Rosmont finished speaking.

“What? Abandon this complicated operation solely on the dubious witness of a young woman?” Mr. Antingham asked.

“Miss Sauber’s report is completely trustworthy,” Sol snapped.

“This pale-eyed man has only been seen by Miss Sauber, whom Sir Derrick booted out of this investigation, and Mr. Ackett, the traitor,” Mr. Antingham said. “And the other man is supposedly Jack without his makeup, who has only been seen by the aforementioned Miss Sauber and by Mr. Coulton-Jones, who just yesterday kidnapped a witness and then let her go.”

“May I remind you that Mr. Coulton-Jones discovered this location in the first place?” Sol said through gritted teeth.

“Yes, and so now you want us to hare off to Bedfordshire and abandon this operation, which has taken us a great deal of time and resources to coordinate, when we are literally ready and waiting at the doorstep?” Mr. Uppleby asked. “No, I will not give up the chance to acquire the Root.”

Sol had to clench his hands to keep himself from reaching out to strangle the man. “I came to the Ramparts for help to find Lady Wynwood, who has been targeted by a treasonous organization, not for you to acquire the Root. Or has the goal of the department changed from defending the country to investigating potions?”

“There is no reason not to do both,” Sir Derrick interjected, stopping further arguments. “Sol, take Mr. Villager and Mr. er …” He raised his eyebrows at Mr. Rosmont.

“Parish,” Mr. Rosmont ground out, his tone barely polite.

“… Mr. Parish, and investigate this possible location.” Sir Derrick’s own tone was impassive, impartial.

Sol wondered what he was thinking. Did he even care about Laura?

He had just been wishing for his team. Well, now he was about to be reunited with them. “I shall retrieve Mr. Villager and set out at once.” He headed toward the door to the room, but Sir Derrick’s voice stopped him.

“Have you need of any other agents?”

Sol stopped to consider it. He had no doubt that Jack and the pale-eyed man were indeed at the hunting lodge, and they would need to be especially cautious since both of them were likely taking some sort of elixir even stronger than the Root. His small team consisted of more women and children than men. He might need more trained fighters.

But all the agents here were loyal to Mr. Antingham or Mr. Uppleby. Sol simply didn’t trust them.

“No, sir.” Sol bowed, then left with Mr. Rosmont.

Once outside the boarding house, he took off at a fast clip. “Your horse?” he asked Mr. Rosmont.

“Left at the Ramparts.”

“We shall need to stop there for weapons. We can borrow their fastest horses and arrive by dawn, even with the slower travel at night.”

They went first to the tavern to climb to the roof and excuse Mr. Coulton-Jones from the agents stationed there. Due to the popular theater, there were several hackney cabs in the area, and they caught one to head back to the Ramparts.

Sol sat as Mr. Rosmont explained a third time for Mr. Coulton-Jones’s benefit.

“Sir,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said, “is it wise to not ask for more help?”

“I do not wish to rely upon the Ramparts,” Sol said frankly. “The reactions of Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby were to be expected, although their desire to acquire the Root has become stronger the closer the time came for the operation. But I would have thought Sir Derrick might have steered them back onto the hunt for Laura.”

“Can we truly trust Sir Derrick?” Mr. Rosmont asked.

Mr. Coulton-Jones looked uncomfortable for a moment at his friend’s characteristic bluntness, but then he added, “And if the operation does manage to acquire the Root in that laboratory, what will Sir Derrick do with it? Will he give it to those chemists from the Ramparts to analyze?”

Sol did not reprimand them for questioning the reliability of their superior officers. “I don’t know. I have never doubted Sir Derrick before, and I don’t like doubting him now, but …”

“I can’t begin to fathom the disaster that might occur should the means of making the Root fall into the hands of Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said.

“Unfortunately, things were set in motion the moment you discovered Jack’s laboratory,” Sol said. “No, the moment they captured Laura. I hadn’t any choice at the time—I was required to report about Septimus’s betrayal, but I also thought I needed the Ramparts’ help to find her. Now I wish I had only trusted in our team.”

At mention of Septimus, both Mr. Coulton-Jones and Mr. Rosmont fell silent with troubled expressions.

“We cannot worry about the Root right now,” Sol said. “We must concentrate upon finding Laura.”

He only hoped they weren’t too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Yesterday, it had been only Maxham and Laura at breakfast, but today, Jack joined them. His blond hair was especially wild today as it floated about his head in uneven strands.

Laura had tried to prepare for whatever Maxham and Jack had planned for her today. She had spent long hours praying and puzzling over why Maxham had spoken to her, but she hadn’t been able to think of any answers.

She had also wondered about Bianca’s gardening notebooks, but she couldn’t fathom where Wynwood might have hidden them. The entire library at the townhouse had been catalogued after his death, and if the Gentians had been searching for the notebook, they would surely have found a way to search through the library at Glencowe Castle. Maxham himself had admitted that they had looked through the large place.

It angered her, his misplaced trust in her ability to somehow uncover Wynwood’s secrets. She was the last person to be interested in Wynwood’s activities. She had avoided him whenever possible.

Yesterday, Maxham had made a soft porridge for breakfast because of her injured mouth, but today, it appeared Jack had been in charge of cooking the meal. He entered the room with a plate of bacon and some toast, then returned with the teapot, pouring cups for all of them.

Despite adding milk and sugar, the brew was terribly bitter and oversteeped. Laura couldn’t stop herself from grimacing.

Jack took a sip of his own tea and smacked his lips. “Ah, just the way I like it.” He took another gulp, despite the fact it was scalding, and pushed the jug of milk toward her. She added another generous dollop to her cup, making the cup dangerously full, but thankfully the taste was not quite so bitter as before.

“What are your plans for today?” Jack asked Maxham.

She wasn’t certain if she was relieved or worried that Maxham appeared to now be in charge of questioning her. Jack frightened her with his unpredictable temper, but there were moments when Maxham frightened her more, with that strange emptiness that seeped out of his eyes as if she were seeing his soul, and the savage fire that seemed to be the only thing that could fill him.

Maxham also made a face as he tasted his tea, and stirred in more milk and sugar. “We should plan to leave here today. I don’t think it would be wise to stay in one place for too long.”

Today? She had held the faint hope that Phoebe would think to look for her in the areas around Glencowe Castle, but if they took her somewhere else, how would Sol and the rest of the team find her?

“I suppose I’ll have to finish burying the bodies quickly, then,” Jack said.

Laura couldn’t suppress a shudder. The toast was already dry and unbuttered, but now it stuck in her throat. She was forced to take another sip of the bitter tea.

Maxham noticed her reaction. “You shouldn’t have killed Heddetch in front of her,” he told Jack. “She’s unlikely to tell us anything after seeing that.”

“Can’t we just give her a little squeeze, like a lemon? I’m sure something will come out.” Jack gave her a wide smile. He had painted his face in brown with pink dots, almost like the measles.

“That’s what Heddetch was trying to do, and it obviously didn’t work,” Maxham said dryly.

“You’re a tough old bird, aren’t you?” Jack’s smile suddenly melted away, and he stared at her, eyes wide and intense. In a voice so low it almost seemed it couldn’t come from his throat, he said, “I can do better than Heddetch.”

She began to tremble.

Maxham sighed as though bored. “So Ward told you to kill Heddetch. Did he tell you what to do after that?”

Jack shrugged. “He said to find the notebooks, but he always says that so I didn’t really pay attention to anything he wrote after that. I’m assuming he was giving me leave to be creative.” He swung his head toward her and shot his head forward on his neck. “How are you feeling, dear?” He sounded like a society matron.

His question startled her at first. Then she felt it.

The room was slowly spinning, and she was light-headed, as though she were exhausted. She looked down at her teacup, realizing she had drunk half.

“I brought something from my special stash in London,” Jack said. “I had to make it strong so it would work faster.”

Maxham looked thunderous, but he kept his mouth shut in a thin line. He must not have known about it, for he had drunk some of the tea. But hadn’t Jack also drunk some?

Jack must have guessed her thoughts from her puzzled expression. “You needn’t be concerned about us, milady. It won’t affect us. Much.”

Maxham’s face darkened while his eyes seemed to be flickering with fire. He had hated when Jack killed Dr. Heddetch without consulting him. He would surely be furious to have been drugged without his knowledge. “How long before it takes effect?” His voice was taut like a violin string about to break.

“Twenty minutes.” Jack actually took another sip of tea.

But Laura’s dizziness was already worsening. What concerned her more was the fact that her spinning head was making her stomach terribly queasy.

Jack thrust his face close to her, and she jerked away, but the resulting movement of her head caused another roil of sickness in her stomach.

“Maybe I should have made it stronger,” Jack mused. “It makes most people feel very happy and relaxed, but you’re still terribly tense.”

She wanted to tell him it was because she was nauseated, but she was too sick to be able to speak. Dizziness always made her green about the gills—even when she drank spirits, once it began to go to her head, her stomach would rebel and everything she drank would come right back up.

Jack leaned back in his seat, propping his feet upon the table. “Shall we do this here? Most people who take this are so lightheaded that they fall over if they try to walk, and I don’t want you falling down the stairs and breaking your neck. If there’s any neck-breaking, I want to be the one doing it.” He giggled.

Maxham sighed, but didn’t seem opposed to the idea. “Actually, milady, I’m curious, why did Heddetch suddenly attack you for that pocket watch?”

“He didn’t tell you?” she asked. “He discovered that we had just found Wynwood’s watch, and he knew that Wynwood had made Bianca a pendant with the same design on the front.” She realized she shouldn’t have told them that. She must keep her mouth shut …

“Pendant?” Maxham’s voice rose slightly.

“Oh, you didn’t know about that, either?” she asked.

“What pendant?” Jack asked Maxham.

Maxham shrugged. “I never saw a pendant when I killed her.”

Suddenly the disorientation receded and Laura’s entire body grew ice-cold. “You killed her? Even though she was pregnant?”

“She was pregnant?” Jack demanded of Maxham.

Maxham waved him away impatiently. “Why would you care?”

Jack scowled, then considered it. “I suppose you’re right.”

A part of her had always wondered if Bianca’s death had been suicide, since she had been found in her bathtub with her wrists slashed. Laura had also been racked with guilt that somehow her violent actions had caused Wynwood’s mistress to take such drastic action. But knowing that it hadn’t been self-harm, that she’d been murdered, didn’t cause her to feel relief. Instead, she only felt stronger grief.

They had apparently said something to her while she was thinking, because Jack suddenly snapped his fingers in her face, causing her to rear her head back. The motion made the room dip up and down as though she were at sea. Her stomach swirled biliously.

“What was so special about that pocket watch?” Jack asked.

“That strange flower symbol was hidden inside,” she said. “The same one on that seal I told you we had found with the keys.” Oh no, she shouldn’t have told them that, either.

Strangely, both of them stiffened upon mention of the flower symbol, even more so than when she mentioned the seal and keys. How odd. Had they not wanted Wynwood to know about that symbol? Well, they hadn’t known Bianca had trusted him enough to have him hide her belongings, so perhaps they had assumed she had kept it as secretive as they did.

“Where did you find the watch?” Maxham asked.

“In a space under the floor of his bedroom,” she said.

“How in the world did you find that?” Jack asked.

“There was a panel of the floorboards with that flower symbol carved upon it,” she said. “What does that symbol mean? It seems to make you both uncomfortable.”

Ignoring her, but perhaps responding a bit quickly, Maxham said, “Tell me about the men working with you.”

“They learned that I had seen that symbol.” It wouldn’t hurt to mention the symbol again to make them ill at ease, and it was mostly true. She had seen the symbol with Sol a month or two earlier. But in actuality, Phoebe had been the one to recognize the symbol and find the pocket watch. No, she didn’t want to tell them that, although she also wasn’t certain if it would make a difference.

For a moment, she couldn’t remember why it was important that she not tell them the truth. Oh, yes. They were trying to make her tell them Big Secrets. She giggled to herself. So melodramatic.

“Aaaaaand?” Jack asked, circling his hand in the air for her to elaborate.

“And what?” she asked.

Maxham glared at Jack. “You dosed her with too much.”

“I didn’t know she was a lightweight,” Jack retorted.

“The men working with you,” Maxham said curtly to Laura. “Tell us everything about them.”

“I do not work with them.” That was also mostly true. They worked with Phoebe. She helped Phoebe and Keriah, and sometimes Sol, but in general, she had little to do with the men.

“They obviously contacted you when they learned you’d seen the symbol,” Maxham said.

“Oh, yes. They came to my house.” She remembered that night after the Farrimonds’ party, when Sol had arrived with Mr. Coulton-Jones and Laura had used every ounce of skill she possessed to force Sol to tell her everything. And then she’d given him the pocket watch and the paper they’d found inside. No, she mustn’t tell these men about that. “They knew my husband had been involved in something mysterious. Until that moment, I hadn’t known that.”

“What did you talk about?” Maxham asked.

“I gave them the pocket watch. And the seal. And the keys.” She hadn’t given all three items to Sol at the same time, but she had given them to him, so it wasn’t much of a lie.

“What were the names of the men?” Jack purred.

“Matthew, James, and John,” she said, and was surprised that the lie came so easily and earnestly from her mouth.

Rather than growing upset at her, Jack’s eyebrows creased in confusion.

Maxham also leaned forward in his seat as he regarded her. “Milady,” he said in a deep, measured voice, “tell us their names.”

“You will have to kill me before I tell that to you.” Her stomach was still terribly unsettled and thoughts seemed to slip through her mind like ribbons in the wind, but she somehow knew that she shouldn’t be able to argue with them. And yet she had.

Was this God protecting her somehow? Protecting Sol and his team?

Maxham gave Jack a questioning look.

Jack shrugged. “What I gave her wasn’t infallible. I didn’t want to kill her.”

Maxham sighed and turned back to Laura. “Where else have you found items that your husband hid away?”

“I already told you. The hiding place in the wall of his dressing room, but it was empty.” She had also been about to mention the hidden drawer in the side table, but managed to keep her mouth shut. Her tongue was so dry, it was uncomfortable. But she didn’t want to have to drink that bitter tea. She couldn’t remember why she shouldn’t drink it. Well, it was cold now, anyway.

“Where would he have hidden Bianca’s notebooks?” Maxham asked her.

“I don’t know. I even thought about it last night, although I hadn’t wanted to.”

Jack thrust his finger toward her, but spoke to Maxham. “See, it’s working.”

Maxham sat back in his chair, stroking his chin. “I wonder where Bianca would have hidden them? Perhaps she hid them in plain sight?”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

Instead of answering him, Maxham turned to Laura. “Did you find any notebooks—among Wynwood’s things and perhaps not on his bookshelves—that were not in his handwriting?”

“I don’t remember seeing them, but if I had, and they were in a woman’s handwriting, I would have thrown them out,” Laura said.

Maxham nodded. “That makes perfect sense. But Bianca would have thought of that, as well. She wouldn’t have had him hide the notebooks where milady could have found them.”

“The notebooks must be in one of his other properties,” Jack said.

“We searched them in the months after his death,” Maxham said.

“Maybe you missed one of them,” Jack said.

Maxham considered it, then shrugged. “Perhaps. Milady, please list all the properties your husband owned.”

“I don’t remember all of them.” That wasn’t exactly true. She remembered there were twelve of them. “I sold the unentailed ones to the current Lord Wynwood since I didn’t need them but he indicated he could use them.”

“List them anyway.”

She began to list them. The spinning in her head made it difficult to concentrate. “… the mill in Shropshire—”

“You already mentioned that one,” Jack interrupted. “How many was that?”

“Ten,” Maxham said, “and we already searched all the ones she mentioned.”

Ten? There were twelve. What were the other two?

No, she wasn’t supposed to be telling them anything. But against her will, she couldn’t let go of the puzzle. Which ones had she forgotten?

And unbidden, the memory came back to her.

She had probably willed herself to forget because it had been an uncomfortable topic for her. Wynwood’s attorney had gone over all his properties with Laura and the new Lord Wynwood, listing what was entailed and what was not.

There had been one small property close to London which stood out because Wynwood had bought it anonymously through the attorney. He had acquired it cheaply because the tiny cottage on the land had been gutted by fire and wasn’t liveable. Next to the cottage was a large multi-room hothouse tended by a gardener and assistant who had sent flowers and fruit to the previous owner’s townhouse, and they had lived in the cottage until it burned down. The previous owner hadn’t had the funds to rebuild.

The new Lord Wynwood had also bought that property. He hadn’t had the time to examine the place until months later, when he visited her to tell her what he’d found there.

Laura’s husband hadn’t arranged to rebuild the burned cottage, but had kept the hothouse in good repair. The attorney had discreetly discontinued any regular expenses for Wynwood’s mistress, which would have included any gardeners hired, so it was no surprise that all the plants were dead. Laura assumed the flowers grown in the hothouse had been sent to Bianca’s residence in London, since her own house had never received any.

The new Lord Wynwood had given to Laura a box with an assortment of personal items he’d found in the hothouse, which might have belonged to her husband. She couldn’t remember all the items, nor could she recall where she’d put the box.

But out of all Wynwood’s properties, this was the only one he’d bought anonymously, which may be why the Citadel hadn’t known about it. As soon as the attorney had told her that, Laura suspected that Wynwood had not wanted her to know about it because he might have been planning to make it a summer house for his mistresses, or somewhere he could escape from her and his other acquaintance in town. According to the attorney, he had bought it six months before his death.

But maybe he had bought it so secretively because he had been trying to hide the property from the Citadel? Perhaps Bianca had suggested he do that in order to protect himself—after all, her actions showed she hadn’t trusted them herself. And it contained a hothouse—hadn’t Maxham told her that Bianca had been a botanist?

She absolutely mustn’t mention this property. The Citadel must never know about it.

“Oh?” Maxham said.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

“She just realized something.” He stared intently at her, looking as though he wanted to rip it from her head. Perhaps her fear showed in her face, because he quickly adopted a cooler expression.

Jack stood and shoved back his chair, the wooden feet scraping horribly against the floor. He stomped up to her and slammed his hands on the table next to her, making the plates and cutlery rattle. She jumped, despite the drug weighing down her limbs.

“Why isn’t my truth drug working on you as well it should?” he demanded, spittle raining in her face. He bared his teeth while his eyes grew wide and wild. “Are you trying to keep something from us? How are you able to do that? This is supposed to reduce you to a drooling doll. Why aren’t you drooling?”

Laura’s breath came in short, quick gasps, partly from her fear, but also partly because the nausea had abruptly risen when Jack startled her.

Maxham would know if she tried to lie, so she told the truth. “Wynwood bought a property anonymously. It has a greenhouse and it was close to London.”

Now Maxham also rose to his feet, although he did not approach her. “Where?”

“I don’t recall. I never even saw it. But it was sold to Wynwood’s heir. I don’t know what he did with it.”

Maxham gave her a pleased smile. “Would your husband have hidden anything there?”

“Perhaps. I would never know whenever he traveled to the place.”

“I wonder if Bianca used the greenhouse,” Jack said. “Tell me about it.”

“I never saw it, but the attorney mentioned the hothouse consisted of two rooms.”

Jack frowned. “Two rooms makes it inconveniently small.”

“Bianca preferred greenhouses with smaller sections rather than one large room,” Maxham said. “She said she liked working with all her plants clustered close around her.”

“Well, that’s weird,” Jack said dismissively.

Maxham leveled him a look. “You’re telling me she was weird?”

Jack did not take offense. “I suppose, to each his own. I like to play my violin to my plants.”

Maxham’s eyes flattened. “Your violin playing is execrable.”

“It’s not!” Jack pouted like a three-year-old.

“Your playing is so horrific, you could break glass if you played any louder. It’s probably why your plants are not growing well.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open in a shocked O. In a surprisingly timid voice, he asked, “Do you really think so?” Without waiting for an answer, he began muttering to himself, “Maybe that’s why this last batch had problems. It wasn’t the well water, it was the new piece of music I was practicing …”

Maxham sat back down. He started to reach for his teacup, then remembered that it was drugged and left it alone. “Now I recall that Bianca gave her plants snuff and pieces of candied ginger.”

Jack stared at him in confusion, then rattled a finger in his ear. “I must not have heard you correctly.”

“Her favorite was candied ginger—she always had some in her pocket. And she liked taking snuff while working, because she said it helped her think more clearly.”

Ginger and snuff. It triggered a memory for her. She didn’t recall everything in the box of items that Lord Wynwood had collected from the greenhouse and given to her, but she clearly recalled a tin of candied ginger and a snuffbox. They had struck her as odd because Wynwood hadn’t liked either ginger or snuff.

Maxham’s eyes began to gleam as he stared at her. “You’ve remembered something else.”

“No,” she said quickly. He was incredibly observant. Or perhaps she was simply that terrible at hiding her feelings. Surely she would be better at it after all these years in the shark-infested waters of high society?

Maxham’s pale eyes became ice. He said nothing, but she could tell he was growing impatient.

She couldn’t tell him about the box of items—which, now that she thought about it, might be in the townhouse attic—and she certainly didn’t want to tell him about the ginger sweetmeats and snuff box. But she knew she couldn’t lie to him.

Lord, please help me! she prayed.

Like a flash of lightning, she recalled a page in one of the old ledgers she’d been poring through recently. “I saw orders for snuff in Wynwood’s accounting books.” She didn’t have to pretend reluctance in telling him, because she recalled the hot feelings in her chest when she saw that purchase. “Wynwood didn’t like snuff. I knew as soon as I saw it that he had been buying it for someone else, but I didn’t have any proof it was for his mistress.”

He kept his gaze upon her, and she looked away. She had spoken the truth about the ledger, but she had also managed to avoid mentioning the more important truth about the box of items. Could he tell she had managed to sidestep his question?

“I want to go to this property,” he finally said, his voice even. “It’s one we didn’t know about.”

“How will we find it?” Jack asked.

“Wynwood’s attorney. I have ways to … persuade him.”

“Ooooh, goody.”

“Let’s leave here today. We’ll return to London.” Maxham rose to his feet again, this time gathering up the plates and cups.

Jack thrust his face close to Laura once more. She jerked back, and the wooziness took over her entire brain, making her head feel unattached from her body. But then the next moment, the nausea boiled, reminding her that her stomach was most definitely attached to her head.

“Why are you able to resist?” Jack asked. “Everyone else feels happy and mellow, but not you. Why not you?”

“Because you frighten me,” she mumbled. Having those pink dots directly in front of her eyes was an assault on her vision, which was already shifting in and out.

His face grew dark for a moment. “I don’t like that you’re keeping things from me.” Then his mood brightened like clouds moving away from the sun. “But I don’t blame you. You’re smart to hide things, because it’s the only reason I don’t kill you.”

Her terror and queasiness reached a climax at the same time. She violently vomited all over Jack’s face, as well as his shirt and coat.

He had closed his eyes, but he simply remained standing there, frozen.

Maxham began to laugh uncontrollably—it was the first time she’d seen him so mirthful.

Jack silently straightened, his face tight with disgust, and walked out of the room, followed by Maxham’s chortling.

Laura felt as though she’d achieved a small victory.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sol was forced to rein in his impatience on the journey to Ronsby, but traveling by night posed numerous dangers, so they journeyed more slowly than he would have liked. They didn’t want to risk being delayed by a horse injuring itself, so they rode at a sedate pace, their way lighted with lanterns, and had to slacken even further when they reached country roads that were more pitted. Luckily, they encountered no highwaymen, although with his testiness and anxiety, the exertion of fighting bandits might have allowed him to work off his stress. As soon as the sky lightened enough, they increased to a canter, and the morning was not too far advanced by the time they rode into Ronsby.

The village looked a bit worse for wear now that the crowds of gentlemen had left yesterday after the horse race, but the residents were beginning to filter into the streets, open up shops, or get started on various other tasks. They stared at Sol, Mr. Coulton-Jones, and Mr. Rosmont as they rode down the main street.

The early hour made Sol aware that since the women were staying at Glencowe Castle, they wouldn’t have been able to watch the hunting lodge during the night. How early would they have been able to wake in order to return to their vigil?

It had been four days since the Gentians took Laura, and he didn’t doubt that they would move every few days in order to remain undetected. He doubted they would have left the area in the middle of the night, but they might have left at the crack of dawn, before the women situated themselves where they could safely watch the house.

The journey out of Ronsby to the hunting lodge took another hour, even though they were pushing their horses, because the roads meandered around hills and fields. However, as they approached the junction where they would turn onto the road fronting the lodge, they noticed two tenant children playing off to the side.

The two girls looked to be picking wildflowers, skipping through the grass and occasionally disappearing into the trees only to dart back out again. They were so absorbed that they paid no heed to the travelers until they drew closer. Then the taller girl turned toward them, lifted her short, dirty skirt, and sank into a curtsey that would have graced the Queen’s drawing room.

Until that moment, Sol hadn’t even recognized Lady Aymer.

Mr. Rosmont had apparently noticed her sooner, because he snorted. “Is that meant to complain that you’ve been waiting a long time?”

“Only a few hours.” Curtsey aside, her accent perfectly matched the lilt that Sol had noticed in the villagers he’d overheard chatting with one another when they rode through. “I knew you’d come this way, but I honestly expected you at dawn.”

“I was certain you wouldn’t want a horse to stumble in the dark and break your brother’s pretty neck.” Mr. Rosmont jerked his head at Mr. Coulton-Jones. “Because then you’d surely have blamed me for it.”

“Well, he says it’s usually your fault.”

“It’s usually his!”

Laughing, she reached a hand up toward him, and he pulled her onto the horse in front of him. Clara scampered up to Mr. Coulton-Jones, who easily reached down and lifted her onto his own horse.

“Go straight instead of turning,” Lady Aymer instructed. “We have found a place to gather without being seen.”

Before long, the trees thinned on one side of the road, but even then, Sol would have missed the narrow track that Lady Aymer pointed out to them. It was so overgrown with weeds that some reached up high enough to scratch his boots, but once the path curved around through more trees so that it was no longer visible from the road, he discovered that the weeds had recently been cut down and the way was easier to traverse.

The path had once been a cart-track leading to a farmhouse at the end of the shallow stretch of woods, with a field just past it. However, at one point a tree had fallen across the roof, caving in nearly half the house. The accident had happened a long time ago, because the tree was rotted and the house clearly in disrepair. Space in front had been cleared enough to fit Laura’s traveling coach and horses.

Lady Aymer sighed before leaping down from Mr. Rosmont’s horse. “We only ever meet in dilapidated houses. Will we ever be situated in a building not falling down around our ears?”

Sol couldn’t argue with her, but he was grateful for this quiet place where no one was likely to interrupt them. “How did you find this place?”

“Clara heard about it when she was listening near the butcher’s shop in Ronsby,” Lady Aymer said.

“Lightning struck the tree and toppled it,” the young girl said after Mr. Coulton-Jones set her down on the ground. “Lord Meynhill had a new house built for this tenant, so no one comes here. His sons want to build a stable here in place of the house, since it’s close to the hunting lodge, but since my lord isn’t very keen on that, he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”

The front door had been destroyed and rotted away, and they had to navigate the open doorway carefully since a diagonal half of the opening was occupied by broken bits of the roof timbers. Once inside, they dropped down through the broken floorboards to walk across bare earth, cutting through the front room and climbing through a hole in the wall to reach what looked to have been the kitchen at one time.

Phoebe and Miss Gardinier looked up from where they stood around a table that had been hastily constructed of larger pieces of wood laid on stone bricks. The rotted and broken floorboards had been cleared so that there was room to easily walk around the space on the ground, which was only sparsely covered in weeds. At that moment, Mr. Havner also entered through more of a hole than a back door.

Upon seeing Sol, Phoebe’s tense expression relaxed a little, but she continued to massage her hands in front of her. “I am so glad you are here,” she burst out, then seemed to consciously collect herself, straightening her shoulders and dropping her hands to her sides. “We have been awaiting you, sir.”

He nodded. “Report.”

“We have been in place since dawn. We gave the excuse that we wished to collect mushrooms, so Lord Wynwood has not suspected anything. Calvin and Clara have been trading off on watching the house. They have remained hidden in the woods around the hunting lodge, closer to the driveway so that they can know if anyone leaves. There are men guarding the house, so they have not ventured closer, since they are likely on the Root.”

“Good. Have you scouted the house?”

“As much as is possible,” Lady Aymer said. “There are two floors and an attic. Last night, we waited until dusk before we needed to return to the castle, but we saw lights in the two front rooms. We couldn’t see within one room, but in the other, we saw four men eating dinner. Later, we saw light briefly in one of the two attic rooms, and we think Lady Wynwood is there, but we haven’t seen her yet.”

“Are there only three guards?” Mr. Coulton-Jones asked.

“It looks to be that way,” Lady Aymer said. “They appear to be stationed in three different rooms of the house, but they might also patrol the hallways every so often. However, we haven’t seen the pale-eyed man since Phoebe saw him in the back yard. We saw Jack return to bury … er … the bodies.”

“And you’re certain one of the bodies was Heddetch?” Sol inwardly winced to be asking such a crass question to a young woman who likely had never seen a dead body before, but Phoebe merely swallowed and nodded.

“Clara says that this morning, there was increased activity,” Miss Gardinier said. “it looks as though they are planning to leave soon.”

“Isabella and I scouted out the trees around the house,” Phoebe said. When Sol opened his mouth to protest, she added, “We took great care not to be seen by the guards, but we needed to find good vantage points for my arrows, the twins’ knives, and Isabella’s pistol. We found trees with clear views to the back and front of the house, plus one tree near the stable. I can settle in one, Calvin and Clara in another, and Isabella in a third.”

“I borrowed the stillroom at Glencowe Castle and made sedative paste,” Miss Gardinier said. “However, I didn’t have the ingredients for the new formula, and instead made the old one, which is not as effective.”

“It is better than nothing,” Sol said.

“Yesterday, I returned to the attorney in Ronsby and asked if there was a map of the layout of the rooms in the hunting lodge,” Phoebe said. “However, he only had an old one and he says that some renovations were done in the past ten years. We copied a rough outline of the old layout drawing and made changes that we’ve observed. Here are where the guards were seen.” She pointed to three spots on the drawing laid out on the table.

He studied the map. “And the trees where you will be stationed? Where are they in relation to the house?”

Phoebe took a pencil and marked the paper with three Xs.

Sol stood and stared at the drawing, thinking fiercely, then made a decision. “Three of us will invade the house. We brought several pistols from the Ramparts since Jack’s men are on the Root and fighting them will be difficult.”

“I will not need them, so give the extra to Isabella,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said. “With my strength, I can attack quickly enough with a knife.”

Sol nodded. It would be convenient to have one agent able to engage in close-quarters fighting. “We will enter through the back door to surprise the occupants, then go from room to room. The guards will likely find us quickly.” He turned to Miss Gardinier. “When the fighting starts, sneak into the house. We shall endeavor to keep the men in one area, so try to avoid notice and climb the servants’ stairwell to look for Laura. Phoebe, Prince, and the twins—arrange yourselves outside so that you may attack any who attempt to escape. Mr. Havner, you’ll remain here with the horses?”

The coachman nodded.

Sol looked around the table at all their determined faces. Nervousness vibrated through his limbs—Laura was near. They would save her soon. At the same time, he felt more relaxed than he had been with the Ramparts agents. “I wouldn’t have wanted to attempt this operation with any other team. Let’s go.”

***

Clara led them through the woods toward the hunting lodge from a different direction than the driveway. Once they drew near enough, Phoebe and Miss Gardinier split off to head toward one of the trees in the front of the house, while Clara slipped off to collect her brother and situate themselves to watch the back. Lady Aymer had disappeared almost as soon as they entered the trees, armed with pistols and heading toward her station near the stable.

Sol could tell the grave had been shallow because he could smell the rot before he even entered the back yard. There was no movement at the back windows of the house, but they still circled the cleared space, keeping to the shadows of the trees, until they were at the closest point to the back door. They dashed out the few open yards.

They paused before entering the house, kneeling under a shuttered window. Mr. Coulton-Jones pointed to the window and raised a single finger. There was one man in that room.

Sol had arranged to enter first since he was a better shot than Mr. Rosmont. Mr. Coulton-Jones opened the door for him and he slipped inside, immediately turning left to the open doorway into a small kitchen.

A large man stood at the table, having just taken a bite of a sandwich in his hand. Sol shot him in the collarbone.

Blood and bits of bone sprinkled around him, but after a brief moment of shock, the man roared and rushed forward as if he hadn’t been injured in the slightest.

Mr. Coulton-Jones had been following Sol and now sprinted forward, grabbing his extended arms and swinging him around so that the man’s back faced Sol. Mr. Rosmont had followed on Mr. Coulton-Jones’s heels, a knife in his hand, and he slashed at the back of the man’s thigh.

The guard gave a strangled yell and dropped to one knee. Mr. Coulton-Jones punched him in the jaw, and he fell sideways, unconscious.

They didn’t have much time—the rest of the house would have heard the gunshot. Sol tossed aside the spent pistol and pulled a second from his coat.

The next room was an empty pantry, and Mr. Coulton-Jones stayed back to check a door leading downstairs to a basement while Sol and Mr. Rosmont moved to the front of the house. In the entrance hall, two men came running out of one of the side rooms.

Sol and Mr. Rosmont both shot at almost the same time, but Sol’s target twisted, impossibly fast, and was only hit in the arm, while Mr. Rosmont’s target dodged the bullet entirely.

“Front door!” Mr. Coulton-Jones roared as he ran past, a sedative-smeared knife in his hand, to hurl himself at the uninjured man. At the same time, Mr. Rosmont tossed aside his pistol and threw himself at the injured man, his bulk forcing the guard to stumble backward, but not enough to fall.

Sol also dropped his pistol and slithered between the two pairs of men to the front door, yanking it open. A moment later, Mr. Coulton-Jones roared as he bent and slammed his shoulder into the man’s torso, sending them both tumbling out the front door and onto the grass.

Sol followed them, pulling a sedative knife from the sheathe at his thigh, but was shocked when it appeared Mr. Coulton-Jones deliberately allowed the man to roll on top of him. The guard rose up on his knees, a knife in his hand.

In the next instant, an arrow hit the man in the back.

Phoebe. Now Sol understood why Mr. Coulton-Jones had wanted to take the fight outside.

The man shouted in pain and jerked, trying to get away, but Mr. Coulton-Jones grabbed the man by the arms to hold him place. A few seconds later, a second arrow joined the first.

Leaving Mr. Coulton-Jones to take care of the guard with Phoebe’s help, Sol returned inside. Mr. Rosmont was on his back, the other man on top and punching him, so Sol drove his sedative knife into his back shoulder. The man’s descending fist missed Mr. Rosmont, but before Sol could pull the knife out, the man had barely paused before turning and launching himself at Sol, the knife still sticking out of his back.

Sol didn’t have another knife, but punching the man was like punching a brick wall. The guard swung a blurred backhand that connected with Sol’s cheek, and pain exploded in his face. He blinked away stars as he felt his back slam into a wall. His knees buckled, and he slid down to land hard on his rump.

His hand touched something hard as he fell. Sol curled his fingers around it and swung just as the man stepped closer. It was a chair leg, freshly broken—perhaps from Mr. Rosmont’s fight with the same man—and the sharpened edge made the guard jerk his head backward to avoid getting a face full of wood splinters.

Mr. Rosmont had leaped back to his feet and attacked with a knife, but this man was impossibly fast—faster than the man on the Root that Sol had fought back at the stable, when they’d rescued Septimus. The guard was easily able to dodge Mr. Rosmont and knock away Sol’s follow-up swing, sending the chair leg flying. However, Mr. Rosmont kept his attention so Sol could roll sideways and back onto his feet.

The broken chair had scattered pieces around the entrance hall, so Sol picked up another piece of wood. He circled behind the man to force him to have to turn in order to engage with both himself and Mr. Rosmont. But the guard had pulled a blade of his own and easily parried Mr. Rosmont’s knife. At the same time, he used his opposite forearm to block Sol’s swing with the wood, not seeming to feel any pain from the impact.

The knife in the man’s back had been knocked away at some point, leaving a bloody wound, but it looked to have already stopped dripping blood. Sol didn’t know if the knife Mr. Rosmont was using was the same one he’d used in the kitchen, but even if it was, the sedative had already been used, so only the sedative on Sol’s knife had dosed the man.

Suddenly, two small blades buried themselves in the man’s calf. He stumbled, which caused Mr. Rosmont’s swing to swoosh above his head.

Sol looked at the open front door in time to see the twins dart out of sight. They must have climbed down from the tree in order to come and help, but thankfully they were remaining far away from the fight.

From outside, there was the report of a pistol, then a second shot. The sound distracted Sol, and he didn’t dodge the man’s lightning-fast kick. Perhaps because he had used the same leg with the two knives still sticking out of it, the blow seemed weaker than before. It was still strong enough to send Sol crashing backward onto the stairs to the first floor.

The next moment, Mr. Coulton-Jones came rushing through the front door into the entrance hall, grabbing the man from behind and hooking his arms. Mr. Rosmont didn’t hesitate to stab him in the thigh with his knife, then punch him in the jaw.

The man managed to pull an arm free and jab an elbow backward at Mr. Coulton-Jones, but he dodged out of the way. However, it made him release the man’s other arm, and he threw a wild punch at Mr. Rosmont.

But his movements were a bit slower than before. The sedative was taking effect, racing through his system all the faster because of the fight.

Mr. Rosmont narrowly dodged his swing and hit him again. The man stiffened, then fell to the floor with a thud, stunned by the blow. Mr. Rosmont followed with a more solid punch that knocked him senseless.

Sol got to his feet, his breath coming in heavy gasps, but before he could speak, horses’ hooves sounded from outside. He saw two riders race past the front door.

He rushed out in time to see the two men heading down the driveway. One of Phoebe’s arrows hit one man in the shoulder, but he didn’t seem to even feel it. A second arrow missed, and then they had disappeared around the bend of the driveway and out of sight.

Lady Aymer ran up to him, then stopped and grabbed her knees, gasping for air. “I shot them,” she wheezed, “but it didn’t even slow them down.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones appeared beside Sol. “What happened?” he asked his sister as Mr. Rosmont joined them.

She took a few seconds to catch her breath. “Jack and the pale-eyed man ran into the stable through a side door, so I didn’t have a clear shot of them. I had to climb down from the tree. I could hear the pale-eyed man shouting at Jack that he should have known that three men on the Root wouldn’t be enough. When they came out of the stable, I shot both of them, but they just shrugged off the bullets.”

“You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger that way,” Mr. Rosmont growled at her.

At first, Lady Aymer glared back at him, but then her eyes slid away. “Jack started to ride toward me, but the other man told him to leave me.”

Mr. Rosmont looked furious, while her brother had turned pale with concern.

Lady Aymer straightened to frown at them, but because of her height, it wasn’t very imposing. “If they had tried to retaliate, it would have stalled them so that one of you could have come to capture them,” she retorted.

“That is assuming we could have come.” Mr. Coulton-Jones glanced at the unconscious figure of the man he’d fought out front.

“Do we know for certain the house is cleared?” Sol demanded, and strode back inside.

He was in time to see Miss Gardinier supporting Laura as they entered the hall from the back of the house. They had likely used the servants’ staircase once the sounds of fighting had stopped.

Laura’s face was bruised and swollen, colored yellow from Heddetch’s first attack, and darker purple from new blows. She sported a deep cut on her lip, and she held her ribcage as she gingerly walked toward him.

He didn’t think. He rushed to her and fiercely embraced her.

Sol had never held Laura in his arms. They had never crossed that line, always limiting his touches to her hand, even though they had been good friends. The time he had touched her face had surprised him as much as it had her.

But now he buried his face in her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, pressing her close. He was surrounded by the hint of her perfume—wild berries, earthy woodland, and a thread of spicy rose. It did not feel awkward—instead, it felt wonderfully right.

Only when Sol had almost lost her did he realize how very much he cared for her.

She clung to him, her body trembling, but she didn’t make a sound.

They remained like that, as if they were the only two people in the room. None of the others approached. But even as the minutes stretched, he couldn’t release her.

Instead, he squeezed her tighter as he remembered the letter that arrived two days ago, sitting innocuously in the drawer of his desk in his study. A letter that prevented him from ever acting upon his feelings for her.

And so Sol held her, knowing that tomorrow, he would need to let her go forever.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Sol steadied himself as he prepared for a difficult battle. Honestly, he would rather face Jack’s men on the Root, but his years in the army in his younger years had trained him that a soldier must soldier on.

He took a deep breath and opened the door to Sir Derrick’s office.

He was immediately assaulted by the ringing of Mr. Uppleby’s smug laughter and the smell of French brandy. Mr. Uppleby was likely upset at Sol for leaving the operation two nights ago, but flush with success, he could afford to be magnanimous. “Drydale! Let me pour you a glass.”

“Thank you, but it’s a little early for me.” He’d spent all morning writing his report, and didn’t relish this meeting with Mr. Antingham, Mr. Uppleby, and Sir Derrick.

Mr. Uppleby sniffed and his mouth briefly creased in a sneer before he took a generous sip from his glass.

The two senior officers sat in the two chairs in front of Sir Derrick’s desk, and because of the cramped nature of the office, Sol took up his stance against the wall behind them. Sir Derrick’s elbows rested on his desk, hands folded and chin resting lightly upon them, while his large, slightly protuberant eyes seemed to watch Sol intently.

“I assume you heard, Drydale.” Mr. Uppleby poured himself another splash of brandy from the decanter on the desk. “The operation was a rousing success.”

Sol didn’t think that merely entering an abandoned set of rooms could be considered a “rousing success,” but all he said in response was, “Yes, sir.”

“Did you find any other evidence the living quarters belonged to Jack?” Sir Derrick asked.

“No,” Mr. Antingham said, sounding displeased. “All we found was the cosmetics kit and a violin. The room was being used by a man, but there were no other personal items.”

“But we found vials of that infamous Root elixir!” Mr. Uppleby said triumphantly. “I’m surprised we found anything in that laboratory—it was a complete mess. The Root had simply been tossed carelessly in a cabinet.”

“Any information on how he made the Root?” Sir Derrick asked.

“A few chemicals,” Mr. Antingham said, “but no trace of the Goldensuit plants that Jack supposedly uses. Just potting soil on tables and on the floor.”

“The Ramparts chemists will search through the laboratory today,” Mr. Uppleby said.

“I would suggest you assign at least two agents to watch them closely,” Sol interjected into the conversation. “Both Mr. Brady and Mr. Lowald tried to remove items when they searched Heddetch’s laboratory a few days ago.”

Mr. Uppleby turned in his seat to glower at Sol. “So you say.”

Sol had to fight not to frown at him. “We found the objects hidden in their clothes just before they were about to leave.”

“It could be that they were not truly trying to remove the items,” Mr. Uppleby sputtered. “There may have been a very simple reason.”

Sir Derrick raised an eyebrow at Mr. Uppleby, while Mr. Antingham ignored the flimsy excuse and groused, “More work for me to do.”

“Sir Derrick, where is the Root being stored?” Sol asked.

Sol could only see the back of Mr. Uppleby’s head, but he noticed the man leaned forward in his seat. Mr. Antingham also straightened his shoulders.

It indicated that these two men didn’t know where the Root was being stored, either, despite being the two most senior officers under Sir Derrick. Interesting.

“It’s in a safe place,” Sir Derrick said.

“When will you give it to the chemists to analyze?” Mr. Uppleby shifted his rotund bulk, and the chair creaked. “I’m certain they shall be able to properly study it, as opposed to the faulty work of a novice.”

Sol sighed. After personally working with Lowald and Brady and witnessing their dubious knowledge and untrustworthiness, he’d hire Miss Gardinier any day.

“Sir Derrick, I recommend that we make it a priority to study the Root,” Mr. Uppleby continued. “It could save the lives of British soldiers if we could reproduce and perfect the formula.”

“And how would you test the formula while perfecting it?” Sol cut in, his voice harsh even to his own ears. “Men have died after being dosed.”

“We can use convicts,” Mr. Uppleby said, rather callously.

“And if those same convicts develop superior strength or become Berserkers, how will you stop them?” Sol asked.

“Convicts are the last people we should test the Root upon,” Mr. Antingham said. “Instead, we should call for volunteers from the agents.”

Sol rather doubted men would “volunteer”—more than likely many of them would be pressured into agreeing. He recalled what Septimus had overheard in the stable. “And will you tell those volunteers that the current batch of the Root is tainted, causing almost all the people who take it to be turned into Berserkers? No one would be willing to be a test subject when there is more than a fifty percent chance that he may die.”

Mr. Antingham turned in his seat to shoot a stern look at Sol. “Some agents would be more than willing to take the risk in order to better serve their country.”

“According to Dr. Shokes, men who had taken the Root and didn’t receive another dose eventually died,” Sol said. “Every ‘volunteer’ would be shackled to the Root for the rest of his life.”

“Mere hearsay,” Mr. Uppleby scoffed. “How would you know that is true?”

“My agents have fought men on the Root.” Sol emphasized that unlike the agents under Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, his team had actual experience fighting Jack’s men and Berserkers. “Twice they have fought a man named Nick, and both times in the middle of the fight, he was overcome by pain and mentioned needing another dose. So once a person takes the Root, at the very least, they experience debilitating pain. Such dependence would be dangerous.”

“And that is the exact reason we should study the Root,” Mr. Uppleby said. “We can create a new elixir without these problems. Sir Derrick, think of the possibilities. We could rout Napoleon. The populace would no longer need fear being overrun by the French. Instead, we will be heroes who singlehandedly prevented the threat of invasion by that Corsican monster.”

Mr. Uppleby may have sounded as though he cared about the people of England, but the avarice in his voice suggested that he really just wanted to acquire power in the Home Office or other areas of the government. After all, no one would gainsay him if he had delivered a perfected Root formula. He would be the most powerful man in the country, even more than the king.

As if to contrast Mr. Uppleby’s rousing words, Sir Derrick’s voice was bland. “What you say sounds very nice, but right now, Lowald and Brady are not trustworthy enough.”

“Weren’t you the one who arranged for them to be hired?” Mr. Antingham asked Mr. Uppleby acidly. “And yet already their loyalties are being questioned.”

“I shall find others,” Mr. Uppleby said. “I know at least one who could start work immediately. You can give the Root to him while I find another.”

“I wouldn’t trust a chemist alone with the Root,” Mr. Antingham said. “The only reason I agreed to Lowald and Brady was because they both watch each other. A chemist alone would be tempted to figure out how to sell the Root himself, whether for money or to bolster his academic reputation. He would make a great deal more money than doing the research solely for king and country.”

“You cannot predict a man’s actions with certainty,” Mr. Uppleby said.

“But we can’t take the chance that the fact we have the Root will get out and that Jack will hear about it,” Sir Derrick said. “Uppleby, your track record is rubbish. Antingham, find another two chemists and bring their information to me and Uppleby for approval.”

Mr. Uppleby slid down a bit in his seat, and Sol could see from his profile that he was pouting, but he didn’t argue further.

“In the meantime, what will you do with the vials of the Root?” Mr. Antingham asked.

“My chemist can take them,” Sol said. “She has already proven herself trustworthy. She studied the formula and created a sedative, enabling men on the Root to be defeated and captured. In the case of Berserkers, they can be saved rather than allowing their lives to be burned out by their madness.”

“No, I’ll keep the vials safe,” Sir Derrick said.

Sol studied him. It was unclear what he would do with the Root, but at least it sounded as though he wouldn’t entrust the vials to Lowald and Brady. It was uncomfortable and dismaying for Sol to find that he wasn’t entirely sure he could trust Sir Derrick, but he knew he could trust him far more than Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby.

He considered mentioning that the other Root sample had lost potency within a few days, but he kept his mouth shut. In his earlier report, he had already mentioned Miss Gardinier’s theory that the Root went bad so quickly because of some type of animal blood in the formula. So Sir Derrick knew about it, and if Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby had read the report, they should know that also.

However, Sol didn’t want to remind them because it might push them to work faster to find other chemists, or perhaps argue that Lowald and Brady ought to be allowed the study the Root. Sol would much rather they all forgot and the Root samples went bad rather than giving the vials to chemists who may not be as morally upright as Miss Gardinier and Phoebe.

“Are the vials in a secure location?” Mr. Antingham asked. “Whoever possesses the samples will be in danger when Jack hears about the raid upon his laboratory, if it was indeed his.”

“The only people who know I have the Root vials are in this room. Jack would only hear if one of us tells him.” Sir Derrick’s deceptively smooth tone was like silk over steel. He let his words hang in the silence for several long seconds. “The matter is closed. All of you, stop arguing about it.”

Sol felt a bit like an unruly schoolboy who’d been called to task by the headmaster, but admitted he deserved it for being baited by Mr. Uppleby’s taunt about Miss Gardinier as his chemist.

“Now then, Antingham, Uppleby,” Sir Derrick said, “the two of you positioned agents to watch the theater, correct? Has anything happened since we left last night?”

“No one has been near it,” Mr. Antingham said.

They had rescued Laura only yesterday morning, but Jack and Maxham had escaped on horses. They’d had plenty of time to return to London. Sol would have expected Jack to visit his apartment, but since he hadn’t, he must have somehow found out about the raid on his laboratory and stayed away from the place.

“After the agents entered the laboratory and apartment, what did they do?” Sol asked.

“My men gathered items from the laboratory and brought them back here,” Mr. Antingham said.

“My men searched the apartment,” Mr. Uppleby said. “However, they found nothing of note. They brought the cosmetics case and the violin back to the Ramparts, however.”

“When the agents left the rooms with the items, was it in full view of everyone in the theater?” Sol asked.

“Of the people backstage,” Mr. Uppleby said. “But no one questioned them as they were leaving or tried to stop them.”

“None of the civilians should have even known the agents were carrying items acquired from Jack’s laboratory,” Mr. Antingham said.

“But some of them would have seen the agents exit the stairwell,” Sol said. “And the only room up there is the laboratory, since the apartment is hidden. If the actors or others working in the theater are aware that someone rents that top room, they wouldn’t hesitate to tell the renter the next time they saw him.”

“I would think they’d be afraid of Jack,” Mr. Uppleby said.

“They may not have known the renter was Apothecary Jack,” Sol said. “After all, when Mr. Villager first found the laboratory, he observed the actors backstage. None of them indicated any nervousness that a dangerous criminal could appear at any time, nor did anyone avoid the area around the door to the stairs. But if they saw a man without Jack’s signature face-paint, they might speak to him. Certainly the theater manager would have paid attention to strangers around a stairwell normally only used by his renter, and would have been sure to tell him. Jack needn’t even enter his laboratory—he’d turn around and leave the building.”

“A violent man like Apothecary Jack would be sure to let people know not to approach his rooms,” Mr. Antingham said.

“I disagree,” Sol said. “He might put himself in danger if people knew where he lived and slept and stored the Root. It is the same as when he made that room in the boarding house into his greenhouse—he entered and left without face-paint and no one noticed him.”

“Yes,” Sir Derrick said, “I doubt the people in the theater were aware that it was Jack who lived there. He may have a fearsome reputation, but in this case, his anonymity would be his security.”

“Did the agents find anything about Jack’s group, the Citadel, in the laboratory?” Sol asked.

“No,” Sir Derrick said.

“The Citadel?” Mr. Uppleby asked.

“Laura—Lady Wynwood discovered the name the group calls themselves.”

“Wha—she did? A civilian?” Mr. Uppleby’s face flushed, and even Mr. Antingham’s profile seemed uncomfortable.

Of course it would be an embarrassment to them that a hostess of society discovered something important about this treasonous group when their agents had come up empty.

“Now would be a good time to give your report, Drydale,” Sir Derrick said.

Sol recounted the gist of his written report, about how they had rescued Laura from the hunting lodge. He spoke of how the Citadel had assumed that Wynwood had hidden items for Bianca, possibly within the castle, since they hadn’t known that Wynwood hadn’t liked staying at his estate.

There was one thing that Sol had deliberately omitted from both his written report and the verbal one he now gave to these three men—Bianca’s notebooks. The notebooks had been mentioned in the letter from Ward that Heddetch had treasured, but it had been Laura who discovered from Maxham that they were Bianca’s gardening notebooks, and that the Citadel seemed quite desperate to find them.

He didn’t want to give that piece of information to Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, who had become quite interested in the Root. But he also hesitated to inform Sir Derrick after his vague answers about what he intended to do with the Root vials.

“And where is Lady Wynwood?” Sir Derrick asked.

“She is recuperating at Glencowe Castle,” Sol said. “Lord Wynwood suspected nothing when she arrived, since Phoebe had already told him the story about her digestive illness. She explained her injuries were due to feeling faint and hitting her head against a doorframe.”

Sol hadn’t gone into detail about Laura’s injuries in his report, feeling it was too personal a matter to expose in a cold government document. But now, the hint about the torture she had endured, especially when Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby had prioritized the raid over her rescue, caused a brief, awkward silence.

Then Mr. Uppleby said, “It must be a relief that Maxham and Jack didn’t kill her. I am sure she will recover quickly.”

“Will she be safe there?” Sir Derrick asked.

“She will not remain there long,” Sol said. Along with Phoebe and Miss Gardinier, Lady Aymer and Mr. Rosmont had remained at Glencowe Castle to watch over her. Lord Wynwood was graciousness itself, but they were aware it was irregular for the latter two to remain for long. Phoebe was forced to return to town briefly today with Sol in order to care for the neglected Goldensuit plants in Stapytton House, but would be returning this afternoon to stay with her aunt and guard her.

However, Sol wanted to move Laura as soon as possible to a safer, more secret location. Laura had told him that she was also anxious to return to town so that she could begin searching for Bianca’s notebooks.

“Did she mention what had happened to Mr. Hamlet?” Sir Derrick’s gaze had sharpened as he spoke the name Septimus had used at the Ramparts.

“She said that when she was taken, Maxham shot him in the stomach when he entered the carriage.”

Sol had been shocked when Laura told them all what had happened to Septimus. Perhaps a part of him had been hoping that he was still alive. Or perhaps he had simply wanted to know with a certainty if Septimus had only been forced to betray them that one time, or if he’d been in league with the pale-eyed man from the start.

“No chance of recovery?” Mr. Antingham asked.

“They left him at an inn—she doesn’t know where—and it is unknown if he received medical treatment or if they hid his body in the woods.”

But Sol didn’t hold hope. When Miss Gardinier had heard that Septimus bled from the abdomen for a considerable amount of time while Laura was unconscious, the young healer had begun sobbing terribly. Her reaction told Sol all he needed to know about Septimus’s chances of survival.

“It’s just as well,” Mr. Antingham said, his face hard as granite. “If he were alive, we wouldn’t want a former Ramparts agent giving information to Jack. Do we know if the offer of the Root to Napoleon was even real?”

Sol felt as though his entire head were aflame. “There is no proof that Mr. Hamlet planted that note,” he snarled. “From all accounts, he was forced to help the Citadel kidnap Lady Wynwood in order to protect his family.”

“Yes, if you think of it in that light, his actions ensured that we needn’t deal with a threat to his father instead,” Mr. Uppleby said.

“His father?” Mr. Antingham asked.

Preening at his knowledge of Septimus’s true name when Mr. Antingham was uninformed, Mr. Uppleby said, “Yes, Mr. Hamlet’s family is quite powerful.”

Sol might have insulted the antecedents of the man, his wife, and her pet pug if Sir Derrick hadn’t caught his eye and lifted a few fingers, warning him to be silent. Sir Derrick smoothly changed the subject. “I heard you captured two of Jack’s men?”

“Yes.”

“What of Jack and the pale-eyed man?” Mr. Antingham asked.

“Seyward Maxham. Lady Wynwood managed to get his full name,” Sol said.

“I wonder what she did to loosen his tongue,” Mr. Uppleby said in a snide voice.

“I doubt she did much between being beaten,” Sir Derrick snapped.

Red crept up Mr. Uppleby’s neck and colored his jowls, but he refrained from any more remarks.

“I daresay you didn’t capture Jack or Maxham,” Mr. Antingham said, “else we’d have heard about it.”

“We dealt with Jack’s guards on the Root while they escaped,” Sol admitted bitterly.

“There were only the two guards?” Mr. Antingham asked.

“There were three, but the first escaped while we fought the other two.” They had returned to tie up the man they’d left in the kitchen only to find him missing. The guard had only been given one dose of the less-effective sedative before Mr. Coulton-Jones had knocked him unconscious, and with his superior vitality, he must have awoken to discover that Jack and Maxham had gone. He likely ran away while the rest of them had been preoccupied after the fight.

“It took all of you to deal with two guards?” Mr. Antingham asked with derision.

“You would not ask that if you’d seen a man on the Root,” Sol retorted before he could think to guard his tongue. These two were trying his patience until it was frayed and ready to completely snap.

“A Berserker destroyed half of the Long Glades,” Sir Derrick said with asperity. “You’d do well to keep your comments to yourself, Antingham, until you’ve fought one of them yourself.” He must have grown tired of the biting and growling between them, because his voice was faintly irritated as he spoke to Sol again. “I heard you sent word back to the Ramparts for transport of the prisoners?”

“Yes, sir.” He had sent Mr. Coulton-Jones back to London. The young man hadn’t been able to speak to Sir Derrick, but he’d spoken to his aide, Mr. Kyleston, to arrange a prisoner transport cart. “We took them to our prison cells at Oaten.” The Oaten prison used to be an old stone abbey, but the Ramparts had renovated the monks’ cells into prison cells, and the small rooms for the agents on duty weren’t much more comfortable.

“That miserable place?” Mr. Uppleby complained. “Why so far away?”

“It is the most secure of the prisons maintained by the Ramparts, after Mr. Uppleby’s agents enabled my other prisoners to escape from the ice house on Burstom’s land,” Sol said flatly.

“Your agent was confused about all of that,” Mr. Uppleby said brusquely. “And may I remind you that against my recommendation, your agent was sent away rather than imprisoned.”

“Your two prisoners should have been sent to the warehouse by the Thames,” Mr. Antingham said. “It is where the most dangerous prisoners are usually taken in order to be questioned.”

“Oaten is more secure,” Sol said. Considering he and Mr. Uppleby seemed to want the Root so badly, at the same time they were constantly dismissive of the strength of Jack’s men.

“I approved the change,” Sir Derrick interjected. “It will keep the prisoners farther from Jack so that he will not be able to break them out.”

“I intend to travel to Oaten today to question them,” Sol said.

“It is quite distressing that despite fighting so many of these men on the Root, these latest two are the only prisoners you’ve been able to retain,” Mr. Antingham said. “Be sure you do not lose these, as well.”

Sol was prepared to fire off an extremely unwise response when a frantic knocking at the door caught their attention. Sol answered, and was shocked to find Mr. Coulton-Jones standing there. “Mr. Villager?” he asked, using the name Mr. Coulton-Jones used within the Ramparts. He was supposed to have been at Oaten guarding the two prisoners, and Sol was alarmed to see that his eyes were wild and panicked. “What happened, man?”

Mr. Coulton-Jones’s eyes fell on the figures of Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, and he abruptly closed his mouth over what he’d been about to say. After a brief hesitation, he said, “I came to the Ramparts with a report for you, sir, but I happened to hear about three bodies that had been found strung up on a boat in the Thames.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” Sol said. It had been a gruesome tale—three men had been hung on the mast of a small boat found moored to the south bank. The men’s arms had been splayed out while blood and innards had been arrayed around them in a grotesque work of art. The authorities were having difficulty bringing the bodies down from the mast.

“I happened to be passing when they were removing the bodies.” Mr. Coulton-Jones’s face grew more grim. “Sir, they are the three prisoners who escaped from the ice house.”

“What?!” Mr. Uppleby yelped as he leaped to his feet. Remembering himself, he smoothed his waistcoat and modulated his voice. “Are you certain?”

“I helped to capture them. I recognized them immediately.” Mr. Coulton-Jones’s voice was cool while his eyes were ice as he looked at Mr. Uppleby, the very reason those three men escaped.

“This makes no sense,” Mr. Antingham said. “They would have returned to Jack after escaping. Who would have killed them?”

“The … positions of the bodies would have required extreme strength,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said slowly. “And the spectacle could only have been conceived by a madman. I believe it was Jack who displayed them. He likely killed them, also.”

Mr. Uppleby looked rather sick to his stomach, but at the same time there was relief on his face.

Sol had to admit that he was also relieved. While the men undoubtedly told Jack about the prison at the ice house, their deaths meant that he would not need to worry about a retaliatory attack from them.

“Why in the world would Jack have killed them?” Sir Derrick demanded.

“From what Laura told me about Jack’s behavior,” Sol said, “he has shown a tendency to be vicious on a whim. He may have killed them simply because, regardless of their escape, they had failed him when they had been captured.”

“Uppleby, Antingham,” Sir Derrick said, “your agents helped transport the men to the ice house, yes? Find them and confirm Mr. Villager’s statement. I want to know if those bodies are indeed the men who escaped.”

Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby both gave Sir Derrick short bows and hastily left the office. Sol motioned for Mr. Coulton-Jones to enter, and closed the door behind him.

“We must be very sure that the two men you captured will not escape Oaten,” Sir Derrick said. “How long will they live?”

“Without another dose of the Root?” Sol asked. “We don’t know. Miss Gardinier said that it changes depending upon the person.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon for interrupting you, sir, but I came from Oaten with a message for you.” Although he had already told Sol about the three dead men, the wildness in his eyes had not dissipated. He had also changed what he was about to say when he saw Mr. Antingham and Mr. Uppleby, so he must have not wanted to relay the message in front of them. “The two prisoners … they were killed last night.”

“What?” Sol couldn’t quite believe what he’d just said. “But we had just delivered them to the prison last night.” It had taken time for the prison transport cart and extra agents to arrive at the hunting lodge, but Oaten was only a few miles north of Ronsby, so it had been early evening when they arrived and got the two men situated. Mr. Coulton-Jones had remained at Oaten along with two other agents to keep watch over them.

“We were taking the watch in shifts. One of the prisoners was looking unwell and had vomited, so I went to the well to fetch some water. You may recall it is quite far away from the building.”

Sol nodded. The path to the well had been lined with stone, but it was a good quarter mile away.

“When I returned, I smelled the Root—or rather, something similar to the Root. The same smell that I detected coming from Jack’s laboratory and apartment.”

Sol stiffened. “Did you see Jack? Or Maxham?”

Mr. Coulton-Jones shook his head. “I went to check on the prisoners, and the two agents were unconscious. I could smell something herbaceous clinging to their clothing, and it made me dizzy. I think it was a sleeping powder. The cells were unlocked, and the two men’s throats had been slit so that they couldn’t cry out.” Mr. Coulton-Jones swallowed. “The blood was still hot and wet, sir. It had happened only minutes before.”

“The intruder’s objective was to kill the prisoners quickly and leave,” Sir Derrick said.

“I believe that is why I am still alive,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said soberly. “He didn’t want a fight. I rode to London as soon as I discovered it.”

Sir Derrick had risen to his feet when Mr. Coulton-Jones arrived with his surprising news, but now he sat heavily back in his chair. “Drydale, you have a distressing tendency to lose your prisoners.”

Mr. Coulton-Jones looked as though he were about to protest, but Sol raised a hand to forestall him.

“The Citadel obviously did not want you to speak to them,” Sir Derrick continued. “Did you get any information out of them before you transported them to Oaten?”

“Very little,” Sol said. “Jack had simply ordered them to arrive in order to help guard them. He told them nothing aside from that, and they were unaccustomed to asking questions.”

Sir Derrick sighed, rubbing his chin. Then he held out his hand, palm up. “I’ll look through your report. It sounds as though Lady Wynwood learned a great deal from them.”

Sol handed him the papers. “She was in an ideal position to observe the relationships between them. They also likely intended to kill her and were not as discreet as they should have been.” He still felt a small shudder run through him at the reminder that he might have lost her. He hesitated, then added, “Miss Sauber and Miss Gardinier did excellent work to discover where she’d been taken.”

“Yes, I was quite pleased to hear that.” Sir Derrick gave a rare smile, although there was still calculation in his large eyes. “But then, I suspected they’d continue working on their own. If they were the type of agents to be discouraged by what I’d said to them, they wouldn’t be worthy of working with you, Drydale.”

Sol blinked in surprise. Had Sir Derrick been testing Phoebe and Miss Gardinier? It was unusual simply because Sir Derrick was too busy these days to take an interest in the younger agents as he once had done.

“I think they’ll do very well,” Sir Derrick said. “I’ll contact you later about making them official agents and arranging for more intensive training.” He suddenly gave a fierce grin. “I’ll be sure to use them a great deal more next time.”

Sol and Mr. Coulton-Jones left Sir Derrick’s office. He led Mr. Coulton-Jones out of the Ramparts through the door that led to the club, the Ivory Ramparts.

“Sir,” Mr. Coulton-Jones said as he followed, “what do you need for me to do about the dead prisoners?”

“Nothing, for now. There will be a nightmare of paperwork to get through later, but I have something to do first.”

Outside the club, Sol looked up and down the street before spotting the carriage he was looking for. He entered and Mr. Coulton-Jones followed. The young man started in surprise to find Phoebe waiting inside.

“What has happened?” she asked.

“I shall tell everyone later, at Stapytton House.” Sol reached into his coat pocket and removed a small cloth pouch, handing it to her.

It clinked as she took it. “The keys to Bianca’s laboratory?” she asked.

Phoebe had returned the keys to him after they had rescued Laura. “My superiors didn’t mention it and likely do not know it is missing,” Sol said.

“Sir?” She tilted her head in confusion.

“Keep it,” Sol said.

She hesitated only a moment before stowing it away in her reticule.

“Keep it safe,” Sol said.

She met his eyes, holding his gaze. “Yes, sir,” she said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Maxham was exhausted from being in the saddle for so long, but no one else had been able to do the job and he had been the best suited for it. At least all the loose ends had been tied up, thanks to Jack’s morbid artwork on the Thames.

He rode to his home, expecting a relaxing evening, but Jack had left a note for him:

Lovey caught with her skirts around her ears. Meet me at Oliver’s.

He considered ignoring the request, but the thought of Jack complaining about Maxham snubbing him gave him a headache, so he hauled his weary body out the door again. He returned to the stables near his home and rented another hack horse, then rode to an inn only a mile distant from the gentleman’s club where Jack had temporarily set up shop. He trudged through the dark streets, his tiredness making his steps slow, and he reached his destination within thirty minutes.

Jack’s new room did not boast the isolation of his laboratory above Lovey’s Boudoir, nor was it very well insulated, so Maxham heard the crashing and banging of Jack’s temper tantrum long before he opened the door. He was met with the sight of broken tables and chairs, and shards of glass on the floor that Jack ground to dust under his stomping feet.

“They found my laboratory!” Jack screeched. “And my home!” He swung his fist at the wall, where it smashed through the wood.

Maxham had assumed that was what Jack had meant by his note, but it still surprised him to have it be confirmed. “How did they accomplish that feat? You boasted to me that no one could possibly find your private rooms.”

“It shouldn’t have been possible!” Jack kicked at a downed stool, breaking it further.

“Who else knew about the location?” Maxham already knew the answer, and calmly seated himself on one of the few unbroken chairs against the wall.

Jack paused, panting as his mind whirled. Then his face turned as purple as the violets drawn around his eyes, visible even through the face-paint. He screamed, his hands raised above his head in fists. “Heddetch!” he roared, and then went off on another spree of destruction.

Maxham waited for him to wind down. He would soon run out of things to smash since there wasn’t much besides furniture, a few empty glass vials, and some earthenware containers. Maxham had encouraged Jack to prepare this space as a spare laboratory, thinking that it would serve as somewhere for Jack to go should his workplace at Lovey’s Boudoir be discovered. Just like now.

Finally, Jack collapsed in the center of the room, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. “Queenie,” he moaned, “my poor Queenie. She won’t be able to fend for herself.”

Maxham doubted that. Jack’s clever, sadistic cat would outlive them all.

There was a tentative knock on the door, and then the club manager cautiously entered, bearing a napkin-covered tray.

“Thank you.” Maxham took it from him and set it on the seat of a wobble-legged stool next to him.

“What’s that?” Jack asked.

“I asked him to bring me some food.”

“Um … Mr. Dix,” the manager said in a timid voice, “several gentlemen have commented on the noises and are becoming curious. So far I have dissuaded them from investigating, but …”

“Calm down,” Maxham told Jack. “Or else you’ll have to start killing the men who come looking to see what all the fuss is about, and the waistcoat you are wearing at the moment is rather too nice to stain with blood.”

The manager blanched.

Jack grunted, frowning, but a moment later flashed Maxham a wide smile. “It is a stunning waistcoat, is it not?”

It was a hideous brocade in a melange of pink, bright green, light blue, yellow, and cream, but Maxham simply nodded. He gave the manager a shooing motion with his hand, and the man scurried out of the room.

Maxham picked up two pieces of bread from the tray and slid a dripping slice of roast beef and a chunk of crumbly cheese in between. “I assume they took all the Root you kept stored there.”

“I only had a few vials left.” Jack sighed and kicked out with his leg, scattering pieces of wood and glass. “Now I need to make more.”

“Do you need more blood?” Maxham took a bite of food, realizing how hungry he was.

“Yes. Deliver it to my grandfather’s greenhouse. I’ll make it there since this place isn’t set up yet.” Jack looked around at the cluttered room.

“It will take me a day or two.”

Jack studied him. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you.” Maxham finished the sandwich and made another.

“How far did you have to travel?”

After escaping the hunting lodge, he and Jack had parted ways. Jack had returned to London, but Maxham had remained behind to spy upon the lodge.

For most of the day, there hadn’t been much to see, although he’d had to avoid some tediously diligent patrols one of the men made through the woods around the house every so often—it was the man who had survived becoming a Berserker. Since he smelled of the pollen from Jack’s hybrid plants, Maxham guessed he had stronger senses than the others, and so he had to be extra cautious.

Eventually, a prison transport cart had arrived, and Maxham had followed it to its destination.

“Not much farther north from the lodge,” Maxham said. “But I had to wait for a good moment to act.” It had been uncomfortable out in the cold night, huddled between two large boulders as he spied on the stone abbey, but he’d been lucky that the ex-Berserker had left to fetch water.

“How did the powder work?” Jack’s eyes had lit up, becoming more blue than normal. He was always like that when giving Maxham one of his concoctions to try.

“It took only a few seconds for the guards to fall asleep, but I was a tad concerned at first. Their breathing was very labored for the first minute or so, but then they grew more peaceful.”

“Hmm.” Jack gnawed on his fingers, his teeth causing blood to smear onto his lips, which were painted white. “How long did it last?”

“I didn’t wait around to find out,” Maxham said with a touch of irritation. “Killing the two men took only a few seconds.”

“Two men? Who was missing?”

“Peter. I went searching for him on the way back and found him at a tavern.”

“How did you find him?”

“I could smell the Root.” Maxham wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Now that I think about it, I used the powder on him, and it took almost half a minute before he succumbed. I left his body at the bottom of a stream nearby.”

“How marvelous.” Jack smiled like a child who’d just been given a treat, then rose to his feet. “Could I have some food?”

Maxham held the tray out to him, and he took it, moving it to one of the work tables. He made his own sandwich, and with his mouth full, he asked, “Who were they?”

“Who do you think?”

Jack hmphed. “Alien Office.”

“But I doubt milady will entrust her safety to them again after what happened.”

“So we will never find her again.” Jack pouted at his sandwich.

“It may not be necessary to find her again,” Maxham said thoughtfully. “I shall contact him.”

Jack took another bite and frowned while chewing, making him look a bit like a cow chewing its cud. “I don’t like him. He’s a pompous, bacon-fed beau-nasty.”

Maxham suspected Jack was simply repeating words he’d heard his men use and didn’t truly know what they meant.

“It’s too bad milady didn’t tell us anything.” Jack took another bite and finished his sandwich.

“I’m not worried.” Maxham leaned his head back to rest against the wall. “I didn’t expect her to say anything in the first place. I simply wanted her to be thinking about the notebooks.”

“What good does it do for us if she’s only thinking about them?”

Maxham hesitated, unsure if he wanted to bother to explain, but Jack tended to be impatient when he gave only vague answers. “People who are desperate can be motivated to transcend the limits of what they believe they can or would be willing to do.”

“Oh?” Jack crossed his legs to prop his boot toe on the ground. “How will you motivate milady?”

“I have the perfect plan.” Maxham studied Jack. “Why don’t I let you carry it out? I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Jack clapped his hands. “Oh, goody.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Phoebe stood in her room and very carefully considered her choice of weapon.

It was daytime, and she would be in the middle of Mayfair, so she did not want to cause a disturbance. But it was early Saturday afternoon, so it was likely that many of the neighbors would be engaged in various social activities or getting dressed in anticipation of going out to those activities.

She wasn’t certain as to the skill of her opponents, nor how many there would be, but Mr. Rosmont was accompanying her, and he was tall and broad enough (with a fierce enough scowl) to scare off most rationally-minded creatures.

Eventually she hid a small knife in her reticule, and on her way out the door, she grabbed the fireplace poker.

Phoebe exited her room into the sitting area of the hotel suite where Mr. Rosmont waited, sitting across from where her aunt lay on a sofa. He glanced curiously at the poker, but wisely said nothing about it.

Her aunt had left Glencowe Castle after only four days, escorted by Mr. Rosmont. Keriah and Lady Aymer remained with them the entire time, despite the oddity of the impromptu house party, but Lord Wynwood seemed to greatly enjoy the company, likely because his broken leg had left him without company for so long.

Isabella and Keriah returned home, but Phoebe and Aunt Laura arranged for rooms in a small hotel under a different name. Paxon’s Hotel, which lay outside of Mayfair, did not cater to the nobility, but Lady Aymer had suggested it because it often hosted merchants and their families, and so held a suite with adjoining bedrooms. Aunt Laura was not concerned with the lack of rich furnishings, as long as it provided the anonymity she needed to protect her.

Aunt Laura had refused to remain in bed, even though her bruises should have made her too weak to leave it. Aya, who had seemed to will herself to heal from her head injury, would not have allowed her to do anything so foolish as walk around—except that she also understood that her mistress wished to be busy rather than to have time to remember what had happened to her. So they had compromised and Aunt Laura was lying on a sofa near the sitting room fireplace, pretending to read a book.

Phoebe perched on the edge of the sofa, near where her aunt’s feet were tucked under a coverlet. “Mr. Rosmont and I will leave now.”

Her aunt absently crumpled the fabric of her gown with her uninjured hand—she looked as though she didn’t realize she was doing it. “I wish I needn’t send you back to the townhouse.”

“Aya and I already discussed it,” Phoebe said. “She was quite willing to go on this errand, but I insisted. I am best able to speak to the rest of the servants to decide what must be done going forward.” Out of concern for the safety of the rest of the servants, Aunt Laura wanted to send them all to Glencowe Castle, but Phoebe thought it would be best to speak to them before deciding to send them away. She rather doubted they would agree to abandon their mistress in London, knowing that she had already been attacked and kidnapped. Also, if they were able to make proper arrangements, her aunt might need her servants at her new residence.

“Do be very careful,” Aunt Laura said to her.

“Mr. Rosmont is escorting me.”

“I promise you, my lady, she could not be reckless even had she the inclination for it,” Mr. Rosmont said, which pulled a smile from her aunt’s anxious face.

“Indeed, Aunt Laura, while I have become more proficient in protecting myself, Mr. Rosmont is even more skilled, much larger, and strong enough to simply heft me under his arm like a sack of flour to remove me from any situation.”

“I do beg you, Mr. Rosmont, to do just that,” her aunt said, “even if the sack of flour is kicking and protesting.”

Phoebe’s cheerful demeanor lasted until they entered her aunt’s carriage and were driving away. Her worries seemed to settle upon her shoulders like a physical weight, and a sigh escaped her.

“Do you believe your father will still attempt to kidnap you?” Mr. Rosmont asked. “It has been over a week since his last attempt.”

“I know better than most how stubborn and prideful he is.” The worry tightened in her chest like a knot of silk that became too firmly tangled to unravel. “I have embarrassed him both publicly and privately. He does not often show his vindictiveness, because he fears how others will perceive him, but when he is angered enough to no longer care, he will pursue it until he is satisfied. In this case, he wishes me to be out of England and unable to return.”

“I know that Mr. Drydale was attempting to find a solution.”

“I’m sure he was, but he has been preoccupied.” Phoebe’s smile was grim. “Also, my father will soon become impatient. It is always the way of things. If Uncle Sol has a plan, it must be implemented quickly, for my father will set all his efforts into accomplishing his goal as soon as possible.”

“Simply because your father wishes for a thing to be done urgently does not mean his wish shall be granted,” Mr. Rosmont said sternly. “You may believe your problems are personal, but the rest of us do not feel the same way. You are not fighting him alone. We will not allow him to harm you, Miss Sauber.”

His assurances made her feel stronger, dampening the familiar resentment at her father. Despite the fact she had previously been feeding that resentment, despite her lapse in attention that caused her to leave her aunt alone when she was kidnapped, God had still guided Phoebe to find her. Her grudges and her mistakes had not kept the Lord from her side, just as her team would not leave her to save herself.

As she had in her time of worry and trouble over her aunt, Phoebe needed to trust her Heavenly Father now to help her in this situation with Mr. Poe and the marriage contract. There was nothing else she could do—and if she could not trust God, then who could she trust? That sounded like something her aunt would say, and so she knew she was making the right decision.

Paxon’s Hotel was quite a bit farther away from her aunt’s townhouse than the last hotel, and while Phoebe attempted to remain calm and collected, her muscles still twitched with tension as they neared their destination. Mr. Rosmont had also shifted into a state of readiness.

There were three men across the street from the townhouse, and she recognized all of them. One was a footman in her father’s house—one of the two whom she had handily dealt with in her stepmother’s bedchamber. The other two had been among the men who had chased her from Keriah’s sister’s house.

As they had arranged, Mr. Rosmont left Phoebe in the carriage to pound on the knocker, but the three men approached the carriage. The vehicle was not marked, but the footman had likely recognized Mr. Havner.

There was little chance Mr. Havner would willingly give up his seat and allow the men to steal the carriage, but Phoebe did not wish to be trapped inside should they attempt it, so she swiftly exited from the door opposite the men, gripping the fireplace poker tightly.

One of the two from Keriah’s sister’s house headed toward Mr. Havner, but a crack of his horsewhip stopped the man in his tracks. His deadly accuracy with the whip was more than capable of maiming the man.

Mr. Rosmont had swiftly returned after knocking on the front door and he moved close to the other man. The would-be kidnapper hesitated, either from Mr. Rosmont’s intimidating posture, the height that towered over him, or the threatening expression on his face. Or perhaps all three.

The footman who approached Phoebe had a badly broken nose—which, she realized, had been her handiwork. That made this situation much easier.

She stood tall, which enabled her to almost meet his eye, and shook the fireplace poker at him. She skewered him with a glare that recalled how she’d not only broken his nose, but also delivered a swift kick to his manhood and knocked him out with a similar poker, and she was prepared to do even worse if he took another step closer.

The footman hesitated, turned pale, and stiffened as he backed away from her.

The front door swung open, and Mr. Rosmont quickly escorted Phoebe up the steps and inside the house.

“I’m not entirely certain if I am pleased or disgruntled that I have a face terrifying enough to quail footmen,” Phoebe said as she handed Graham, the butler, her fireplace poker.

Unperturbed, Graham accepted the poker.

“I daresay, as an agent, you can count it among your more unique and extraordinary abilities,” Mr. Rosmont said with a serious cast to his mouth but a smile glittering in his eyes.

As Graham collected their outerwear, Mrs. Rook, the housekeeper, emerged from the depths of the house. “Would you like some refreshment in the drawing room, Miss Phoebe?”

“Perhaps later. Has Aunt Laura received any missives? She is expecting one in particular from Mrs. Haudenby.”

“It arrived this morning.” Mrs. Rook pulled the letter from her pocket and handed it to her.

It was terribly uncouth, but Phoebe opened it and scanned the contents as she stood there in the entrance hall. “Ah, excellent. This simplifies matters. Mrs. Rook, I must speak with all the servants immediately—”

At that moment, Phoebe heard the sound of a carriage pulling up directly in front of the house, followed only moments later by a rapping at the door. Phoebe and Mr. Rosmont quickly climbed the stairs, but remained out of sight at the landing.

When Graham opened the door, Miss Emilia Tolberton’s agitated voice floated up to her. “Please, is Miss Sauber at home? I must speak with her. It is quite urgent.”

Graham, being the excellent servant that he was, anticipated that Phoebe would not wish to refuse her when she sounded so distressed. “Of course. Won’t you come in and wait while I inquire?”

Phoebe and Mr. Rosmont silently entered the drawing room on the first floor, shutting the door all but a crack. “I must meet with her,” she whispered to him. “She sounds quite flustered.”

While they were at Glencowe Castle, Graham had sent a note that Miss Tolberton had come to call several times, but rather than indicating Phoebe was out of town, he had said she was simply not at home.

Mr. Rosmont nodded. “I shall pretend to be just leaving when she arrives.”

“Tell Graham to lead you to the other door to the library so that you can eavesdrop upon our conversation.” Phoebe nodded toward the connecting door on the other side of the drawing room.

When Graham scratched at the door, Phoebe instructed him to allow Miss Tolberton up, and Mr. Rosmont left the room. Graham announced Miss Tolberton only a few minutes later.

“It is so nice to see you, Emilia,” Phoebe said. “I must apologize—I have been at Ibstone for many days with Keriah and Lady Aymer.” She told the same story they had given to Lord Wynwood about a digestive tincture for Aunt Laura and Lady Aymer’s mother.

Miss Tolberton touched the lace at her throat. “I am so relieved. I had wondered if perhaps I had inadvertently offended you.”

“Of course not. You perhaps passed Mr. Rosmont on the stairs? My aunt wished to send a note of thanks to Lady Aymer for chaperoning us, and he offered to deliver it for her.”

At that moment, Mrs. Rook arrived with a tea tray and some Italian water biscuits. As Phoebe poured the tea, she noted that although Emilia seemed relieved Phoebe was not avoiding her, she was still distracted.

“I am very glad to be able to see you alone today.” Emilia accepted her tea. “I must tell you immediately what I have discovered about Mr. Poe—the same man with whom your father signed a marriage agreement for you.”

Phoebe made an effort to relax her shoulders and clenched jaw. “I had thought he sailed back to the Colonies.”

He apparently put off his departure. At a ball last week, Mrs. Sauber was introducing him to the other guests, and I could not avoid meeting him.” Emilia’s distasteful expression indicated her impression of him.

“I suppose it was to be expected that he would remain in England. However, I do not know how to force my father to break off the engagement. No, more than that, I simply wish for him to leave me alone.” Her thoughts had been consumed by her aunt’s safety the past week, but now she needed to try to think of something she could do.

“Phoebe.” Emilia leaned closer to her, and her voice dropped as she clenched her hands tightly in her lap. “I have heard a story recently, which I remembered when I saw the gold cravat pin that Mr. Poe was wearing.”

“Cravat pin?”

“Oh, I mustn’t muddle the story.” Emilia took a deep breath. “I was concerned for you when you told me about the engagement, so I listened to any gossip about Mr. Poe that I happened to hear. People were talking about an incident several weeks ago when Mr. Poe argued with Mr. Marstowe over a card game at Boodle’s.”

Phoebe shook her head. “I had not heard about it. I am not acquainted with Mr. Marstowe.”

“It likely would not have been brought up at all except for the fact that Mr. Marstowe was found dead in his home a few days ago. There is a rumor that his wineglass was poisoned.”

“Poison?” Phoebe immediately thought of Apothecary Jack, but then she calmed herself. Surely Jack was not behind every incidence of poisoning in London.

“It is not proven yet,” Emilia said. “There were many valuables taken, so it is thought to be a robbery. He did not live in an affluent area.”

“Is Mr. Poe suspected?”

“No, but … You recall that I work with the Society of the Benevolent Voice in the Wilderness for the Rescue of Souls Lost in the Darkness of Heathenism in the Long Glades?”

“Yes, of course.” Actually, Phoebe wouldn’t have been able to repeat the name of the charitable organization if pressed about it, so she assumed it was the same one Emilia had told her about before.

“We speak with many of the women in the area around Brannon Church, and I happened to hear a strange bit of gossip. A woman had spoken with two prostitutes who saw a man running away from Mr. Marstowe’s home on the night he was killed. He saw the women as clearly as they saw him, so they were afraid to come forward when Mr. Marstowe was found to have been killed.” Miss Tolberton leaned even closer. “They said that he had thinning blond hair and wore a gaudy gold cravat pin of a peacock with multi-colored jewels on its tail. When I met Mr. Poe last week at the ball, I noticed that he has thinning blond hair, and what was more, he wore a pin exactly like that. It is unlikely that two men have the same unusual pin, don’t you think?”

Shocked at the news, Phoebe swallowed a few times before she could answer. “Yes, it is difficult to believe there would be two such pins.”

“The women I spoke with told me that Mr. Marstowe’s relatives are looking for the murderer and have even hired Bow Street Runners, but there are no suspects. Only the two prostitutes had seen the man running from Mr. Marstowe’s home, and they did not speak of it to anyone except the women who were gossiping about it.”

“But there is no proof that Mr. Poe did something so shocking.”

“The rumor is that none of the things stolen from Mr. Marstowe—a gold and emerald snuffbox, which he had been very proud of, and a gold and emerald pocket watch that he had bought to match the snuffbox—have been sold. They are too recognizable, so they are likely still in the hands of whoever stole them.”

Phoebe gave a small gasp. “Mr. Poe is staying in my father’s house.”

Emilia nodded. “I had heard that. I was not certain what I should do, which was why I wished to speak to you. I thought about going to see the Bow Street Runners, but they might make a spectacle when they go to Mr. Sauber’s house to apprehend Mr. Poe.”

“It would cause terrible gossip.”

“It might ruin his reputation,” Emilia said. “I care little for that, after how he has treated you, but I was concerned that it might also ruin your reputation and cause gossip about both you and Lady Wynwood.”

Phoebe thought of Uncle Sol. While he was still disgruntled with Sir Derrick’s actions during the search for Aunt Laura, he also still had the means to handle a domestic investigation of this sort in a quiet manner. It involved the safety of one of his agents (namely Phoebe), so he might be able to justify his actions as protection on her behalf. “My aunt might be able to persuade the police to search my father’s house quietly.”

“If she has the means to do so, I think that would be best. The stolen items would likely be found in Mr. Poe’s bedroom.”

Phoebe reached over to clasp Emilia’s hand. “I thank you for coming to me. I am sorry you were forced to relate to me such distressing news.”

She covered Phoebe’s hand with her own. “I would not wish you married to a man like Mr. Poe for all the world. Your father could not force you to marry a murderer and thief.”

“It is not too much of an exaggeration to say that you have rescued me from possible danger.”

“I am only too glad to help you.” Emilia’s smile caused dimples to appear on her cheeks. “You offered me a great deal of comfort over my problems with my own father. I only wish I had known that you enjoyed gardening when we met in our first Seasons so that we could have become close friends sooner and spoken more about our plants.”

“I feel the same way. It would have made the past few Seasons in London more enjoyable to have a friend to share my interests.”

Emilia rose to her feet. “I am afraid I must leave. I must prepare for a Venetian Breakfast hosted by my godmother.” She grinned, making her sky-blue eyes twinkle. “If it could be called ‘breakfast’ when it is set for the afternoon.”

After she had left, the door to the library opened and Mr. Rosmont exited. “I shall speak with Mr. Drydale about searching Mr. Sauber’s house.”

“Thank you.” There was a fluttering in her chest, like a flock of birds trying to escape her ribcage. She realized it was intense relief.

He sat on the sofa across from her. “If Mr. Poe is indeed guilty of murder and arrested, your father will be forced to disassociate your family from him and the engagement will be called off.”

Phoebe’s hand went to the base of her throat. “If I had not become closer friends with Miss Tolberton, and she had not been doing charity work in the Long Glades for the past several years, I would never have known this about Mr. Poe. Instead, my father would be relentless in his attempts to force me to marry him, especially since Mr. Poe is likely forfeiting my dowry. In the carriage, I had decided to trust in the Lord in all my troubles with my father, but I had not expected to be answered so quickly.”

He still looked a bit uncomfortable at mention of God, but he said, “I admit I am very relieved for you.”

“For the past two years, I wanted to escape from my father and had been prepared to accept any marriage, no matter how repellent.” She stared down at her teacup, where the tea had grown cold. “But only when my father arranged this marriage did I realize that the price of marrying a man like Mr. Poe, cold and violent and selfish, would have been too high.”

“No woman should be forced to shackle herself to a man who will cause her harm.” His voice was thick with suppressed anger, perhaps because of what Aunt Laura had recently suffered.

“I would not have realized that if my father had not betrayed me.” Her voice cracked. “I might have meekly accepted the marriage contract. But because I went to live with Aunt Laura, I discovered that I desire something more than the role of wife and mother.” She looked up at Mr. Rosmont. “I wish to continue working with Uncle Sol to help protect England from threats like the Root and the Citadel. I cannot be a soldier in the army, but I can do this.”

He gave her a half-smile, which was equal parts approval and ruefulness. “I was reluctant to involve civilians, but I have realized that Mr. Drydale was correct. You and Miss Gardinier are well-suited for these things.” His smile then faded. “But the danger from your father is not past.”

She nodded reluctantly. “I may not be forced to marry Mr. Poe, but he will surely try to find someone else to marry me.” She gave a huff of frustration. “I do not wish to live my life in fear that my father has some other scheme to force me to do his bidding, whatever that may be.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Rosmont said slowly, “you may find a man to marry who will not be so detestable as Mr. Poe.”

The laugh, hard rather than humorous, burst from her throat. “Who in their right mind would want me? I have not found a man to marry in five Seasons. I am unlikely to find someone now that I am nearly on the shelf and even less inclined to behave like a proper society miss.”

Mr. Rosmont opened his mouth, as if to respond, but then closed it again.

Phoebe flushed. “I thank you for your concern,” she said in a more gentle voice. “I apologize that I must drag you into my family dilemmas yet again.” He had helped her to open her father’s safe to retrieve her mother’s jewels, and he had been with her when she discovered her father had stolen her dowry.

“It is nothing,” he said gruffly. “You should complete your tasks here so that I may escort your back to your aunt and hurry to tell Mr. Drydale about Mr. Poe. I am certain that the Ramparts can arrest him quietly.”

“I don’t care about my father’s reputation,” Phoebe said coolly, “but I do worry that there may be unpleasant gossip that taints my aunt’s reputation since I am staying with her and it is known that I am on the outs with my father.” She stood. “I shall speak to the servants, and then we may leave.”

Phoebe discussed her aunt’s forthcoming plans with the servants, who all insisted upon moving to her new residence with her. She made arrangements for the townhouse to be closed up.

They were again in the entry hall, donning their outerwear, when Mrs. Rook hurried toward them. “Miss Phoebe, this note was just found. It was slipped under the door of the front area of the townhouse, but since the kitchen is in the back, no one knew it had been delivered. I do beg your pardon.”

Phoebe took the letter and saw the unfamiliar handwriting. Her aunt had given her permission to open any messages at the townhouse, but she still hesitated. There was something bold and powerful in the lines on the page, something that demanded respect and hinted that the writer was someone more than a society matron.

She opened the note. It was unsigned, and there was only a single line.

It is urgent that I speak with the Blue Madam. Bring Drydale.

Phoebe gasped. “Aunt Laura must see this immediately.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

It had been comfortable in a guest room at Glencowe Castle, but Laura had wanted to return to London to look for the notebooks that Maxham had mentioned. She’d had one or two nightmares, during which Aya woke her, just as she had when Wynwood was alive. In a sad, horrible way, it had all been very familiar to her and her maid.

And because it was familiar, she also knew that activity kept her from brooding and helped to heal unseen scars. So she took Lady Aymer’s recommendation for a clean but small hotel and checked in under a different name. Then she prepared to find another place to live for the time being.

She had already made plans while at Glencowe Castle, writing to her friend, Mrs. Haudenby, whose rheumatism had kept her from coming to London for the Season this year. She expected a note any day now, and so had sent Phoebe to read her mail and organize the servants for the move.

Laura wasn’t in any condition to do much besides read while in her suite, and she had been trying to prevent Aya from having too much to do, since she was also still recovering from the bump on her head. Laura was forced to merely wait for others to arrange things, so she was surprised when there was a knock at the door to the hotel room. But perhaps she should not have been surprised, since it was Sol.

She felt a combination of joy and trepidation. After he had enfolded her in his arms at the hunting lodge, his presence in her heart had seemed to linger, making him ever dearer to her. But the news she had recently read, and the knowledge of what she still had not confessed to him, made her unwilling to see him.

Except that she must not shy away from it. You are no coward, Laura, she reminded herself as she nodded and smiled to Aya to welcome Sol inside.

The sitting room to the suite was already small—only a little larger than the bedroom she shared with Aya, which was larger still than Phoebe’s tiny room—but Sol’s presence seemed to fill the entire space. Laura nodded to Aya, who looked resigned, but curtseyed and left them alone, shutting herself in Laura’s bedroom.

She had been reclining on a sofa, but she sat up and motioned for him to take an adjacent chair in front of the fire. “You will excuse me for not standing to greet you,” she said with the casualness of their long-standing friendship. And then she realized that this might be one of the last times she could receive him this way, and it sobered her.

“Of course.” He seated himself, but gave her an exasperated look. “You should have remained in Bedfordshire. It would have been more comfortable.”

“I need only rest, and I can do that far better in a cozy apartment such as this than in a large space such as Glencowe, with servants hovering and Lord Wynwood trying to organize engagements in order to be the perfect host.” She sighed at the memory. “No, I assure you, I would not be truly comfortable until I return to my own townhouse, and that will not be for some time.”

“I am still trying to find a more secure place for you to stay.”

“There is no need. I am in the process of making my own arrangements.”

He was surprised, and perhaps … a little hurt?

“I trust you, Sol,” she said, hoping to dispel his concern, “but I have decided to take my safety into my own hands rather than relying upon your superiors. My reasoning is very logical, which you will probably appreciate.”

He gave a half-smile at her jab at him. “And what is your very logical reasoning?”

“If I were a general of an army, or an admiral of a navy, I would discover what the enemy most desires and use it to bait them out. In this case, it would be the widowed woman with no close family ties, no children or husband or parents, and no political power or influence.”

His face grew hard. “I would not allow anyone to do that to you, Laura.”

“I know you would not. But I wish to remove the temptation from the Ramparts, all the same, so that you need not be forced to make a decision such as that.” She gave him a rueful smile. “In this way, allow me to protect you, Sol.”

The emotions that chased across his face were complex and complicated. “Laura …” He seemed to be uncertain how to respond, so instead he reached over to touch her hand.

She awkwardly withdrew from his touch. As his friend, she had been too carelessly intimate with him. It might seem strange to distance herself from him now, but it was necessary.

Surprised, he stiffly sat back in his seat.

Laura did not wish to cause the silence to become stilted, so she cleared her throat and said, “I offer you my condolences, Sol, on the deaths of your cousin’s sons.”

Those chocolate-brown eyes lowered to stare at his hands, clasped in his lap. “You read it in the papers?”

“Actually, I first overheard it when we were traveling from Ibstone back to London. We stopped at an inn on the way to take luncheon, and a woman was speaking to her friend about how she had been visiting the village nearest your cousin’s estate and heard about the young men’s tragic deaths. After that, I looked it up in the paper to read about it for myself. As I recall, they were rather … high-spirited and full of life.”

His mouth twisted. “I suppose that is the kindest word for their rowdy behavior. They were boating with some friends at a lake on the friend’s property when they all fell in. Rather than resting, they all continued drinking for several days, then returned home on horseback. They arrived very ill and died within a few days of each other.”

Laura exhaled deeply. “Your poor cousin. He loved his sons quite fiercely.”

“He was never in good health, and now he is bedridden.”

She hesitated, then said, “In light of that, it seems quite callous to congratulate you.”

Sol rubbed his face with his hand. “I received a letter last week from Cousin Frederick’s attorney, explaining the situation. I wrote to ask if I ought to visit him, but the attorney said that he is very ill and grieving over his sons, and would not welcome my visit.”

“I am sorry, Sol. I know your relationship with your cousin was never amiable to begin with.”

“I never expected to inherit the title because my cousin’s sons were young and healthy.” His voice sounded almost pleading. “I never wanted to the responsibility. I never trained to be a gentleman farmer.”

“I know, Sol.”

They stared at each other, and his eyes were full of suffering. When he had unreservedly embraced her, she had suspected that something in their relationship had shifted for him—but nothing had changed for her. There had always been a wall between them that would forever keep them from becoming more than friends. She had known it, even though she loved him.

She never expected him to fall in love with her, but she knew that even if he had, nothing could come of it. That wall between them was unshakeable. And now that wall had been reinforced and strengthened.

Laura wet her lips and forced herself to say, “Now that you are heir apparent to Viscount Purcombe, you must marry again. You must marry a woman who can bear you a son and heir.”

She could never be that woman.

Her heart had soared when he held her in his arms, when she knew he had come for her at last, and she had allowed a moment to lie to herself. To tell herself that his affection for her would be strong enough to overcome the reasons he should never love her.

And then she had heard of the deaths of his cousin’s children. Of Sol’s future inheritance. And all her tenuous hopes went tumbling down around her like a demolished house of cards.

He could not meet her gaze. His pain shone through his eyes, pain for himself, but also pain that he was hurting her.

But she could forgive him for that. She had been hurt before by men who had cared far less for her.

Laura knew she was simply delaying what she must tell him. She had brought up his cousin’s sons because she had shied away from speaking what needed to be said. “I have something to confess to you, Sol, about the night that Wynwood died.”

He blinked at her. It took him some moments to reorient his thoughts to the change in topic. But when he did, his chocolate eyes grew soft and warm and comforting. “You can tell me anything, Laura.”

She took a breath, because the memory of that night was far worse than anything that had happened in that hunting lodge, and would haunt her for far longer. “I told you that Wynwood and I had been arguing.”

He nodded, but stiffly. He fully understood that an argument with her husband had not been simply shouted words.

“Wynwood had been particularly vicious that night. Aya burst in to the library and tried to stop him. He picked up the fireplace poker, and he was hurting her, so I hit him on the back of the head with a silver paperweight.” All she saw was blood. So much blood. “He staggered out of the room and fell down the stairs. That wound on his head … that had not been from the stairs. That had been from me.”

“Laura, he was poisoned. He would have fallen whether you hit him or not.”

She shook her head. “He would have continued to beat Aya … or me … and then he would have become too exhausted from the exertion and sat in the library chair. And then he might have died. Or perhaps he would have survived the poison.” Although if it had been Apothecary Jack who had poisoned him, that would have been unlikely.

“He might have killed you or Aya before that happened.” Sol’s voice was like nothing she’d ever heard before—strained and sharp, like a sword blade being bent and about to snap from the pressure.

She couldn’t refute him. There had been some nights she thought he would kill her. She took another deep breath, knowing that others’ lives rested upon her next words. “We cleaned up the blood in the library. Rather, the servants did. I ordered them to do it.”

“Laura.” His voice was measured.

Just that word made her raise her eyes to his. She hadn’t realized she had dropped her gaze to her lap.

“I know you’re lying,” he said.

“I am not lying,” she said with a faintly petulant tone.

“Not about cleaning up the blood. You did not order them.”

“I did not stop them. I allowed them to do it. It is the same as an order.”

“Laura—”

“The servants turned the body over,” she interrupted him, needing to confess it all before she lost her nerve. “They smeared blood on the steps so that it would seem as though the fall had caused the injury, but I caused it.” She was panting as though she had run up several flights of stairs.

“Laura, he was poisoned,” Sol said again, his voice harder.

“He might have survived if I hadn’t hit him,” she replied fiercely. Then, in a small voice, she asked, “Will you need to arrest me for killing Wynwood?”

“Of course not!” he exploded. He almost rose to his feet, but then settled back down on the sofa. “How could you think I would do such a thing?” And it was only then that she realized that her question had stung him more than shocked him.

“He might have survived if I hadn’t hit him.”

“I saw Aya’s broken legs,” he said in a deep, throbbing voice. “I spoke to Dr. Heddetch. You had several broken ribs because Wynwood had been kicking you.”

She saw that it grieved him to even speak of what had happened to her and to Aya.

“Even without the poison,” he said, “I would never blame you or your servants for protecting you from a violent man.”

“They were not protecting me from Wynwood when they hid the blood.”

“It actually made my job easier.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I beg your pardon?”

He gave a soft sigh. “After discovering the poison in the decanter, the Ramparts would have wanted to make Wynwood’s death seem like an accident, regardless of what had truly happened. Otherwise, the police would have suspected you of poisoning your husband, and it’s likely that Wynwood’s treasonous sentiments would have come to light. The Alien Office knew that the Ramparts had been investigating him and had yet to verify if he had been a threat or if he had had compatriots. It would have been embarrassing for Wynwood’s death to attract so much attention, and it might have ruined investigations into other men connected to Wynwood who were suspected of treason. My superiors would have done anything to prevent their department’s reputation from suffering.” These last words were said heavily dosed with bitterness.

“Did they never suspect that I had poisoned him?” Would she have had to answer for his death all those years ago, not because of the blow to his head, but because of the poisoned decanter?

Strangely, Sol smiled at her. “Even back then, I knew you well enough that you could have killed him in other ways that would have been less obvious, especially since you lived in the same house with him. If you’d poisoned him, you would have been intelligent enough to remove the decanter immediately. You would not have forgotten about it.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “I feel I should not be pleased that you have such faith in my ability to cleverly commit the perfect crime.”

“I spoke up in your defense to my superiors. It quite convinced them.”

“Did it?” She was rather suspicious of his innocent expression.

“It was also mentioned that the poison used was unusual and hard to acquire, which made it less likely you could have done it.”

“So it was not my cleverness, it was the fact that a mere woman could not possibly have gotten hold of that particular poison.”

He gave her a wary look. “Why do I feel like you’re angry that you were proven innocent all those years ago?”

She threw her hands up. “You’re right. I am indeed grateful that I was not under suspicion.” She took a breath, then said in a softer voice, “I felt burdened to confess to you what I’d done.”

He leaned forward in his seat. “You should not have felt guilty.”

“I didn’t like deceiving you.” She looked up at him, tracing the noble brow, his sensual lips, and the hint of a dimple in his cheek with her gaze. All of him was so dear to her. “I was afraid of what you might have done to me or to my servants for covering up what had happened.”

Wretchedness clouded his eyes, confusing her until he said in a low voice, “I am sorry I could not protect you from him. I am sorry I wasn’t able to do anything to help you. I knew what Wynwood was like, and yet I did nothing.”

“Oh, Sol.” She wanted to reach out to touch him, but refrained. “I do not blame you, because the decision to marry Wynwood had been mine alone. I cared more about his handsome face, and his money, and his title than the moral character of the person behind all of that.”

“There is no way you could have known he was violent.”

“Perhaps, but I also did not try very hard to leave him. I cared too much for that money and that title.”

“He would not have allowed you to live apart from him. Remember, I knew him, too, and in ways that he would never have revealed to you. He wanted to keep you under his control, like a pet bird in a cage.”

“Even if he had opened that cage door, I don’t know that I would have had the strength, then, to fly out.” She looked away from him. “I realized long ago that I have to face the consequences of my own decisions. And life is not simply one decision, but a series of several of them.”

For once, she couldn’t read his emotions. He opened his mouth, but she never heard what he was about to say, because there was suddenly the sound of footsteps from the hallway outside her door. The rattle of scraping metal from the lock caused Sol to rise to his feet.

Phoebe hurried into the room, followed by Mr. Rosmont. Her fretful expression changed to surprise, then relief when she saw Sol.

“What has happened?” Laura asked her.

Without answering, Phoebe simply handed her a missive.

Laura read the note, recognizing the elegant handwriting. The name the writer had mentioned made her heart tighten for a moment. How had she known?

No, that was a foolish question. Of course she would have known. She knew everything.

“When was this delivered?” she asked Phoebe.

“The servants don’t know. It had been slipped under the door to the front area of the house.”

“We must leave at once.” Laura struggled to rise from the sofa just as Aya emerged from her bedroom.

“You are in no condition to travel anywhere,” Sol said even as he helped her to struggle to her feet.

It was true that her entire torso felt as though it were one large bruise, but the letter writer did not lightly use words like “urgent.”

“Aya, did you bring the blue dress?” Laura asked.

Her maid stilled.

Sol noticed. His eyebrows drew down as he frowned at Laura. “Blue dress? What sort of event are you …” His mouth suddenly cracked open and his eyes widened. “What did that note say?”

“I shall come with you,” Phoebe said. Her expression told Laura that she had guessed the author of the note, although Laura had never spoken to her about Rachey Street. Perhaps Aya had told her.

“No, it is too dangerous. And she has not asked for you.” Laura turned to Sol. “Will you come with me, Sol?”

“Where?”

“To Rachey Street.” Laura swallowed, wondering if she would survive this strange occurrence of two worlds colliding. “I don’t know how she knows about you, but … the Senhora has asked to meet you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Rachey Street was in a small area of London called Orario, although no one remembered why it had been given that name. It was nearing dusk, and the tall buildings blocked out the light, but Rachey Street was just brightly lit enough by open windows and doorways to give it a festive air without making any gentlemen walking along the road concern themselves about being easily recognized.

And there were a great many gentlemen walking along, most of them finely dressed. Only one street over in either direction, the roads were much darker and the residents dressed in dirty, ragged clothing, but here was a small area catering to wealthy men. Warm lamplight shone from glass windows, and laughter burst out occasionally from shuttered ones open to the cool night air.

Sol helped Laura from the carriage, but he was surprised when she didn’t enter the house where it had stopped. Instead, she began walking down the street, trailed by Aya and Calvin dressed in an unfamiliar livery. He quickly caught up with her, but the back of his neck prickled. Several women on the street or watching from open windows were staring at them.

They should not have recognized them, for Laura was dressed in a dark blue dress and veil that obscured her face. Sol had not had opportunity to disguise himself, but Aya had spoken to the innkeeper at Laura’s hotel and borrowed a gray scarf that he wrapped high around his neck, partially hiding his face, and his hat was pulled low on his forehead.

Sol had discovered a few years ago that Laura made regular trips to Rachey Street. At first he thought she was proselytizing to the “sinful” women in the area, but inquiries revealed that the prostitutes who knew of the “Blue Madam” all thought very highly of her, although they also confessed to being confused that she was also a devout Christian.

She was known to provide medical treatment for wounded or sick prostitutes (ironically, Dr. Heddetch had been the doctor she hired), and she had also bought women or children being illicitly sold as slaves. While at first some whispered about how some of those women disappeared from London entirely, it was later revealed that the Blue Madam had found work for them in the country. Sol knew that the twins had come to work for Laura two years ago after she’d bought them from an illegal slave auction.

Her efforts were small, merely a drop in the bucket compared to all the women and children suffering in London, but by now there were dozens who owed their lives to her direct, personal intervention. They knew she was wealthy, but none had any idea of her true face or name, except for the twins.

Sol leaned close to her to ask in a low voice, “I thought you were well-known here. Why are people staring at you?”

He couldn’t see her expression, but she turned her head slightly toward him. “They’re staring at you. The Blue Madam has never brought a gentleman with her before.”

His face flushed hot as he pulled his hat down further on his head and pulled the scarf up to cover more of his features. Nonetheless, he continued to remain wary of his surroundings. He noticed that Aya kept her eyes alert and Calvin also remained vigilant despite his deceptively casual slouch.

Sol followed slightly behind her, watching her slim, straight back. She did not reach to take his arm as she would have on Bond Street or in the park, but instead strode forward with purpose.

However, there was a brittleness in her movements that wasn’t there before, and he wasn’t entirely certain he wasn’t imagining it. It was as though she were made of glass and being careful so that she didn’t shatter.

He had been worried for her after her ordeal, and had been surprised to find her manner almost completely normal. But now he realized that she was instead doing her best to hide her nervousness since a show of weakness in an area such as this was dangerous. He hoped that his presence helped to ease her mind a bit.

Sol hadn’t even known she’d returned to town until he’d received her note this afternoon, informing him of the hotel where she had taken a room. He was torn between relief that she was no longer at Glencowe Castle, which was not very safe for her, and worry that the hotel was not secure, either, being in a poorer area of town. And then she was forced to attend to this woman on Rachey Street the very day she had returned from her long journey from Bedfordshire.

He was rather disturbed to find that he didn’t know about this woman, but that she had asked for him specifically. Laura assured him that she never told the Senhora about him or his connection to the Ramparts, but she had not been surprised that the woman had found out about him, which was alarming in a different way.

The walk seemed to take forever before they finally turned to climb the shallow steps up to the front door of a townhouse. It was a little more elegant than its neighbors, but they were all already of a slightly higher class than most houses in this area. All had clean-swept front steps, fresh paint on the doors, and glass in their front windows, although almost all the windows were obscured by closed curtains. But the more dingy buildings only a block away gave the houses a shabby air.

The knock on the door was answered by a butler who looked to Sol like a professional brawler. However, he bowed correctly as they entered. “She is waiting upstairs for you, ma’am,” he said in a gravely but polite voice.

He barely glanced at Sol even while taking all their outerwear except for Laura’s veiled bonnet. He then led the way up the stairs and then down a hallway lined with closed doors.

The interior of the house was more elegant than the exterior, with rich furnishings and paintings on the walls. Muffled conversation could be heard behind the first set of double-doors, which seemed like a drawing room, but the rest of the hallway was surprisingly quiet. Near the end, Sol heard the strains of a pianoforte, very expertly played, behind one of the closed doors.

They climbed another set of stairs to the second floor and down yet another hallway, this one narrower and with a lower ceiling, making it dimmer and giving it a closed feel. At the end, the butler knocked on a door and a woman’s voice called, “Come.”

It was an office, with a desk and bookshelves in the far corner, but a cozy fire and chairs at the other end of the room. Rich burgundy curtains blocked the windows and a thick carpet of the same color covered the floor, making the room even more dim and quiet than the rest of the house had been.

A woman had been sitting in a chair in front of the fireplace, but she rose as they entered. She was very short, but she carried herself like a queen, and there was a sinuous grace to her body that brought to mind dancers. Her eyes were beautiful, tipped up slightly at the edges with full, dark lashes. Her hair might have a slightly unnatural darkness to it, but it did not look too obviously dyed, and it had been expertly styled in a fashion that framed her oval face. At first glance she had looked young, but then the firelight revealed the fine lines at her eyes and mouth—yet she had the face of a woman who had been a stunning beauty and was considered one still because she had developed even greater strength and elegance.

Her greeting to them was regal, a bare tilt of the chin and sweep of her silver-lavender silk skirt. She addressed Aya and Calvin first, with a softening of her mouth as she said, “The cook has anticipated your visit with Aya’s favorite amber pudding.” Her voice had a smoky quality, with an accent that reminded Sol of the Spanish aristocrats he had met on the Peninsula, during the few missions there that he had undertaken since the war had started.

Aya curtseyed and Calvin bowed deeply, and the two of them left with the butler, shutting the door behind them.

She addressed Sol next. “You may call me Senhora.” She gave no other name.

“How do you do? I am—”

She held up a hand to forestall him. “Do not speak your name here.” She gestured to the chairs that circled a small table and gracefully reseated herself in a chair striped in burgundy and green, which put him to mind of a throne.

A knock at the door brought a maid with a laden tea tray. After depositing it on the table, she quietly left them. Only then did Laura remove her bonnet and veil.

The Senhora gestured for Laura to pour the tea. As she did so, Senhora spoke to Sol. “Do you know where you are?”

“This is Saffron House.” He’d only heard of it but had never been here before. As far as he knew, according to a cursory investigation by the Ramparts, it was simply a high-class brothel, often utilized by wealthy and influential men.

“This house sells a great many things,” the Senhora said. “Do you know what is the product most sold? Information. My women here and others across London collect and sell information to me. In bits and pieces, they mean nothing, but for someone who understands patterns, many secrets can be uncovered that men strive to keep hidden.”

He suddenly realized the source Laura had been trying to protect. “You sold L—the Blue Madam the information about Bianca.”

“I have known of your little chess club for many years, but I did not know that you counted among their membership until the Blue Madam mentioned Bianca the last time we spoke, and gave proof of Bianca’s secret friends, who had only been rumors to me.” The Senhora smiled at Sol, although it made him think of a panther, not inclined to strike but dangerous nonetheless.

How did this woman know about the Ramparts, when Sol, a senior officer, had not known about her? Sol kept his face impassive, accepting a teacup from Laura. His hand brushed hers, and found her fingers cold.

He did not speak, but the Senhora apparently did not expect him to answer her, and continued, “Twelve years ago, around the time Bianca took up with Wynwood, some acquaintances of yours darkened my doors. They complained to my girls about how you had inexplicably begun spending more time with Lord Wynwood and his wife. A few innocent questions put to men with whom you are publicly seen these days, and a very faint trail leads back to the chessboard.”

“How many others know?” He tried to keep his voice even, but there was a strangled quality to his tone.

“None. I flatter myself that only I could have untangled such a knotted weave. You hid your association quite well. But I tell you this only to explain why I have asked my lady to bring you with her tonight.”

Before Sol could answer, Laura asked, “What is your price?” Her voice was calm, but he had the impression that she bargained with this woman quite often.

The Senhora seemed amused rather than offended, her dark eyes crinkling. “I shall send you a modiste bill to pay for me.”

Laura nodded. Sol was about to tell her to send the bill to him, but there was an intensity to Laura’s gaze that made him realize that there was more to the modiste bill than simply the money. He said to Laura, “I shall reimburse you.”

Rather than answering him, Laura looked to the Senhora. The woman’s smile deepened, and she nodded assent. “That would be acceptable.”

Laura gave him a cool smile, but the pointed glare in her eyes told him to keep his mouth shut.

The Senhora accepted a teacup from Laura. “The last time we spoke, we talked of Jack Dix. I have always avoided digging too deeply into his business because he is insane and dangerous, a truly terrible combination. But since our talk, I have been discreetly gathering information. I have learned of his friendship with a man called Maxham, but I do not think he is Jack’s friend. He is perhaps a mentor to him.”

Laura nodded. She had told Sol her impressions of the two men when she had interacted with them at the hunting lodge, and she had mentioned that Jack felt obligated to Maxham.

“Curiously, Maxham has been active in the underworld of London for decades.” The Senhora sipped her tea.

“Decades?” Laura asked, then looked as though she wished she hadn’t spoken.

The Senhora’s eyes missed nothing. “You have met him?”

She nodded reluctantly, but all she said about him was, “He looks quite young.”

“Indeed. Perhaps he has taken on the name and business from the original man, who has died.”

“What is his business?” Sol asked.

“He primarily deals in children, and making them disappear.”

Sol had to concentrate to lower his teacup carefully, his fingers digging into the porcelain tightly. He now doubly regretted that Maxham had gotten away at the hunting lodge.

“A few days ago, one of my girls came to me with some information she had heard,” the Senhora said. “There is an actress by the name of Dinorah Seiles. She is friends, of a sort, with Jack. Perhaps he likes her because unlike other actresses, Dinorah is foolishly not afraid of him. They were seen having a long conversation at a coffeeshop several weeks ago, which is not unusual. However, a few days later, Maxham was seen escorting Dinorah to her modiste.”

“If he is Jack’s mentor, perhaps he is friends, of a sort, with her,” Sol said.

The Senhora shook her head. “They have never been seen together, and he paid for a rush order of several expensive gowns for her. What is more, the dresses were not revealing or flashy, as would be expected of her. Instead, they were fashionable, conservative—what I would have expected a young lady of society to wear during her debut Season. Except that Dinorah is perhaps around thirty years old.”

“They were for herself?” Laura asked. “Not for someone else?”

“They were made to her measurements. She came back for several fittings—without Maxham—and was heard to boast to the modiste that she had attended several high society events, posing as a young woman of the nobility.”

“It could be possible to pose as a young woman who has never been seen in town before,” Sol said, “but could she make herself appear to be so young? And what of her deportment? Her speech and manners?”

The Senhora shrugged. “Apparently she is a better actress than she is given credit for. She was crowing about her success. While she does not reveal her true age, she is beautiful and could look like a very young woman if she combines it with young mannerisms.”

“Why would Jack and Maxham wish her to attend society events, posing as a young woman?” Laura asked.

“That was not their entire aim,” the Senhora said. “Two or three weeks later, she left town in a fine carriage, according to her neighbors. No one thought much of it, since she has gone on trips before, usually to exclusive house parties with wealthy gentlemen. But her activities before that—attending society functions—seemed odd, so I looked into it.” Her lips twisted into a half-smile. “Prostitutes love to gossip, especially if you sweeten the conversation with gold. Strangely, Dinorah had not told her friends where she was going or how long she would be away. Several of her friends said that her decision to leave was quite sudden, but others noted that she had stopped accepting party invitations around the time she ordered her gowns.”

“So she must have already intended to leave, but she hadn’t told anyone her plans,” Laura said.

“It seems as though she might have been sent somewhere by Jack and Maxham,” Sol said, “which was why Maxham paid for her new clothes.”

“Yes, I believe so, as well,” the Senhora said.

Laura’s eyes narrowed. “You mentioned her gowns were the type ordered for a young woman in her debut Season. But what types of clothing did she order, exactly?”

The Senhora smiled at her, much like a teacher proud of her pupil. “Several pale muslin gowns—you know the sort, appropriate for morning callers or afternoon visits. The modiste’s assistant—who gave me this information—said that Dinorah had a quiet argument with Maxham. The girl could not hear the conversation, but Dinorah was eventually limited to merely one evening gown of blue gauze over a pastel blue satin slip, trimmed with vandyke lace—what you would see a seventeen-year-old wear at Almack’s.”

“Just a single gown?” Laura asked. “Perhaps it points to only one or two evening entertainments.”

“I doubt that,” the Senhora said. “It instead may suggest that Dinorah already owns several other evening gowns which may be altered to serve the purpose. If the color is not too dark, even a daring gown may be made sweet and proper with the application of lace or a new overdress.”

“What about a riding habit? A spencer or pelisse?” Laura asked.

“She did not order a riding habit, so she is probably intending to use one she already owns, or she does not intend to ride. She ordered several carriage dresses and a dark blue spencer with military trimming as was seen in Ackermann’s, a style that is popular this Season with young women.”

“If what you say is true,” Sol said, “then although Maxham paid for the lot, her wardrobe would enable her to deceive a gentleman, or an especially wealthy merchant, and appear more innocent and respectable.”

“Yes,” the Senhora said. “In my experience, I have seen other prostitutes make unusual dress orders such as this when they intend to run some elaborate deception on the nobility.”

“But she would need more than a new wardrobe to appear to be a young lady of society,” Laura said. “She would need a chaperone and sponsor, and her lady’s maid would need to be equally clever as an actress to not reveal her secret.”

“Luckily for me, Dinorah offended her lady’s maid, which she should have been smarter not to do,” the Senhora said. “She apparently wanted some other woman as her maid and sacked her old one, who had been working for her for three or four years. The woman was angry enough to complain vociferously about her ex-mistress. Mrs. Fulton is a crass creature, but a skilled hairdresser, which was why Dinorah had put up with her for so long.”

“If she intended to pose as a member of the haut ton,” Laura said, “she would need a more proper lady’s maid.”

“Yes, that is why I believe she let Mrs. Fulton go,” the Senhora said. “According to the woman, Dinorah took most of her things, as if for a long trip.”

“Did you discover where she was headed?” Sol asked.

“It took some time, which is why I have only now contacted you,” the Senhora said. “I had my women speak to the many seamstresses employed by Dinorah’s modiste. One girl had been alone with Dinorah when she came for her final fitting of a gown and had been pinning the dress. She had been accompanied by her brother—Dinorah has an older brother named Emmitt Seiles. They are very close, although they do not look alike, and he is known to be protective of her. During the fitting, she complained to him that she would be bored with country life and had never heard of Wittenden.”

“Wittenden?” Laura had a thoughtful look on her face.

“What is in Wittenden?” Sol asked. “Why would Jack and Maxham send an actress there?”

“You mentioned that she is close to her brother,” Laura said. “Did he accompany her?”

“The neighbors who saw Dinorah when she left said that the carriage was fine, but she was only accompanied by an older, respectable-looking woman already inside. She was not dressed like a servant, but not overly fashionable, either.”

“Someone aware of the deception and aiding her?” Laura asked. “Or perhaps someone Dinorah hired who is unaware of who she truly is.”

“What does Dinorah look like?” Sol asked.

“She has brown hair, but I do not know if that is her true hair color,” the Senhora said. “It would be easy to dye it or to wear a wig. She is also skilled enough to be able to drastically change her face with simple cosmetics. Her eyes can look green or gray depending upon what face-paint she uses or the colors she wears. She is slightly above average height, so that might help identify her.”

Sol frowned as he thought. “An actress sent by Jack and Maxham to a remote village, intending to pose as a lady of quality. She would probably interact with country society, but what would her objective be?”

“Women who engage in that sort of deception almost always intend to capture a man in marriage,” the Senhora said wryly. “But I would not know why Jack and Maxham would send a woman to try to do that, or who her target may be.”

Laura was looking at him expectantly, but he didn’t have any other questions. He stood and bowed deeply to the Senhora. “I am most grateful to you, ma’am. I shall act upon this information you have gifted to me.”

“Use it wisely. I hope I need not tell you to keep my name from your other senior officers. You may speak of me to Sir Derrick, but not to Antingham or Uppleby. May I have your word on that?”

Once again, he was amazed at how much she knew. It was also curious that Sir Derrick apparently knew of her clandestine information gathering efforts. Sol wondered if she secretly provided many of the reports that Sir Derrick acted upon. “I give you my word that I shall not speak of you to anyone but Sir Derrick.”

She inclined her head graciously, then rang a small bell that sat upon the table. The butler arrived almost immediately and escorted them to the entry hall. While he was fetching their outerwear, Aya and Calvin appeared from a small door behind the stairs.

Laura had donned her veiled bonnet upstairs, before the butler arrived, so he couldn’t see her expression as she approached Calvin, but he heard the chiding in her voice as she reached out to brush a sticky crumb from his cheek. “Although Mrs. Rook drills you in proper manners, you always seem to forget when faced with the Senhora’s cook’s offerings.”

He blushed slightly, but still gave her a cheeky grin.

“That won’t do, my boy,” Sol said. “A true man can put away twice as much food in half the time without anyone noticing.”

Calvin giggled, looking his age for once.

The butler arrived and bowed to Laura. “I have taken the liberty of sending for your carriage, my lady. He will await you at the normal spot. The Senhora thanks you for accommodating her in this.”

Their light-hearted expressions grew hard and serious as they exited the house and began walking down the street. “Why does the carriage park so far away?” Sol muttered to Laura as he swept his gaze around them. The street had grown much darker during the time they were inside Saffron House, and as they left the immediate vicinity of the building, the clientele walking about grew a bit more disreputable.

“She does not like it when I park in front of her establishment,” Laura said. “It draws attention to both her and to me. By stopping farther away and walking, most will not know that I have come to visit her, specifically, unless they follow me, and I have the boy to watch for that.”

They made it to the same place where the coachman had dropped them off and alighted without incident. They had barely begun moving when she asked, “What will you do?”

He hesitated to say anything before Aya, but quickly realized it would do no good to protest. Laura would tell her maid everything. Indeed, after what she had confessed to him, he realized that was the true reason she trusted all her household so implicitly. They had all risked a great deal for her when Wynwood died—Aya had been so loyal that she had risked her very life for her mistress.

“I will send agents to Wittenden to attempt to discover why Dinorah is there.” He had known what he needed to do, but now he wondered who he would send. “Until Phoebe, I had only one young woman I could trust who would be able to move convincingly in high society, and even then I must use her only very sparingly.” He remembered the last time he’d seen her. In fact, Laura had seen her, also.

He had thought he kept his eyes off of Laura, but she noticed something in his face regardless and interpreted it correctly. Realization dawned as she said, “I know her, do I not?” She remained silent for some moments, thinking. “It was the woman at the Meynhills’ party earlier this year.”

Sol didn’t answer, but in his discomfort, he looked away from her. He should not have revealed that to her.

“I understand,” she said quietly.

He relaxed slightly, knowing that she did indeed understand.

“What about Prince?” she asked.

“It was only by accident that I discovered her identity and that she worked for the Ramparts, but I had not been officially given permission to know,” he said slowly. “While I asked her for help when Septimus was captured, she belatedly received permission from my superior officer after the fact. Also, she never works as a woman of society—she is always in disguise.” Only once had Lady Aymer gone on a mission as herself, and it had nearly killed her and her brother.

“You will not send that other young woman alone, surely?” Laura asked. “This involves Jack and Maxham, and it would be too dangerous.”

“This would be the sort of mission where Prince would be the perfect choice because of her skill with various disguises,” Sol admitted. “But her primary role would be as a lady of quality.”

“Then you should try to send her. You could send her brother—no …” She interrupted herself. “… It would be better for him to remain in London to cover for her with their mother. Perhaps Mr. Rosmont could accompany her.”

He hadn’t thought about using Mr. Coulton-Jones to smooth things over with Mrs. Coulton-Jones, but he realized that Laura was correct. For long assignments, Lady Aymer would pretend to visit an aunt up north, and an agent would be sent to intercept any letters for her in the woman’s household. However, it would look strange for her to leave in the middle of the Season, and she usually avoided doing so if she could help it. Her brother’s presence could distract Mrs. Coulton-Jones.

“But I do not like the thought of sending two agents away when you have just been rescued from a kidnapping,” Sol said. Aya gave him an approving look. The time at Glencowe Castle had been a time for her to recuperate as well as Laura, since Phoebe had forced the maid to remain in London and rest as much as possible.

“I shall still have Phoebe close by at the hotel,” Laura said. “You should think about finding more agents. Are there any other Ramparts agents you may send to Wittenden besides Prince and Mr. Rosmont?”

“Putting aside the matter of trust, I know of no other agent with the same skills as Prince,” Sol said.

She tilted her head as she looked at him. “You and Mr. Coulton-Jones described what had happened while you were searching for me, but surely not all are like Mr. Uppleby and Mr. Antingham?”

“They did not care about rescuing you so much as finding the Root, and that worries me. I would prefer to work with agents who share my concern about the Root being used for other purposes, and who wish to simply eradicate it.”

“I shall pray that you encounter such agents.”

Before, Sol would have simply given her a bitter smile, dismissive about her faith. But now he could not help wondering if her prayers really did work, if God truly heard her. It had been miraculous that Phoebe and Miss Gardinier had been able to find her.

So instead, he said quietly, “Thank you.”

She did not react to his unusual change of attitude about her faith in God, and for that, he was grateful.

Night had fallen, but it was not too late to speak to Neybridge. Luckily, the man was in London for the Season with his daughter. He would need to arrange for accommodations for them and for Prince and Mr. Rosmont in Wittenden, along with a credible reason for them to be in the neighborhood while they investigate. Perhaps Neybridge may have some ideas of his own about that.

Laura suddenly spoke into the silence. “Sol, I cannot help thinking about Wittenden. It sounds familiar to me. I think I might know someone who lives near there. Will you come to my hotel room with me for a few minutes?”

***

Paxon’s, the hotel she had chosen, was small and while clean, it was slightly shabby. However, no one in their social set would dare stay here, so none of Laura’s acquaintances would spot her. The hotel also had the suite which she now occupied, which held one large and one small bedroom for herself, her maid, and Phoebe.

However, Sol didn’t like that the three women remained there, guarded only by their anonymity. As they entered the small sitting room, he said, “Would you object if I asked Mr. Rosmont and Mr. Coulton-Jones to help guard you while you are here?”

“I would not wish to inconvenience them, but it would be a relief to know someone was watching over us. However, do you intend for them to remain on guard in the hallway? It was one thing at the other hotel, the Falcon and Crown, where the entire floor of the wing was enclosed and no one could see that there were men standing in the hallway, but here, the other guests will surely notice. They are welcome to remain in the sitting room.”

He hesitated. It was very improper, but he didn’t think she would mind.

She must have read his expression again. “I am more than willing to hang propriety when the alternative is to suffer the company of crazed criminals again.”

“I should have expected you to say that. I shall write to Mr. Rosmont and ask him to come.” Mr. Rosmont had accompanied Phoebe this afternoon, so he would likely be available, and Sol also needed to speak to him.

Phoebe emerged from her room when they entered the sitting room. “What happened?”

“Please tell her, Sol.” Laura headed toward her room. “Aya, pray find my writing desk.”

He noted that her movements had become more stiff, and realized she had been trying to hide the pain of her bruised ribs. He winced.

“First allow me to send a note to Mr. Rosmont.” Sol scrawled a hasty message that he put in Calvin’s hand, and the boy left.

He related to Phoebe what the Senhora had told him.

“I would offer to go to Wittenden, Uncle Sol, but I would rather remain with Aunt Laura.”

“I know you would. I shall arrange to send Lady Aymer and Mr. Rosmont instead.”

Phoebe paused, which attracted Sol’s notice more than if she had been speaking. “I have a favor to ask, Uncle Sol.”

“My dear girl, I would be happy to do anything for you.”

She explained about what Miss Tolberton had told her about Mr. Poe—the murder of Mr. Marstowe and the prostitutes who had seen a man with Mr. Poe’s cravat pin running away.

Sol nodded in understanding. “I shall arrange for men to discreetly visit Sauber’s house and search Mr. Poe’s room. If they find the items that were stolen, they will quietly arrest the man.” To be honest, he would be relieved if the matter of her engagement to Mr. Poe could be so easily broken. It was one less difficulty for him to concern himself with, especially when his first priority must be Laura’s safety.

Laura emerged from the bedroom, trailed by Aya carrying her writing desk. It was rather large, and from the half-opened drawers peeked out various letters she had received. She was always quite diligent to maintain a regular correspondence with her friends and family.

She sat next to him at the small table and placed several letters down. “I had been looking through my old letters to attempt to piece together Wynwood’s acquaintance during the year before his death. Unfortunately, I didn’t find anyone who matched the initials in the pocket watch.”

“It seems likely the initials are of people not of the nobility,” Sol said. “I believe it is not a coincidence that Bianca Irvine Jadis and Seyward Maxham both match two of the initials.”

She nodded. “It was still not a wasted effort for me to look through my letters. Miria, the wife of my cousin Harland Cambrook, has an uncle who is a retired army colonel, and she wrote last year to say that Harland went fishing with Colonel Raddon in Scotland, where he likes to go every summer.” She slid a letter toward him. “I met him a few years ago at a large family gathering. He lives near Wittenden, within a few miles.”

Sol glanced at the letter as she continued speaking.

“He told me that he has let his house during the summer months on occasion, if he finds a respectable renter. He usually goes in June, so it is a few weeks early, but if I write to him, he might be induced to leave in a week or two and let his home.”

“Would he truly do so?” Sol asked.

“According to Miria, the colonel hardly needs more than the barest of excuses in order to leave for fishing. There’s no harm in asking, surely?”

He sat back and looked at her with a mix of surprise and admiration. “I am astounded that you remembered such a tenuous connection just from mention of the village.”

She gave him a superior smile. “Do not underestimate the steel trap mind of a social butterfly.”

“Aunt Laura often says that one must remember every social connection,” Phoebe said. “That way, you will know when to judiciously insult a society matron who possesses a ne’er-do-well relation whom she is trying to foist onto an unsuspecting woman.”

“Is that why Mrs. Foriest despises you?” Sol asked.

“It saved Phoebe from the attentions of the woman’s gamester nephew, so I consider it an affront well worth the price.” Her voice was cheerful, but there was something about her that was not quite the same as normal. Yes, there was a shadow behind her eyes that wasn’t there before, and it made her words sound a bit falsely bright.

Sol’s heart felt heavy. How long would it take for her to heal? He wished she had never had to endure what she had.

“Would you like me to write to him for you?” she asked.

“Yes, please. Either Lady Aymer and Mr. Rosmont could stay there, or the Neybridges, but they shall need to come up with a plausible reason for them to visit the neighborhood.”

“The Neybridges?” Phoebe asked.

“Mr. Neybridge is an agent, and a friend.” Sol had debated over how much to tell her, but if she was truly to become an agent of the Ramparts, he might ask her to work with Mr. Neybridge and Miss Penrose at some point. “His daughter’s companion is also an agent. The two of them will work with Mr. Rosmont and Lady Aymer to uncover Dinorah Seiles’s purpose.”

Sol stared at Laura as she set about writing a letter to Colonel Raddon. The realization had been creeping upon him for a while now, but her social connections and excellent memory, as well as her unconventional way of thinking about things, complimented his own connections and ideas when it came to something like this. It made him feel closer to her in a different sort of connect from their normal friendship, reminding him of respected colleagues within the Ramparts. However, she never put herself forward—she always worked for the team unobtrusively, like a good servant, providing items and offering suggestions. Before, she had felt to him like a member of his team, but now she felt like a vice-leader.

It opened his eyes to seeing and appreciating her anew. It also made him feel less burdened, because he knew he could trust her to help him.

“What should we do next?” Phoebe asked him. “I feel as though many things had been set aside when Dr. Heddetch appeared.”

“I must consider if I should send a team to France to investigate the property owned by Mr. Field Emsley.”

“Bianca’s former lover, yes?” Laura asked distractedly. “The one who abandoned her in France at the start of the Terror? Wouldn’t it be better to instead investigate her husband, Mr. Carl Jadis?”

“We now know that he was a botanist,” Phoebe said, “and so he might have been part of the Citadel.”

“I think a trip to France would be a waste of time,” Laura said, pausing in writing her letter. “Bianca’s connection to Mr. Emsley was before she met her husband. You should prioritize Mr. Jadis.”

It was good for him to discuss these things with her, to clarify the vague feelings that had been moving around in his gut. “Actually, my highest priority should be to find a safer place for you to stay.”

“Sol—”

“I know it is inconvenient for you, but I could ask Sir Derrick for some other arrangement that would be safer than a hotel. We may need to move you out of London, however.”

“I appreciate your concern, Sol, but I will find my own place to stay. I am arranging for a place in London where no one, not even my friends, will be able to find me. Phoebe will be with me and close enough to Stapytton House to care for the Goldensuit plants.”

Laura looked quite confident, and he understood her desire to be independent of his superiors. But it discomfited him, to have the decisions taken from him. “Where shall you stay?”

“While I was at Glencowe Castle, I wrote to Mrs. Haudenby, who is remaining at her country estate this year instead of coming to town. I asked to borrow her townhouse, since I know it is standing empty. It shall be more comfortable than a hotel, and I would not be able to go out and about for some time, regardless of where I stayed. Also, I shall be able to bring my servants from the townhouse with me, so I will have more people around me to protect me.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Aya interjected, “but the staff have begun training to better protect the mistress. Mrs. Rook is skilled with the sword because her husband had been a fencing instructor, and she has begun training the footman, Fred. One of the upper housemaids, Jane, is Mr. Havner’s niece and already has some skill with the whip—she has been practicing and Mr. Havner will train her further.”

“That does relieve some of my fears,” Sol said, “but they are not yet fully trained and Jack’s men are on the Root.”

“However, there is less of a chance that Jack will discover where I am if I am holed up in a private home rather than a public hotel,” Laura said. “It would be better to be surrounded by people in whom I have complete trust.”

He understood her reasoning, and knew it was correct. However, a part of him regretted that she could no longer fully trust the Ramparts with her safety.

Sol also felt a bit adrift that she did not need him. No, he did not require her to need him, exactly, but he wanted to be able to support her, especially since he hadn’t been there to stop her capture and torture. He wanted to wrap her in cotton wool.

But she surprised him with her independence at every turn. She had gone to the Senhora to discover the information about Bianca, and now she was finding her own safe place to stay. He had always known she was resilient, or she would not have survived her marriage to Wynwood, but now she was revealing that she was so much more indomitable than he had ever given her credit for.

Or perhaps he had always assumed he would protect her. It was as though she was politely but firming rejecting that protection.

On the one hand, he admired her resolve. On the other, he found himself wanting her to rely upon him. Perhaps because it was all he could do for her. He could not be closer to her than that.

Laura demonstrated that she knew him well, because she read his expression as though reading his mind. “I simply wish to do this for myself, Sol,” she said in a soft voice. “To prove to myself that I am still unshakeable despite what happened.”

“That was never in doubt,” he said to her.

“It is also to alleviate some of the pressures from you, since you have so many other items to handle. What I must do is to find Bianca’s notebooks, if Wynwood did hide them for her. What you must do, Sol,” she said, with a fierceness in her gaze that suddenly flared to life, “is to eliminate the Citadel until they can no longer be a danger to anyone ever again.”

EPILOGUE

Sep only vaguely remembered being shot.

He remembered the report of the weapon, the sound abnormally loud in the enclosed carriage. He remembered the smell of gunpowder making his nose sting. But surprisingly, he didn’t remember the moment the bullet tore up his gut.

Instead, he remembered the pain in the hours after that, the excruciating pangs as well as the sharp jolts every time the carriage hit a bump in the road. He remembered the sickening feeling of fluids leaking out of him despite the fact that Heddetch firmly pressed some cloths to his wound. The pale-eyed man had ordered him to try to keep Sep alive. He didn’t know why the man bothered after he’d been the one to shoot him.

He drifted in and out of consciousness until he was suddenly awoken when the pale-eyed man pulled him out of the carriage and easily tossed him over his shoulder. The pain flared again like an inferno in his torso. Sep vomited a little on the ground and remembered feeling regret that he had missed hitting the back of the man’s breeches, but he might have splashed his boots.

He could tell he was being carried into an inn or a tavern, surrounded by the smell of ale and roasted meat, a smoking fireplace and wet wool. He heard voices both confused and objecting around him, but he couldn’t clearly hear what they said. The pale-eyed man easily trotted up the stairs while carrying Sep, but the jarring to his torso seemed to send agony crashing into the top of his skull.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back. He thought he might be on a bed since it was lightly padded beneath him. He could feel the blood soaking into the straw of the mattress. A different man with rough hands was cleaning his wound and sewing him up, making the pain spiral until he desperately turned his head to the side and threw up again, this time violently. The wrenching to his abdomen felt like being skewered through with a spear, and it made him pass out again.

When he woke one more time, the pain had settled into a burning ocean with waves rising and falling, completely surrounding his body. Someone was forcing a tincture down his throat. It tasted of iron and herbs, and somehow tasted like liquid wickedness.

And then he dreamed, terrible, horrific dreams.

He dreamed he was exchanging hard, lethal blows with Miss Sauber, who had a look of astonishment and pleading in her face. His fist lashed out and hit her, causing her to crumple to the ground.

He dreamed of Miss Gardinier’s tearful face close to his, staring at him, and then suddenly the soft flutter of her lips on his forehead.

He dreamed of running into a building on fire, feeling the heat and flames searing his skin, desperately searching for …

***

Sep woke.

He thought he might be still in the same room at the inn. A fresh mattress had been switched for the one soaked with his blood and other fluids, because his body was dry. His skin itched with dried blood, and his mouth felt as though something had nested inside and then died there.

His abdomen hurt, but he was alive.

Even before he turned his head to look, he knew the pale-eyed man was there. He could hear him breathing. He could tell that he’d recently eaten sausages and potatoes. He could both hear and smell the horse passing beneath the closed window. He caught a whiff of the rank sourness of his own sweat and vomit and blood.

The smells were overwhelming, but so were the sounds, voices that seemed to echo all around him—from rooms next door, from the floor above, from the common room below. He could hear the cook bellowing at a scullery maid, and a man—the innkeeper, he thought—calling for someone to see to the fireplace.

Even as his senses felt as though he were drowning, he realized what had happened with the weight of dread that pressed down upon him like a stone over his chest.

The chair beside his bed creaked as the pale-eyed man shifted in his seat. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Maxham. I’m afraid the sawbones I paid to sew you up didn’t do a very good job of it, because he thought it was a waste of his time to try to save you. You’ll have a terrible scar.” He sighed. “I didn’t have much choice in surgeon and I wasn’t able to stay and ensure he did an adequate job. I had to simply trust he’d do his best and that the innkeeper would be sure to give you a vial of this every day.”

Sep turned his head to the side to see Maxham holding up a glass vial filled with what looked like a liquid red tulip, so bright and jewel-like was the color. Maxham wasn’t looking at Sep, but instead studying the vial.

“I’ve seen the Blood Nectar heal wounds worse than yours, but I wasn’t entirely certain if this new version would work as well,” Maxham said. “I’m glad it did. I really didn’t want you to die.” He turned toward Sep and shook the vial a little. “Oh, let’s keep this a secret between us, shall we? If Ward or Jack knew that I gave you the Blood Nectar, they’d kill you. I told Jack it was an excess amount of his Root elixir that saved you. Let’s pretend that’s what happened, shall we?”

Sep didn’t speak, but Maxham took his silence as assent.

“When you’re feeling better, I’m afraid I promised you to Jack. He feels rather possessive of you since he thinks his Root elixir saved your life.”

The thought of obeying the orders of that madman caused a sudden flare of anger that seemed to boil up from his gut and heat his blood. He began panting. A small part of his mind was shocked at how his temper was set off so uncharacteristically quickly.

Maxham probably saw his rebellion in his eyes, because his next words were like the continuation of an entirely different conversation. “Oh, you needn’t worry about your sister. What was her name? Octavia, was it?”

It didn’t exactly throw cold water to put out the flames of his anger—he still felt it smoking and sizzling, like smoldering wood on the edge of igniting. But he remembered the night in his bedroom at his home, when he’d walked in and found Maxham there. How Maxham had showed him Octavia’s ring, wrapped in her handkerchief, threatening her if Sep did not kidnap Lady Wynwood.

“I assure you, Octavia is safe at home,” Maxham said. “She will remain safe and unmolested as long as Jack is happy with your performance for him.”

Maxham’s voice was mild and almost pleasant, except for the scrape of sharpness in his tone like glass. Septimus heard the threat. His sister was still being held hostage to ensure his obedience to them.

Sep tried to speak, but coughed instead. Maxham picked up a cup next to the bed, then used only a single hand to prop Sep’s shoulders up so he could drink the water mixed with wine. The liquid cleared the cobwebs from his mouth, but the action exhausted him, and he fell back onto the bed breathing heavily, his heart pounding.

Maxham waited patiently for him to speak.

“Why did you want me?” Sep asked, his voice dry and hoarse.

An expression of wonder, almost tenderness came over Maxham’s face. Then there was a sudden flash of hatred, which quickly melted into a clear gaze, as though he could see deep into Sep’s soul. “I recognize so much of myself in you,” he murmured dreamily. “I could see it even the first time we met. Do you remember?”

It had been outside the burned factory, where Antonius Dunmark—also known as Tom Cribble—and been turned into a Berserker. Sep had approached the outside of the building, but Maxham had somehow known he was there and dropped down from a window above, landing impossibly lightly on the ground in front of him before he could look inside the factory. Their fight had barely been more than a few blows because he had defeated Sep easily, almost carelessly. And yet he’d left Sep alive.

“We are different in many ways,” Maxham said. There was again that lightning strike of hatred in his eyes, which cooled again. “And yet I feel I understand you better than anyone else. We are both like shades walking this world.”

“I am not a shade.” His voice was stronger.

Maxham’s eyes, staring into Sep’s, registered surprise. “Yes, you believe you are not. But even that shows how alike we are. We both think deeply about spiritual matters.”

Disgust clogged his throat. He did not want to be compared to Maxham.

Maxham only smiled at him, a little sadly, pityingly. “Perhaps you will see it eventually.”

Never. He would never want to be like this man.

Maxham pulled a fresh lemon from his coat pocket. It must have been expensive, force-grown in a hothouse at this time of year. He cut it in half, and the sharp smell filled the room. It burned at first, but then settled into a clean scent that masked the myriad things assaulting Sep’s nose, which he hadn’t quite categorized until they were covered over—wet wool from the blanket, cut straw from the mattress, mold from the walls and floors, and those sausages and potatoes from Maxham himself.

He squeezed one half of the lemon into an empty plate on the stool next to the bed, then dropped both halves onto the plate. “You will find this helps with the sounds and smells, until you grow accustomed to your new perspectives.”

Yes, the sharp smell did help him to focus so that he was not distracted by all the noises he could suddenly hear.

Maxham stood. “You will have one or two more days to recover. You must exert yourself and work diligently, for if you don’t prove your worth to Jack, he will be less than pleased.” He leaned closer to Sep, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I know you do not care about your own life, and so Jack will instead go after those who mean the most to you.”

Octavia.

It was as if Maxham could see Sep’s younger sister reflected in his eyes. “Jack enjoys making men suffer by watching their loved ones in pain.”

He would guess that Maxham did, too.

When Maxham opened the door to the room, all the sounds came roaring in. It was a profound relief when he closed the door firmly behind him, leaving Sep alone with the pungent odor of the lemon.

He stared up at the ceiling, his breath coming in long, deep gasps as if he had been swimming for hours in the ocean waters next to his family home. He could feel every lump, every piece of straw poking at his skin from the mattress. He breathed in and concentrated on the lemon, and the sounds and feelings and scents seemed to recede.

He didn’t want to feel grateful to Maxham, but he also wasn’t surprised by the man’s small act of kindness. He somehow knew that it was a way for the man to manipulate Sep’s emotions.

Sep had kidnapped Lady Wynwood. She had seen him being shot. The Ramparts would no longer trust him, although they likely thought he was dead. He was now dependent upon the very man who had shot him.

Why had this happened to him? What had he done to deserve this? Hadn’t he been faithful to both the Crown and to God?

He was trapped in a cage which was standing alone in a vast, barren wilderness. No matter how he screamed and beat against the bars of that cage, no matter how he suffered behind those bars, there was no escape. Nowhere to go. No one around.

Sep had never before felt so far away from God.

CONNECT WITH CAMY

I hope you enjoyed Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 5: Prisoner! Like volume 4, this book ended up being quite a bit longer than I anticipated, about 144,000 words. It was also a difficult volume for me to plot since the team was split up for most of the book, following different clues to see if they would lead them to their captured teammate.

As you might have guessed from the chapter with the Senhora, the storyline also diverges a bit here. Two of the team will go to investigate a woman the Citadel has hired for some mysterious purpose, while the rest must deal with the consequences of Laura’s conversation with Maxham.

I honestly couldn’t tell you why I decided to plot the series this way—it just seemed the way the story and characters seemed to want to go. But as a result, Isabella and Thorne will be absent for the next few books, and I plan to write and publish their side adventure just before volume 9.

If you were wondering, the series is projected to be 10 volumes long, not counting the prequels (The Spinster’s Christmas and The Gentleman Thief), Isabella and Thorne’s side adventure, and one additional stand-alone side novel.

I apologize that it makes the series a bit confusing. For now, you can expect the story to continue in Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 6: Martyr.

To hear when my next book will be available, 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

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

Lady Wynwood’s Spies, volume 6: Martyr (coming soon)

Standalone novels

Prelude for a Lord

The Gentleman’s Quest

Devotional

Who I Want to Be

Copyright © 2022 Camy Tang

Cover design by Dineen Miller/Designer Girl Graphics

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Camy Tang

P.O. Box 23143

San Jose, CA 95153-3143

www.camilleelliot.com

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 5: Prisoner/ Camille Elliot. -- 1st ed.

eBook: ISBN-13: 978-1-942225-30-0

Print book: ISBN-13: 978-1-942225-33-1