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“My lady!”

She turned to see the Marquess of Woodstock approach, a gruesome little smile splitting his face as he offered a sweeping bow.

A charge of terror moved beneath her skin, leaving a metallic taste in her mouth. Had he come at last to claim his prize, exact his revenge? But it had been only a few days—she thought they had more time—

“My lord,” she replied, her voice high, unsteady. The drizzle was turning into rain, pattering dully against the ground, the top of the coach.

Her eyes flicked over Woodstock’s head. Where were—?

“They’re not here,” Woodstock said.

She drew a breath through her nose. “They will be, soon.”

“That gives me ample time to make good on my . . . promise, if I should so choose.”

Nicks, who had been standing quietly beside the vehicle, stepped forward, sensing something was wrong. The marquess narrowed his eyes, slipping a hand inside his coat.

Caroline stepped back. “Into the carriage, Nicks. You’re getting wet.”

“But I—but—you are too, m’lad—”

“Now.”

Nicks shot Caroline a pleading look; Caroline ignored it; at last Nicks climbed into the vehicle.

“Why don’t you do it, then?” Caroline hissed, closing the door behind her. “Why don’t you take me now and end this ridiculous game you play?”

Her heart was in her throat; she felt wild, and a little dizzy. The rain soaked her bonnet; it hung limply against her cheek.

Was this it? The moment she ceded her freedom, and her life?

She would do it.

She would do it if it meant saving Henry’s career, all those men fighting for him on the Continent.

She realized how afraid she was to die.

Woodstock’s smile returned. “I confess I am rather enjoying myself, watching the lot of you chase your tails. And the anticipation of the things I shall do to you . . .”

He reached out, brushed a thumb over the slope of Caroline’s chin. His touch was cold, his skin clammy; she recoiled from it, and he laughed.

“Soon, my lady,” he said. “Tell your
paramour
I shall come for you very soon.”

And then he turned and stalked into the gloom.

*   *   *

B
eing confronted with the very real prospect of dismemberment and death, Caroline realized she had to do something. Anything. Now.

For days now she’d racked her brain in an attempt to outwit Woodstock. She’d come up with nothing on her own.

But this—this changed everything.

She did not want to die; she did not want Henry or his men to die, either.

Which meant they had to defeat the marquess.

They—she and Henry and Moon—had to try, at least. Together.

Assuring Nicks the strange man in the park was an old friend, Caroline changed into dry clothes and laced up a pair of sturdy boots.

Gathering her reticule and umbrella in the front hall, she turned and was nearly mauled, for a change, by her brother, William, as he skipped down the stairs.

“Good God, William, what’s gotten into you?” Caroline wheezed, hand on her chest. “I didn’t know you were one for skipping.”

“I wasn’t skipping,” he said. He turned to the mirror and with his fingers slicked back a rogue lock of dark hair. Dressed in an evening kit of black velvet coat and breeches, he appeared every inch the rakehell.

Caroline knew he was up to no good.

“Yes, you were,” she said.

“I was not.”

“Were, too.”

“Was
not
.”

Caroline met his eyes in the mirror. “What’s the occasion?”

“Almack’s.”

Even as her pulse leapt—excellent, William was out tonight, which meant he would not notice that she would be, too—Caroline narrowed her eyes.

“Almack’s? You’ve reached a new low, William, trolling for your prey at the assembly rooms. Every debutante in there wears a padlocked chastity belt.”

William turned to her. “For your edification, sweet Sister, I have no interest in unlocking said chastity belts.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m escorting Lady Violet Rutledge and her mother. Oh, and her cousin—Lady Sophia.
She’s
the one with the chastity belt, though I daresay Thomas Hope’s made quick work of it.”

“Mr. Hope and Sophia Blaise?” Caroline cocked a brow. “Didn’t see that one coming—a banker and a debutante.”

William shrugged. “Violet thinks it’s innocent enough, but I know better. I see the way that millionaire rogue looks at her. He’s enamored.”

“You look at a lot of women,” Caroline said. “It’s never innocent, the way you look. But what do you know of being enamored?”

She was baiting him, and he knew it. He was smiling.

But not his usual wicked smile, the devil flashing in his dark eyes. It was a quiet smile. Secret. And he was blushing.

William never blushed.

“Well, then,” Caroline said. “I do so hope you enjoy yourselves. Keep out of trouble.”

“Please, Caroline, it’s Almack’s. We couldn’t find trouble if we wanted.”

Caroline put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re William Townshend. Trouble finds you.”

“Not tonight.” Henry looked at the umbrella she held in the crook of her arm. “Any plans for you this evening?”

“No, no, I’ve got a bit of a headache, and the rain, and . . . um. I was just—I was just coming back from the park, you see . . . early to bed, I suppose.”

William eyed her for a long moment; it took Caroline every ounce of resolve to not wince, or burst out laughing at the ridiculous jumble that was her excuse.

But it appeared William was rather more enamored of Lady Violet than he was suspicious of his sister, for he bent forward, planted a kiss on Caroline’s forehead, and dashed out the door.

Watching him descend the front step, Caroline noticed the puddles in the street below were stewing and still; the rain had stopped, but not for long. She ducked her head outside. The sky was gray and low.

The perfect evening to slip through the empty Mayfair streets unnoticed.

Twenty-four

H
enry bolted upright in bed at the sound of footsteps by the door. His entire being ached with exhaustion.

Sending Moon to patrol Caroline’s window, Henry had spent the previous evening huddled in a corner at the Cat and Mouse, convincing those hairy acrobats to make their move already. It had been a delicate operation; he didn’t want to give himself away, but he managed to coax from them a promise they would confront the Earl of Harclay soon. Which meant the diamond might be loosened from his grasp as early as the next evening, and this sordid business at last concluded.

Having returned home well after the sun rose, Henry had attempted to get some sleep that day.

Considering thoughts of Caroline haunted his waking and sleeping dreams, he did not get very much at all.

His hands were on his face; his fingers fumbled as he attempted to tie the leather thong of his eye patch at the back of his head.

He opened his eye and his breath caught in his throat.

Caroline. She was here.

*   *   *

“G
ood God, Caroline,” he said, running a hand through his adorably mussed hair, “I know everyone else wants to kill me, but you, too? If I weren’t so bloody knackered I’d cry. How’d you get in?”

Already she felt the familiar tug at the ends of her mouth. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms.

“I found your associate, Moon he called himself, lurking beneath my window. He escorted me here and kindly allowed me entrance. I don’t mean to offend, but was he the woman at Vauxhall, the one—?”

“Yes,” Henry said, grinning. “He makes a far less compelling female than he’d like to believe, I’m afraid. Something about the jaw, and his moustache . . .”

He sat up against the pillows, the counterpane falling into his lap. He wasn’t wearing a shirt (why would he be? she wondered vaguely); Caroline watched his nipples pucker at the chill evening air that came in through the cracked window. In the thin gray light his chest and shoulders appeared smooth, the skin pulled taut over muscle and bone, the slopes pleasing, masculine, inviting. The barest trace of spice tickled her nostrils.

She swallowed, hard. A moment ago she felt as if she were standing at death’s door, but now, seeing Henry and his muscles and his naked chest, her body felt glaringly alive, as if she’d not only inhaled smelling salts but also ingested them.

Henry followed her gaze to his chest. His grin faded as he tugged the counterpane back into place. “I’m, um, terribly sorry, Caroline, you startled me, and I forgot that I was naked—without clothes, that is; here, let me get a shirt . . .”

Eyes trained on her feet, Caroline shook her head. “I won’t be long. I’ve come to offer my aid in untangling this mess with Woodstock, and the diamond. I’ve too much at stake; I can’t just wait for you to end up dead, trying to rescue me.”

“I won’t end up dead.”

“Your men will, if you trade the French Blue to Woodstock. Let me help you, Henry. Please.”

He released a long, low breath. “You know I’d never allow you to put yourself in harm’s way on my account,” he said slowly.

“I want to help. If not for your sake, then for Violet’s, and my brother’s. I can’t sit still, knowing how much trouble we’re all in.”

Caroline heard the scrape of skin; she snuck a glance at Henry to see him cross his arms across his naked chest. Though those arms and that chest bulged with muscle, the freckles that dotted his skin made him look boyish, somehow. God, those freckles, they did something to her . . .

She looked away.

“For your brother’s sake, Caroline, and for yours, I beg you stay out of this, and keep yourself safe. Besides, what makes you think Moon and I haven’t had any luck concocting a plan to destroy Woodstock on our own?”

Caroline scoffed, toeing the fine layer of dust that covered the floor. “It can’t hurt to have more help, can it?”

“Yes, it can, if it puts you in danger. I won’t have you ending up hurt, bleeding out in the middle of the woods like—like that poor girl. I cannot accept your offer.”

“You left everyone and everything you loved,” she said. She turned her head to look at him. “You left to protect me. Let me return the favor.”

He returned her gaze steadily. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Henry. You’re no martyr. Of course it matters. Let’s work together. Defeat Woodstock, so you might trade the diamond to the French, and save the lives of your men.”

“One problem,” Henry replied. “We don’t have the French Blue.”

“We will.”

He cocked a brow. “You sound awfully confident about that.”

She hoped—prayed—her burning cheeks did not give her away.

“I am confident in us,” she said. “Don’t you even want to try to defeat Woodstock? He’s a traitor—”

“Of course I want to defeat him. But your life is at stake, Caroline. If I move against him, and I fail—I’m sorry, Caroline, but it’s too dangerous. No.”

“No?”

“Yes.
No.
Not this time.”

With a petulant huff, Caroline crossed her arms and snuck a glance about the room. Her eyes caught on the chairs drawn
up before the fireplace; she saw one of Mr. Moon’s wigs—long, blond curls—hanging from an armrest.

She didn’t know what she’d do with a wig, or how it would help her outwit Woodstock. But it was a wig, a disguise, and surely a disguise was a step in the right direction? She darted across the room and snatched the wig, making a break back toward the door.

“I’m going to defeat Woodstock,” she panted, “and you can’t stop me.”

Henry tossed aside the counterpane and leapt from the bed. “Watch me,” he growled.

She glanced over her shoulder to see him lunging for her.

That wasn’t the only thing she saw.

Her pulse gave a little shriek of pleasure.

He was completely, utterly, fabulously naked; not so much as a sock marred the pale perfection of his person. Heat flooded her face as she reached for the doorframe—wait, why am I running from that? she wondered vaguely—but Henry was too quick, too strong.

He curled an arm beneath her ribs and caught her, heaving her against him with a breathless grunt.

Caroline made one last grab for the door, but Henry held her fast, wrapping his other arm around her torso as she attempted—and failed—to slither free of his grasp.

She wanted to tell him to go to hell, to set her down. His touch felt dangerously delicious; she knew she had to escape, quickly, before the ability to resist him abandoned her.

Caroline elbowed him, or tried to, at least. He scoffed—“nice try”—and pressed her against the wall, stilling her movements as he twisted her free arm behind her back.

His breath tickled the hair at her temples. A shiver worked its way down her body as she struggled to catch her breath.

“Give me the wig,” he said.

“Not this time,” she mocked, holding it closer to her chest.

He pressed his body against hers. “Caroline. What the devil d’you think you’re going to do with a wig? Give it to me.”

“No. Not until you let me help you—”

“Hand it over. Now.”

“No-o!”