Beth’s scream grew louder. Jane looked at the pistol still in her hand. Madwoman indeed! But Beth was staring over her brother’s shoulder at the captain, not at her. A knife flashed in Captain Livingston’s hand, where he held it against Mr. Buffington’s throat. Jane ran forward and brought the butt of the pistol down on Captain Livingston’s head, as she had used to do with thimbles in their youth.

This had a very satisfying result. He moaned once and pitched forward.

“Miss Ellsworth! Move away from my nephew!” Lady FitzCameron’s commanding voice rolled across the field.

Mr. Dunkirk turned and saw Jane standing over the captain and Mr. Buffington, holding the pistol in her hand. His face grew sad. “He told the truth, then! . . . Did you need revenge so much?”

Lady FitzCameron’s footman grabbed Jane by the arms, holding her tightly. Jane dropped the pistol on the grass and sagged into the footman’s grip. She shook her head, too aware of how damaging the appearance must look. “Captain Livingston fired the gun. Not me.”

But Dunkirk was already being won over. “Please, let us be done with these tales. Why would Captain Livingston threaten his friend?”

Buffington coughed on the grass. “He owes me money. Lots. He is likely trying to pin it on Miss Ellsworth. Discredit her. Marry a rich girl.” He looked down at the blood pooling about his hands. “May not last long enough to care.”

His words galvanized Mr. Dunkirk to action. Shouting, he called for the footmen to carry Mr. Buffington to Lady FitzCameron’s carriage. After a moment of hesitation, the footman holding Jane released her and helped his fellows carry Captain Livingston and Mr. Buffington to the carriage. Beth called for them to aid Mr. Vincent.

His gruff voice rebuffed her. “I am not in need of aid.”

The sudden relief that flooded through Jane swept her legs out from under her. She dropped to her knees in the grass. Mr. Vincent sat up, staring at Beth’s bloody dress, and asked, “Miss Dunkirk! What has happened? Are you injured?”

Half laughing and half sobbing, Beth explained to him what had occurred since the darkness lifted. Jane, feeling as if she were in a cocoon far removed from the action around her, watched his rugged face bleach paler than she thought possible. Mr. Vincent turned his head sharply and saw Jane kneeling in the grass.

Surging to his feet, Mr. Vincent crossed the grass and dropped to his knees in front of Jane, pulling her into an embrace. Stroking her hair and rocking her in his arms, he murmured, “You are safe. Praise God, you are safe.”

Jane clung to him, weeping.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I thought to lift the darkness only long enough to see if you were safe; your voice sounded wrong. But I underestimated my fatigue and lost control of the threads.”

Jane shook her head, which was buried in his coat. “My fault.”

“No.” He lifted her head and tilted it back, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “You know full well that of all the participants, you are the least to blame.”