A sense of foreboding settled across her shoulders, needling her with thoughts of what if. “He will come tonight,” she told herself. “I know he will.”

But as time slipped onward, and the murmurs of society turned to gloating whispers, her fear transformed into dread.

In the cool darkness of night, the figure slipped into the shadow of Nigel Barrow’s house. With a thin knife, he maneuvered the locks, moving upstairs to where the children slept.

He stopped in the older boy’s room first. The firelight cast shadows across the child huddling beneath the covers. Royce slept fitfully, and as the man drew near, the boy’s eyes flew open.

“Shh…” The man raised a finger to his lips. “I have come to take you to your father.”

Royce sat up, his fists gripping the coverlet. “My father is dead.”

“That is what they told you. But he sent me to come and take you to him.” The man held out a hand. “You trust me, don’t you?”

The boy nodded.

“Then let us go before anyone sees us.”

“What about Aunt Emily and Uncle Stephen?”

“Do not worry about them. They will come to you in the morning.”

The boy moved the covers aside, struggling to put on his shoes.

“You must be silent when we leave. Do not speak a word and stay out of sight in the coach.” The man handed him a blanket. “Take this.”

“What about Victoria?” the boy protested. “I can’t leave my sister.”

“She will come with us.” The man held out his coat, and Royce fastened the buttons. With a longing glance toward his bed, at last he relented.

“Do you promise I’ll see my father soon?” he whispered.

The man’s face remained impassive. “I promise you will see him very soon.”

As he closed the door behind the boy, his hand touched the curved knife blade hidden beneath his coat.

Stephen arrived at the Thistlewaite residence just past the hour of midnight. He had spent time at White’s, investigating Freddie Reynolds’s debts. It seemed that Reynolds and Emily’s brother had done more than their share of gambling. Reynolds needed money—by any means possible.

When Stephen saw his wife’s face amid the ballroom crowd, a slow fury built within him. The throng parted in half, and he moved straight toward her.

Emily wore pearls around a lovely neck he wanted to wring. The ivory tulle clung to the curves he had run his hands over just the other night. A sensuous strand of hair had fallen from the elaborate arrangement, and her lips held the slightest tint of red. Her beauty took his breath away.

Why could she not understand his need to keep her safe? Even now, the man who most likely had tried to murder him was standing only a short distance away. He glared at Freddie Reynolds, but the dandy pretended not to see.