Inside, she ached with fear for all of them. If anyone came to harm because of her, she could not bear it.

A flicker of an idea suddenly grew within her mind. There was a way she could help the situation. She stirred the cake batter rapidly, forming the details. Yes, it would work. It had to.

When she saw Mrs. Graham setting up the tea tray, Emily stopped her. “I will serve,” she offered.

“No.” Mrs. Graham held up a hand. “He would recognize you. You cannot go.” To another girl, she said, “Claire, take the tray to our guests. Be sure you don’t spill anything.”

“Not yet.” Emily stared hard into Mrs. Graham’s lined face. “There is something I must do first.”

Stephen never made it to the entrance of the house. Strong arms took hold of him from behind. A black hood blinded him, and he fought against his attacker, cursing.

He jerked his head backward, smashing it against the assailant’s face. A white-hot pain sliced his arm, and he felt the warm wetness of his own blood. He’d given Michael strict orders not to interfere, not unless it meant his death.

The shock of the pain sent the rest of the memories flashing through him. Hollingford’s body had lay bleeding in the streets, after they’d murdered him. Anant had attacked him, slicing with the blade.

Somehow, he’d managed to escape, striking back with his fists until he knocked Anant unconscious. He could almost feel the cold slickness of the cobblestones, smell the fetid odor of that night so many months before.

With a violent shove, Stephen ripped away the hood.

And stared into the face of Freddie Reynolds.

A sharp acrid smell brought him back into consciousness. Freddie must have knocked him senseless after he’d removed the hood. His head ached with a vicious throbbing, and Stephen struggled to open his eyes.

“Whitmore.” The jovial voice could only belong to Nigel Barrow. Stephen turned toward the sound and saw the smile of triumph lighting Nigel’s face. “I’ve been expecting you. Did you bring the records?”

“No. We both know you only used that as an excuse.”

Nigel shook his head. “A pity, Whitmore. I might have changed my mind about killing you, had you brought them.”

His forearm throbbed with a vicious pain; no one had bandaged the knife wound. The parlor still had a feminine air with its touches of rose and blue. Nigel pointed to a wingback chair. “Put him there.”

Stephen jerked his gaze and saw Freddie Reynolds standing behind him. Not a trace of remorse lay in the eyes of Emily’s former suitor. Stephen fought against the ropes binding him, but Freddie dragged him into the chair.

“Where are my father and Quentin?” Stephen managed.

“Oh, they’ll be along shortly,” Nigel said. “I had Anant take care of them while Freddie brought you here.”