Instead of following his command, the driver turned. A revolver glinted, and out of raw instinct, Stephen threw himself sideways. The shot exploded inches from where he’d been sitting.

Damn. Survival instincts took over, and he seized his assailant’s arm. Muscles burned and perspiration slid down his forehead as he held the revolver away. The man’s finger eased across the trigger, ready to fire.

Stephen slammed his head against the man’s nose, twisting his body to gain control of the weapon. Caught off balance, the driver lurched forward, and Stephen fired the gun. Blood spread across the driver’s shirt, and he slumped against the door.

With the dead man lying at the bottom of his carriage, Stephen stilled. Though outwardly he showed no sign of exertion, his pulse pounded with energy. He had hoped to draw his enemy out, and now it had happened.

He felt no remorse for the assailant’s death. Nor did he believe this was the same man who had tried to murder him back in February; likely the man was only a hired killer.

He had been careless, too trusting, and it had nearly cost him his life. Stephen withdrew his handkerchief, wiping the blood from his hands.

He had achieved his goal, it seemed. His attacker now knew he was back in London. And he wanted Stephen dead.

Emily searched the glittering ballroom for a sign of her husband. She wore the lavender gown Stephen had given her. Although it was old-fashioned, Emily liked its simplicity. Her maid Beatrice had laced up her corset until Emily could barely breathe, but the results made her waist tiny. Her petticoats and crinoline swelled the skirts around her like the gown of a princess. The effect was lovely, except for the shoes. She had nothing else to wear, save the dancing slippers Stephen had purchased for her. The terrible shoes pinched her toes like a vice, yet she had no choice but to suffer.

Beatrice had taken charge of her hair, placing white roses behind the knot. She had loosened stray tendrils to float around Emily’s nape.

For a moment, Emily hesitated at the door, afraid of disgracing herself by either fainting or heaving up the contents of her stomach. She had arrived separately from Stephen since she hadn’t told him of her intention to attend. Her maid Beatrice stood behind her as a chaperone.

Already she was breaking so many rules of good manners. She should not have come without her husband at her side. But then, did anyone know she was married? She wasn’t certain whether Whitmore had revealed it to anyone. Heaven knew, the marquess would not speak a word of it.