Barnabus nodded. “We both thought that a rather remarkable coincidence since Hunt was connected to Chelmsford and the case the Mastiff was focused on.”

In near-perfect unison, Fletcher and Gemma said, “You don’t believe in coincidences.”

No. He didn’t.

Fletcher slouched in his chair. “Every time I think this puzzle cain’t get more complicated, it goes and does just that.”

“Is Martin still safe?” Barnabus asked.

“He is, and he’s recovering. We’re hopeful he’ll pull through.”

“And the others who were injured in the attack at Lowry’s surgery?”

“Healing.”

“Sorokin and the children?” Barnabus had a long list of people he was concerned about.

“Back in hiding now that the girl’s well.”

Gemma’s gaze held unfocused worry.

He took her hand. “Is something worrying you, love?”

“What could possibly be gnawing at my mind?” The dryness in her tone was matched by the shake of her head. “The bloke I love more than anyone else is soon to be nailed into an eternity box under my instructions, and if the plan I’ve hatched for getting him out don’t work perfect, he might be buried alive. And all this is happening in a city under siege by a merciless killer who has enlisted the help of my merciless family. What about that would worry a person?”

“Would you repeat the part about loving me more than anyone else?”

She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. “I do, you know.”

“I’m pleased to hear that because I have something extremely important to ask you.”

“That’s my cue,” Fletcher said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and the small bouquet of flowers from the cup. He tied the handkerchief around the wet stems, then plopped it into Barnabus’s hand. “Do your worst, my friend.”

“I think you mean ‘my best.’”

Fletcher looked at him like he’d grown a second nose. “The last time you did this, I suspect you were doing your ‘best.’ I thought it wise to suggest you take a different approach this time ’round.”

“The last time you did what?” Gemma asked, clearly confused.

Barnabus drew Gemma’s attention to him. “I’d be the most fortunate man in all the world if you’d agree to marry me.”

“Again?” She eyed his flowers, then him, then Fletcher.

He wasn’t approaching this right. He’d wanted it to be romantic and poetic, but it was, instead, proving to be neither.

Barnabus took her hand in his free one. “I want to marry you, Gemma. Our own choice this time. Fully and completely because we want to. Because we love each other. Because neither of us can imagine living our lives without the other.”

He placed the flowers in her hand. A lady ought to have flowers when being proposed to.