Raising her poker instinctively higher and holding it closer, she crept forward, avoiding the windows, keeping herself out of sight.

The moon had penetrated the side glass panels and illuminated the foyer; eerie shadows danced upon the floors and off the walls, adding to her ever-heightening fear.

Myrtle bit her lower lip hard, her ears straining.

And then she heard it.

Muttering.

Faint and barely distinguishable, but still decipherable.

Oh, God.

They were here.

And when they discovered she was still here, aware of their plans for her father’s artifacts, and that there was no one else about—

Her thoughts came in panicky time to the rapid beating of her pulse in her ears.

Edging over to the doorway, she turned the lock, pressed the handle, and before her courage completely deserted her, she drew the door open.

In need of a good oiling, the hinges screamed and squealed, inordinately loud in the nighttime stillness.

Only silence met her.

Mayhap she’d merely imagined that knocking.

Perhaps it had been . . . at one of the other households.

Mayhap—

A shadow drifted forward, followed a moment later by a broad, tall, powerful form stepping inside.

Shrieking, Myrtle charged forward, brandishing her makeshift weapon.

Something went clattering, as the intruder dropped whatever burden he’d been holding.

He was too tall for her to properly get the aim she wished, so Myrtle settled for bringing the steel poker down on his shoulder. “Get out, you horrid fiend and miserable cur of a thief,” she shouted, smacking him a second time.

Over the din of a dog’s barking, she made out a harsh curse.

A familiar harsh curse, spoken in an even more familiar voice.

Myrtle froze midblow, her arm poised overhead. “Vaaaaaal?”

Val, as in her neighbor, the angry duke who’d insisted they’d never again meet.

“At your damned service,” he muttered, rubbing at his arm.

She gasped, her fingers coming up to catch the slight sound of her shock, as the weapon slipped from her fingers and clattered upon the marble floor, as the implications of what she’d done—and worse, what she’d almost done—hit her.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, charging forward. And Horace gave a happy yelp in greeting—one that, given she’d nearly gravely wounded his master, she certainly didn’t deserve. “I nearly killed you.”

“You wouldn’t have killed me. Your aim is deuced poor, and your strikes, though annoying, are largely ineffectual.”

She bristled. “I’ll have you know my aim is not poor.”

Horace barked, as if adding his canine support to the argument.

Val winged a dark eyebrow up. “You weren’t aiming for my head?”

The duke’s dog lowered his big head and whined.

Myrtle scrunched her nose. “I may have considered it.”

Did she detect the trace of a smile on his always hard mouth and his perfectly firm lips?