“Lying? Do you call my sister a liar, Mulholland?” Duffy demanded, thunder building in his voice. “Lady Augusta is many things, but she is not a liar, and I’ll not have the likes of you calling her such.”

Not the most glowing of endorsements, but the kindest thing Duffy had said about me in a while. And, in this instance, spectacularly wrong. Moreover, he seemed to be just getting started.

“Look at yourself, man. You are standing in the drawing room of two spinster noblewomen looking for a highwayman without a warrant. Are you a fool or just wildly incompetent?”

Mulholland, no fool and dangerously competent, remained silent, glaring at me.

“Is this your man, Augusta?” Duffy asked, nodding at Evan.

“He is, Duffy. He is not a highwayman.”

“Patently,” Duffy said. “This is clearly a case of mistaken identity, Mulholland. You and your men, get out. Now, I say! You have left yourself open to charges of breaking and entering. A hanging offense, if I am not mistaken. I do not want to see you in Grosvenor Square again. Anywhere near my sisters. Do I make myself clear?”

Mulholland’s mouth bunched in suppressed fury, but he nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

“And mark my words, I will be speaking to the Magistrates’ Court about this travesty.”

Not that it would do much good, I thought.

Mulholland made a bow to Duffy—the courtesy a hairsbreadth away from insolence—then nodded to Pritchard to follow him from the room. I stepped back as he approached the door.

“You’ll regret this, my lady,” he said softly as he passed.

I gripped the silver knife more tightly. “I do not fear you, Mr. Mulholland,” I returned just as softly.

He looked down at my hand clenched around the weapon and flashed a wolf smile. “You seem to be lying again, my lady.”

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.

With one last malevolent stare at Evan, he strode from the room, his henchman close behind.

I signaled to Weatherly to shut the drawing room doors, then slumped back against the sideboard. I longed to catch hold of Evan’s hand but instead placed the silver knife on the wooden top, the shape of its ruby cabochon impressed upon the skin of my palm.

“Astonishing,” Duffy said into the silence. “And there are those who think we should have an actual police force like the French. Can you imagine? Clodhoppers like that with actual power?”

Mr. Kent, as close as we came to such a police officer, seemed unruffled by Duffy’s denigration of his profession. Julia, on the other hand, was appalled.

“Mr. Kent is a Bow Street agent, Duffy,” she said. “He has helped us greatly. We owe him much.”

Duffy eyed the Runner. “A good thing you were here.” He paused. “Why are you here?”

“On another, trifling matter, my lord.”