I took his hands, as if holding them would somehow convince him I was right. “I do not know. But if we fail to even try, then everything stays the same. Do you not see? You running from Mulholland and the gallows, Hester at the mercy of Deele, and me in Grosvenor Square unable to help—”

“Brother!”

I looked over my shoulder. Lady Hester and Miss Grant had finally reached us.

“My dear girl,” Evan said as Hester shuffled forward. I was forced to let go of his hands and step aside. “How good it is to see you again.” Although he smiled, his expression held a slight rictus of shock at her condition. She indeed looked ghastly: pale lips dry and cracked, skin ashen, with a blue cast under her eyes and around her mouth. He bowed slightly. “Miss Grant, I had not expected to see you and Hester here.” His voice held a good deal of reproach.

Miss Grant was having none of it. “We have come to—” she started, but Hester leaned in close to his face.

“We must go, brother. Immediately. To the Continent or the West Indies or somewhere. Far away.”

“The Continent? There is a war on, my dear.” He took her outstretched hand. “I do not think we can travel, Hester; you are not well enough. To be frank, you look completely done in. We must wait until you are stronger.”

It was not an idle comment. He’d been the physician’s assistant at the colony prison for years and had learned a great deal of medicine. He glanced at me, the swift connection confirming what we all knew: Hester was still gravely ill.

She shook her head. “No, we must go now. Deele will come. He hates me and Lizzie, you know that. He hates us.” She dragged upon his hand. “Please, Evan. Deele will put me back into one of those places. And I cannot go back…I cannot. I will die first.”

“You will not go back, Hester,” he said, trying to soothe the throbbing mania in her voice. “I will not allow it.”

She stared at him for a second. “Not allow it,” she repeated. Her cracked lips curled back. She wrenched her hand from his grasp. “Not allow it? This is all your fault. If you had not fought that stupid duel, you would have your rightful title. You would be Lord Deele, not our brother, and Lizzie and I would be safe. It is your fault!”

Evan flinched as if she had slashed a whip across his face.

“It is all your fault!” she screamed, the words climbing into a hellish shriek.

Upon the frenzy of her despair, she collapsed, her weight caught by Miss Grant.

“Hester!” Evan sprang across and took Hester’s other arm, both of them holding her upright.

“Weatherly,” I yelled, “bring a rug and the medicine chest.”