But when he arrived in Buckingham Palace and saw Jemima Darlington among the crowd, his plan imploded in white-hot flames. He had stabbed her with all the grief and fury within him, and yet here she was—dancing! Laughing on the arms of some popinjay with a ridiculous mustache!! It was as if he hadn’t impacted her at all!!!

A cry broke out of his soul but he swallowed it down, since howling with all the loneliness and shame of a small boy was not quite the done thing at a royal ball. He would write it out later, he told himself, as was his habit—blistering page after page with the poetry of his wounded psyche. Thus, in the way of all creative masters, he would draw great art from his tragedy . . .

Smother made an excellent rhyme with mother.

He began stalking toward Jemima Darlington (having to zigzag because she was dancing so fast) but halted when he caught sight of Cecilia with that treacherous Lightbourne. In the crystalline light, her hair was gold, and she looked more like Cilla than ever before. Morvath’s heart clenched. Suddenly, a new plan cooled his mind. A way to kill two birds with one knife.

Jemima Darlington could watch Cecilia die before she died herself.

He smiled and licked his lips with anticipation.

Despite the crush in the ballroom, he thought he would have trouble catching his prey unawares, but in the end it proved absurdly easy. Cecilia and Lightbourne were so intent upon each other, they didn’t even notice his approach.

“Excuse me,” he said. “May I cut in?”

And he grabbed Cecilia, pressing his knife to her throat.

Morvath pulled Cecilia from Ned’s hands before either of them could fully comprehend the situation. Stepping back, he knocked into a large potted fern, which rocked loudly against the floor; he shuffled aside, dragging Cecilia with him, and dancers screamed as they rushed away from the scandal. Ned drew his gun but could not shoot without endangering Cecilia, and Morvath laughed at him.

“Foolish boy!” he scoffed.

Ned frowned and cupped a hand to his ear. “What? The music is so loud. Say that again?”

Morvath snarled. “Foolish boy!” he shouted. “I am going to cut off your limbs, drag you to a pit of vipers, and throw you to the very bottom!”

The music ceased abruptly, and bottom resounded through the sudden silence. “Language,” an anonymous woman hissed, and Morvath’s face flamed.

“Shut up!” he screamed. “Shut the hell up! I have heard enough from women to last me for a lifetime! You will all be silent!”

“Who is this conceited fellow?” Prince Wilhelm demanded. “What does he think he’s doing, invading our banquet and spoiling the peace in this belligerent fashion? What kind of man does that?”

“It’s just Patrick Morvath,” Bloodhound Bess called out. “An unpublished poet.”

“I said shut up!” Morvath roared, and Cecilia winced from the force of it. “No artist is truly appreciated in his lifetime! And one more word from any female and I’ll cut Cecilia’s throat open in front of you all!”