“She’d better be. I told her this afternoon that we’d come.”

Mr. Baker gestured to the stair. “Be my guest.” His gaze shifted to Diantha. “But I don’t know that this little lady will appreciate her mother’s delicate sensibilities.”

Tracy’s face reddened. He turned to her. “I’ll go up and tell her we’re here.” She nodded and he ascended.

Mr. Baker’s gaze slowly slid from Diantha’s crown to her hem. His grin widened. She tugged her cloak firmly about her and went to the narrow window beside the door. Out on the misty street a cart passed by, then an old hackney coach, a few riders, and other traffic, and her hands grew colder and damper. She closed her eyes and the image of a carriage with a crested door and a riderless black horse arose before her.

She popped her eyes open. She needed a plan, anything to distract her from constantly thinking of Wyn.

Her throat caught. Not twenty feet away a man passed through a circle of lamplight, a very large man wearing an overcoat and hat but whose long hair, square jaw, and sheer mass were unmistakable.

She grabbed the door handle.

“Now there, miss,” Mr. Baker said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“There’s no time.” Her heartbeats flew, her hands slippery on the knob.

“Your brother will come down in a minute with your mother.”

“Tell him—tell him I will return shortly.” She pulled the door open.

He grasped her arm. “Now, wait there, miss.”

Lord Eads disappeared behind a cluster of people up the street. She whirled around. “No. Tell my brother that I cannot see her. That I changed my mind. There is a hackney coach just letting off passengers there. I will hire it to drive to my friend’s house where I was intended tonight. I cannot see my mother now.” Her heart thudded.

“You’ll not have this opportunity again. Your mother and I sail on the hour.”

“I—I know. I know.” She yanked her arm free and swung open the door.

Dashing through traffic, she breathed in foul odors of fish and animal refuse, but she didn’t care; her senses were alive again after hours of numbness. Her skirts hampered her and the Highlander’s broad back moved quickly away.

A pair of men jeered at her from a doorway. “Here, pretty girl! Scamper our way. We’ll give you a fine romp.” One of them sprang up and grabbed her arm.

“No!” She struggled. “Release me!”

Lord Eads halted, turned about, and Diantha’s heart nearly exploded.

Momentarily he was upon them, shoving her accoster aside. “Didna yer mother teach ye how ta treat a leddy, ye ruffian?” He turned his glower upon her as the ruffian retreated. “And didna anybody teach ye no ta run about the streets alone a’nicht, lass?”

“No. I’ve been in the dark my entire life. But you must rectify that now.” Shaking fiercely, she grabbed his thick arm. “Where is he? Have you hurt him? You must tell me or I think I will die. Truly. I am not being dramatic. This feeling in my breast is beyond describable. It’s the worst thing I have ever felt. All day I have been trying to pretend I don’t feel it, but it’s of no use. Have you harmed him? And if not—oh, God, please not—where is he?”

His brow lowered. “A haena harmed him, lass. But A dinna ken where he be.”

“I need the truth,” she pleaded. “If you know that he is simply off somewhere with his friends debauching, then I will have to accept that. But this morning he departed strangely, in a carriage with a noble crest on the door pulled by the most spectacular foursome of gray horses, and he left his own horse behind. That isn’t like him, and I realize—”

“A team o’ fine grays, ye say?”

Diantha’s heart did two enormous turnabouts. “Do you know them?”

“Aye, lass.” His brow was dark.

“Are . . . ?” She couldn’t breathe. “The duke?”

He nodded.

Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “I pray you, tell me where to find him.”

“I canna.” He shook his head. “He’d cut ma throat.”

“The duke?”

He peered at her like she was daft.

“Tell me where the duke has taken him! I beg of you.”

For a moment he said nothing, the raucous sounds of the street all about them in the torch-lit dark. Finally, he nodded. “A’ll go and see what can be done, then send ye word.”

“No.” She gripped his arm. “You must take me.”

“No, lass.”

“There’s no ‘no’ about it. I will not leave your side.”

He looked about the street. “What’re ye doing here all alone?”

“Seeking the truth. Again. Now, you must take me to him. I want to help him. I need to help him. If I were one of your sisters, you would understand, wouldn’t you?”

The Highlander stared down at her from his vast height. For the second time in years, Diantha prayed.

Despite his long work for the government, and briefly for the underlord Myles, Wyn found himself surprised to discover that a great lord possessed a dungeon—in town—a dark basement of some medieval house in which he was now bound to a wall with shackles about his wrists. Given his present state, it was also somewhat difficult to convince himself that he had made the right decision to mount the duke’s carriage voluntarily. They had taken his knife. Indeed, he had surrendered it without fuss; mind numbed and heart thrashed from that little charade with Diantha, he hadn’t been thinking entirely straight when the carriage door opened and the duke’s minion uttered, “Get in or I’ll shoot you in the heart.” Since he hadn’t wished to die in a bloody mess on the sidewalk before her house, he had acquiesced. A man must have some pride, after all, and the tenderhearted minx deserved better.

A guard dozed in the corner, his lips jiggling with snores, keys to the irons dangling from his belt. Wyn had tried cajoling, even bribery, to win those keys, including an abrupt contortion of his arms when the big fellow came close that had gained him bruises on his wrists and a gash the length of Piccadilly along the side of his face. Perhaps not quite such a long gash, but it bled heartily enough. He felt a bit dizzy and his mouth was a desert. But it seemed clear now that if he’d gone to Yarmouth he would be likewise chained up. At least he’d spared Galahad the journey.

He cleared his throat. “Had you been following me long before you picked me up?”

The guard started awake and rubbed his eyes. “Yester’eve.”

“Since yesterday evening only?”

Grunt.

“Ah. The duke must trust you only with brute tasks. How lowering for you.”

Disgruntled mumble.

“What was that?”

“Rufus was chasing shadows,” the big fellow grumbled. “Told Chopper she weren’t nothing. Not to a flash cove like you.”

Wyn’s heartbeat spiked. “I’ll admit I am not entirely following you. Your colleague Rufus failed you, Chopper, and perhaps the duke in some task having to do with apprehending me?”

Nod of righteous indignation. “But now who’s already gone off bottle-knocked on a tuppence and left me here?” Scowl.

“Rufus, I suppose?”

Head jerk. Relapse into silence.

From which Wyn deduced with no little satisfaction that Rufus, the duke’s employee who had been watching Savege’s household from within, had been paid and furloughed by the duke hours ago. Rufus had believed Wyn’s ruse and Yarmouth had no more use for him. Diantha was safe.

Footsteps came on the step and another man entered.

“Ah, back so soon,” Wyn said. “Since you disappeared swiftly after that lovely carriage ride, I had begun to miss you.”

This fellow was not as large as the other guard, though plenty scarred; he’d been the winner in some nasty bouts. But if Wyn had the free use of his arms, he might be able to best him alone. Both, if he had his knife.

“He wants to see you.”

They took him up the stair, passing a single landing before the smaller guard opened the door at the top. The odor of decay ushered forth. Lit dimly, the chamber was a fortress, all bricked windows, Flemish tapestries, and a massive bed hung with curtains scrolled with gold cord and tassels. Upon a table by the bed a silver tray laden with porcelain bore testimony to an uneaten meal. In a chair beside the table huddled a narrow woman of indeterminate age tucked into a black cloak and dust veil. She did not lift her eyes as the guards brought Wyn toward the foot of the bed, but she stood and drew the curtain open.

The stench of death rocked him. From the shadows a wraith of a man with long, incongruously thick white hair stared back at him, his eyes cavernous in the darkness. His face was pocked with wet red sores the size of sixpence, and moisture stained the nightshirt pink beneath his velvet dressing gown.

At Yarmouth’s castle Wyn had seen a portrait of the duke—a picture of a man in the middle of his life, tall, aristocratically slender and weak-chinned, with round eyes and tapered shoulders exaggerated by an indolent pose, his elbow propped upon a bust of a long-deceased emperor. Caligula, probably.

The monstrosity before Wyn bore little resemblance to the nobleman in that portrait.

“Your Grace, I would bow but these fellows have me trussed too tightly. Or— Wait . . .” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn’t bow anyway.” He shrugged, the shackles digging into his wrists.

The duke nodded and the gray woman pulled the curtain back farther. A pair of dueling pistols rested upon the foot of the bed, perfectly presented atop the satin coverlet as though still in their case.

Wyn’s throat constricted. “Ah,” he said conversationally, “you aim to finish this in a gentlemanly manner.” Curious. Yarmouth looked barely capable of lifting his hand, let alone of gripping a weapon.