Damn.

The condition of the room made no sense for thieves, but perfect sense for someone who was searching for something — and lost their temper when the search proved fruitless. They really hadn't missed a spot, had they? His books had been rifled, his furniture slashed through; even the bookshelves had been moved away from the wall and the paintings shoved aside in case of secret caches behind. Miles didn't even want to know what his bedroom must look like.

Damn, damn, damn.

Somehow, he must have alerted this new band of operatives that he was on to them. Miles couldn't think of any other reason for Bonaparte's minions to be reducing his lodgings to a shambles. What were they looking for? An unfinished dispatch, perhaps? If they — Miles was beginning to severely dislike that pronoun — were desperate enough to tear apart his home, he must have stumbled onto something important, something they didn't want him to find.

Vaughn. A grim satisfaction pervaded Miles's weary frame. Ha! It had to be Vaughn. He must have been recognized leaving Vaughn's house last night. Could one of Vaughn's henchmen have seen him strolling out of Belliston Square, trying to look like a man who'd just had a bit too much to imbibe, and put two and two together? It might equally well have been that, despite his ridiculous costume, he'd been recognized by his attacker in Vaughn's bedchamber. Or… some of Miles's satisfaction began to fade as he considered the number of times he might possibly have revealed his identity to his adversaries. Or he might have been spotted at the Duke's Knees that night. True, Vaughn had given no sign of recognition, but an experienced spy wouldn't, would he.

Then there was his trip to the opera this morning. Miles whacked his head with the back of his hand. If Vaughn was in league with Mme Fiorila… well, leaving his card with Mme Fiorila had not been the brightest of ideas. Pity, that. It had seemed such a sensible course of action at the time.

Why did this sort of thing never happen to Richard? Of course, Richard had been captured by the French secret police, which did tend to even the score a bit. That thought made Miles feel better. Almost.

Heedless of escaping stuffing, Miles groaned and flopped down on his mutilated settee. He didn't want to contemplate crazed French spies, he didn't want to contemplate his own mistakes, and he certainly didn't want to contemplate the amount of time it was going to take before his lodgings were livable again. It had been a long, tiring, and — Miles's un-regenerate mind presented him with a tactile reenactment of Henrietta's foot inching up his leg — frustrating day, and all he wanted was to sprawl out on his sofa, imbibe a glass of claret, and vent to Downey. Miles glanced down at the claret-colored stain on his carpet, glinting with the crystal fragments that had once been glasses. Not bloody likely.

Where in the hell was Downey, for that matter? Or Mrs. Migworth, his housekeeper, cook, and maid of all work? True, Mrs. Migworth was slightly deaf, and tended, once her morning rounds of cleaning and tidying were done, not to leave her domain in the kitchen, but one would think someone would have noticed the odd whirlwind flashing through the flat.

Miles heaved himself off the sofa, shedding little tufts of horsehair as he dragged himself upright. Grinding glass into the carpet as he went — the carpet was going to have to be thrown out, anyway, so he might as well get the satisfaction of making loud, crackling noises — Miles stomped off in search of his staff.

"Downey!" he shouted. "Where in the blazes are you?"

There was no answer.

Miles stalked off into the dining parlor, noting grimly the silver that had been upended on the sideboard, and the pictures that had been torn off the wall.

"Downey!" Miles roared. "Where are you, man?"

Of all the times for his valet to take an unauthorized afternoon off! Miles came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, scowling at the smashed pile of fragments that had once been his dinner service.

That's when he heard it. A low moan, little more than an exhalation of air. Miles whirled, seeking the source of the sound.

"Hello?" Miles said sharply. It might have been nothing more than a draft of air from an open window, or a mouse in the skirting board — though Miles didn't think mice sighed. No, this sound had been human in origin. Miles's eyes rifled across the room, darting past the table, over several chairs… and under the sideboard, which boasted, in addition to its own four legs, a black-shod foot protruding where no foot ought to be.

Miles flung himself to his knees on the parquet floor. There lay Downey, sprawled facedown beneath the sideboard, a dark stain marring the back of his coat.

"Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell," muttered Miles. "Downey? Downey, can you hear me?"

Another faint moan emerged from the valet's crumpled form. "It's going to be all right," Miles said with more determination than he felt. Yanking the cravat from around his throat — Downey, after ail, was in no state to protest — he fashioned a rough dressing over the hole in Downey's back. From the way the blood was caked on Downey's coat, the wound appeared to have mostly stopped bleeding, but moving him would undoubtedly open it again. He must have been lying there for some time.

Being as gentle as he could, Miles eased Downey out from under the sideboard, eliciting another wordless moan.

"Sorry, old boy," Miles muttered. "It'll just be a moment, I promise…"

"Thieves," croaked Downey, in a barely audible whisper.

"Shhh," said Miles, feeling like one of the world's lowest sort of crawling creatures. "Don't try to talk."

"Couldn't… stop…"

"No one could have done more," Miles reassured him, his voice rough with remorse. "You just lie here, while I — "

"Couldn't… see…"

"Don't say another word. I'm going to get a surgeon. You just stay here."

Not giving his fallen valet time to object, Miles raced through his chaotic sitting room, vaulted over the table blocking the doorway, and took the stairs three at a time. Storming into the street, he collared a young boy he recognized as a page from the neighboring establishment. "Go to the nearest surgeon and tell him to come here at once — at once, do you hear?"

The boy shrunk away, eyeing Miles's bloodstained hands with pop-eyed alarm.

Miles dug in his waistcoat and yanked out a silver crown. "Here."

He slapped it into the boy's palm. "There'll be another for you if you're back here within the next ten minutes."

"Yes, sir! Yes, indeed, sir!" The boy set off running.

Within half an hour, Downey had been moved to the settee — a liberty he would have protested had he not been unconscious at the time — examined, and pronounced very lucky to be yet among the living.

"An inch lower," pronounced the surgeon grimly, "and your man would have been skewered straight through the heart."

Several hours and two glasses of brandy later (the brandy having been consumed mostly by Miles), Downey was propped up on pillows, partaking of hot broth, and being fussed over by Mrs. Migworth.

"Not but what if I'd known, I wouldn't have gone to market this day," said Mrs. Migworth for the tenth time, shaking her graying head. "It's that sorry I am, Mr. Downey."

"That makes two of us," muttered Miles, pacing the ruined carpet. "Downey, I can't tell you how sorry I am that this has happened."

Downey looked as gratified as a man swathed in bandages with a spoon stuck in his mouth can contrive to look.

"It's… no matter… sir." Downey suddenly started up in alarm, sending Mrs. Migworth into a whole new agony of fussing and pillow-fluffing. "Sir! Her ladyship…Lady Uppington… left a message."

"Calm yourself, Downey." Miles perched himself on an only slightly slashed chair. "It can't be that important."

"But her ladyship said… the masquerade…"

"Oh, no. I'm staying right here with you. I don't care if the Prince of Wales himself is throwing it, I — oh. Oh, no." Miles uttered a word that made Mrs. Migworth bristle with disapproval.

Miles didn't notice. Miles didn't care. Miles was staring off into space with a fixed look of horror in the manner of Hamlet being confronted with his father's ghost. Only this was far, far worse than any number of spirits from beyond the grave. The masquerade was being hosted by Lord Vaughn, held at Lord Vaughn's townhouse, entirely under Lord Vaughn's control and direction.

Hen was there. With Vaughn. In Vaughn's house.

Everyone would be masked, the more fantastical the costume the better. The ton, safely disguised behind feathery masks and elaborate wigs, would have seized the opportunity to indulge in a bit of licentious revel. Champagne would flow, sharpening voices and numbing wits. In the midst of them all would be Henrietta, meandering innocently along like a lamb among wolves. How hard would it be to yank her away, out of the throng of partygoers? Vaughn could slip a drug into her drink; he could back her into a dark corner; he could even sweep her up and toss her over his shoulder and anyone who saw would simply assume it was all part of the fun, a bit of playacting to enliven the evening.

And once Vaughn had isolated Henrietta from his guests… Miles's blood ran cold. The man had just stabbed Mües's valet with no more thought than Miles would give to crushing an ant.

"What time was I supposed to be there?" Miles demanded hoarsely.

"Ten o'clock," said Mrs. Migworth briskly, rubbing her hands on her apron. "Is aught wrong, sir?"