At Devil’s suggestion, she’d played the witless female; it hadn’t been hard. Supported by Sligo, she’d entered the solicitor’s office; Devil had hung back in the shadows outside the office window. A greasy individual with an equally greasy clerk, the solicitor had had her new will ready and waiting. She’d signed; the clerk and Sligo had witnessed it, then the solicitor, rubbing his hands in unctuous delight, had handed her the “token”—a jay’s feather.

With it clutched in her hand, she’d turned to the window. Devil had entered in a swirl of dark drama and black evening cape, twitched the will from the stunned solicitor’s fingers, and ripped it to shreds.

They’d been back in the carriage, she with the feather clutched in her hand, within a minute.

She peered out of the carriage window; the light was fast fading, the sky turning purple and deep blue. Still on Piccadilly, the carriage slowed before the corner. Devil opened the door and leaned out; two large shadows detached themselves from a nearby wall and approached.

In hushed tones, they conferred. All three were against her delivering Muriel’s feather. “There has to be a better way,” Gabriel insisted.

At Devil’s request, she described the scene in the drawing room. Lucifer shook his head. “Too risky to just walk in. We need to make sure she’s still in that room.”

“I have the keys to the back door and back gate.”

All three men looked at her, then exchanged a silent glance, then Devil was helping her from the carriage.

“Stay with Jeffers,” he told Sligo. Pulling out his watch, he glanced at it. “Drive up to the house exactly fifteen minutes from now.”

Sligo looked at his own watch and nodded.

Devil shut the carriage door, took her arm; with Gabriel and Lucifer following, they walked quickly down the narrow mews that lay behind the houses on Half Moon Street.

“This is it.” She stopped before the garden gate and opened her reticule to get her keys.

Lucifer reached forward and lifted the latch—the gate opened.

They all looked at her; she stared at the gate. “The housekeeper might have left it unlocked.” That was possible, but was it likely?

Gabriel and Lucifer led the way up the garden path; despite their size, all three Cynsters moved with silent grace. The garden was overgrown—Caro caught herself making a mental note to have a gardener in, to make the place habitable now that—

She broke off the thought, looked ahead. Gabriel ducked out of sight. Lucifer crouched, then looked back and signaled. Devil drew her off the path into the shadows of a large rhododendron.

“What?” she whispered.

“There’s someone there,” Devil murmured back. “The others will take care of it.”

On the words, she heard a faint thump, a muted scuffle, then the others returned propelling a man almost as tall as they were, a hand clamped over his mouth, his arms twisted behind him.

The man’s eyes met hers—and flared.

Stepping out from the bush, she glared. “Ferdinand! What the devil are you doing here?”

He looked mulish; removing his hand, Gabriel checked Ferdinand’s face, then did something that made him gasp.

Caro suppressed a wince, but this—Ferdinand surrounded by three murderous Cynsters—was the perfect opportunity to get a straight answer. “We don’t have time to waste, Ferdinand. Tell me what you’re after—now!”

He glanced at Lucifer, then through the dimness met Devil’s gaze. Paled and looked down at her. “Letters—an exchange of letters between the duke and Sutcliffe from many years ago. The duke has been pardoned and wants to return home, but if those letters ever surface… he would be exiled again.” He paused, then went on more fervently, “You know what it’s like, Caro, at court. You know—”

She held up a hand. “Yes, I know. And yes, you can have the letters. We’ll have to find them, if they exist…” Her gaze had gone to the house, her mind to Michael and Timothy. “Call on me tomorrow and we’ll sort it out. We don’t have time for this now—something’s happening in the house we must stop. Go now—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ferdinand would have clutched her hand and poured out his heartfelt thanks, but Lucifer gave him a not-too-gentle shove toward the gate.

They turned their attention to the house. The lock on the back door was well oiled; it turned without a sound. The door opened easily; Caro led them through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the narrow corridor. Stopping before the door into the hall, she looked back and noticed that Ferdinand had followed, but was hanging back and, most important, keeping quiet.

“The drawing room is three rooms forward on the right—closest to the front door,” she whispered.

They all nodded. Silently, she pushed open the door. Devil held it for her as she crept forward. He went with her; the others hung back. No sound reached them from the drawing room.

Just before the double doors, Devil closed his hands about her shoulders and halted her; he stepped silently past her, briefly looked, then rejoined her and motioned them all back beyond the service door. Once there, he softly said, “She’s sitting in a chair facing the hearth. She has a pistol in her hand—there’s another on the floor beside the chair. Michael still appears to be unconscious.” He glanced at Caro. “Breckenridge has lost a lot of blood.”

She nodded. Only distantly heard the three Cynsters conferring; dragging in a breath, she forced her ears to function—fought to ignore the hollowness in her stomach, the chill flowing through her veins.

“You’re right,” Gabriel grudgingly conceded. “If we barge in, she’s too likely to fire and we can’t guess what she’ll aim for.”

“We need a diversion,” Devil murmured back.

They looked at each other; nothing sprang to mind. Any minute the carriage would roll up outside and Muriel would expect her to enter.

Ferdinand reached forward and tapped Gabriel on the shoulder. Gabriel glanced back, stepped back as Ferdinand joined them and whispered, “I have a suggestion. The lady with the pistol—it is Muriel Hedderwick, yes?” Caro nodded; Ferdinand went on, “Does she know these three?” Caro shook her head. Ferdinand grinned. “She knows me—she’ll recognize me. I can walk in and play the ‘crazy Portuguese,’ yes? She will let me get close—she won’t see me as a danger. I could take the pistol from her.”

Caro understood immediately—not just what he was proposing, but why. If he did this and saved Michael and Timothy, she’d be in his debt—he could claim the letters as a reward.

The Cynsters were unconvinced, but ultimately looked to her. She nodded. Decisively. “Yes. Let him try. He might pull it off, and we can’t.”

Ferdinand looked at Devil. Who nodded. “Get the pistol she’s holding—we’ll be there as soon as you’ve got your hands on it.”

With a nod in reply, Ferdinand moved past them. He paused before the door to resettle his coat, then he lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and pushed through, walking confidently, his boots ringing on the tile.

“Caro?” He called. “Where are you?”

Silently, they followed him into the front hall.

He reached the drawing room, looked in, then smiled hugely and walked in. “Ah—Mrs. Hedderwick. What a pleasant surprise. I see you, too, have come up from the country—”

The last word changed, steely purpose breaking through. They heard an outraged female gasp, then the sounds of a struggle.

Like angels of death, Gabriel and Lucifer swept in. Caro started after them. Devil caught her about the waist and held her back.

Furious, she struggled. “Damn it, St. Ives—let me go!”

“All in good time,” came the imperturbable response.

A shot rang out, echoing through the house.

Devil released her. She dashed for the door; he still got there before her, momentarily blocked her path as he scanned the room, then he let her in, and followed as she flew across the room to her fallen men.

She glimpsed Muriel struggling like a fiend; all three men were battling to restrain her. The second pistol had been kicked to the side of the room; Devil detoured and picked it up. The one that had fired lay at Muriel’s feet.

Caro fell to her knees beside Michael and Timothy. Frantically she checked Michael’s pulse, felt it steady and strong, but he didn’t respond to her touch or her voice.

Timothy’s pulse, when she found it, was thready and weak. Blood had soaked his shirt and coat and lay pooled beneath him. In his upper chest, the wound looked to have stopped bleeding. She reached to lift the wadded cravat she’d pressed over it to check—Devil stopped her.

“Best leave it.” He called to Lucifer to send Sligo for a doctor.

Glancing over, Caro saw Muriel being held down in the chair, Gabriel winding curtain cords around her to hold her there.

Across the room, Muriel’s eyes locked with hers. For one long moment, Muriel stared, then she threw back her head and screeched.

All four men flinched. When she barely paused for breath, Gabriel swore, whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, balled it and shoved it into her mouth. Reduced to raging mumbles, eyes starting, Muriel flung herself against her bonds, but they held.

The tension gripping the room eased; the men stepped back. Shrugging his coat into place, Ferdinand walked over to Caro. He looked down at Michael and Timothy, then glanced at Devil. “They will live?”

Devil had checked Michael’s head, lifted his lids; Caro had grasped the moment to shift Michael’s shoulders so she could cradle his head in her lap. Glancing at Timothy, Devil nodded grimly. “Both should. Luckily, the ball missed the lung.”