On the day of the Black Prince’s twenty-first birthday his father summoned him.

“You are almost ready, my son,” said the Black Warlock. “But in order to attain all of your powers you must make a last sacrifice. Bring me the heart of your Golden Falcon.”

The Black Prince’s expression never changed. He bowed and said, “Yes, Father.”…

—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

The scream woke Hugh.

He started up, his heart feeling as if it were beating right out of his chest. Beside him Alf swore.

The door to his bedroom burst open.

Talbot came in, dragging Milly, the new nursemaid. The woman was sobbing loudly. Behind them was Jenkins. The gray-haired man took one look at the bed and strode over to pick up Alf’s chemise and give it to her.

“Tell him.” The grenadier shook the nursemaid. “Stop your wailing and tell him now.”

“I’m that sorry, Your Grace!” the woman wailed, sinking to her knees. “Please!”

Hugh looked from her tear-streaked face to Talbot’s grim expression and felt his belly turn to ice. “What has happened?”

Alf wrapped her arms around his bare shoulders, and even in the midst of what might be tragedy, it gave him comfort.

“I… I…” The nursemaid broke into incoherent sobs again.

“Sir.” Jenkins was handing him his breeches.

Hugh took them and stood, uncaring of his nudity as he pulled them on. “Someone tell me!”

“They took Peter.” Kit stood in the doorway.

Everything stopped as Hugh stared at his eldest son.

Kit’s face was white, a long scratch along one cheek, his hair a mess. He looked… lost.

His black eyes met Hugh’s. “Father, they took Peter.”

Hugh inhaled and opened his arms. “Come here.”

The boy ran to him and into his embrace. Hugh sat back down on the bed, gulping air, trying to think, holding Kit tight.

“Tell me what happened,” he said as he stroked a trembling hand through his son’s curling hair.

“Milly took us on our morning walk,” Kit said. “Me and Peter and Pudding.”

“Nine of the clock every morning for their health,” the nursemaid said, sounding desperate. “I took a footman like I always do. Please, Your Grace—”

Hugh glared at the woman, and she abruptly snapped her mouth shut.

Kit’s lips crimped for a moment, but he took a shuddering breath and continued. “We were almost home again but Pudding saw a cat and she chased it. Peter went running after her. He went around a corner. But when the footman and I came after him, he wasn’t there anymore. Only Pudding was there, trying to chase after a carriage. The carriage was already going away, but I saw Petey inside, looking out the window.” He lifted tear-filled eyes to Hugh. “I wanted to run to the carriage, but the footman wouldn’t let me, Father. He wouldn’t let me help Petey.”

Hugh hugged Kit close, glad that the footman had had the intelligence to hang on to the boy.

“What did the carriage look like?” Alf asked beside him.

“It was black,” Kit said to her.

He didn’t seem to find it odd that she was in his father’s bed, but then he must be in shock.

She turned to Talbot. “Did the footman say anything else?”

The grenadier shook his head. “No, miss.”

Hugh closed his eyes. It had to be the Lords of Chaos. This early in the morning after last night’s raid on Dowling’s house, it couldn’t be a coincidence. He’d been masked, but Exley had called him by name last night. The earl must’ve recognized Hugh’s voice. Christ, if his investigation had led to Peter’s kidnapping, led to his…

He shook his head hard, cutting off the dreadful thought.

He couldn’t think of that. He’d be driven mad if he did.

Riley slipped into the room, walking softly. He held a letter in his hand. “This just came for you, sir. The boy who delivered it is downstairs, but he doesn’t seem to know anything.”

Hugh took the letter, ripped it open, and read:

Bring everything you stole last night to Crewe’s house at noon. Do not try to attack the house. The boy is not there. Once we have the items in our possession, we will transport you to where he is hidden and we will let you both go. Refuse our generous offer and you will never see him again.

The letter was signed with a crude drawing of a dolphin.

Hugh passed the letter to Alf. She made one sharp exclamation as she read it and then was silent again.

He had no doubts that the promise to let him and Peter go was a lie. Once he was in the Lords’ hands they would kill him. He knew too much at this point. Had come too close to their affairs.

He breathed in and then out, trying to think. “Kit, was there anything else you saw on the walk? Anything else different or unusual?”

The boy knit his brows. “No, but you could ask Uncle David.”

Hugh stilled. “Uncle David?”

Kit nodded. “We saw him on the walk. He waved to me and Peter. He asked if we wanted to come with him for some tea and cake, but Milly said we needed to be back for our lessons.”

Hugh felt molten rage flood his veins. He looked at his men. “Bring my brother-in-law here. Now.”

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER Alf was dressed in her boys’ clothes and sitting in the library with Kyle as David was brought in by Talbot and Riley. The man was bright red with either anger or embarrassment or both, and she watched as he tried to regain his self-possession before Kyle.

He did it by blustering, which she could’ve told him was a very bad idea.

“What do you mean, sending your lackeys to drag me in here like a debtor?” he demanded.

Kyle stood by the fireplace not moving. It was eerie the way he’d become so still and calm since he’d read that awful letter. All emotion was gone from his black eyes. Any anger or grief torn from his face.

She wanted to go to him. To put her arms around him and bury her face in his big chest and weep the tears he wasn’t letting himself shed. She wanted to tell him that they’d find funny, sweet little Peter. That he’d be back soon, playing with Pudding and arguing with Kit and complaining about having to do schoolwork and dine on whatever it was they made little lords eat for luncheon.

Except she knew better.

The men they were dealing with were bad. Bad like the monsters who walked in the dark woods of St Giles. These Lords of Chaos might’ve already killed little Lord Peter. She pressed her fingers to her lips at the terrible thought. Kyle was the sort of man who knew a bit of the world—who knew that there were those in it who had no souls.

He knew that his son might not be alive.

And he was still upright.

She closed her eyes and looked away, her heart aching for the little boy, aching for his brother, aching for the man who would survive this, but might lose his soul in the process.

The thought made her heart shrivel. Made her want to run and run until she never had to think of blond little boys being hurt again.

Oh, it was painful to love.

“What do you want?” David shouted, making her jump and open her eyes.

Apparently he’d been unnerved by Kyle’s silence.

“Why won’t you speak?” the man cried. “You drag me here but won’t answer me? What can possibly be the point? What do you want?”

“I want,” Kyle said very quietly, “my son.”

“I don’t—”

Kyle moved at last, fast and decisively. He took three steps and grasped the smaller man’s neckcloth, then twisted it in his fist until he lifted David up onto his toes.

Until David choked, his fingers clawing at Kyle’s fist.

Alf swallowed, wondering if Kyle would strangle his brother-in-law. Wondering if anyone in the room would stop him.

Kyle relaxed his grasp, but still kept hold of the neckcloth. He leaned close to the other man’s face and rasped, “I want. My. Son.”

“They’ll kill me,” David said.

“And you think I won’t?” Kyle’s lips lifted in a snarl as he twisted the neckcloth again.

“No—!” David coughed, gasping as Kyle let him breathe. “The Lords of Chaos have him.”

“Where?”

“I… I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. That’s the truth!”

“Who in the Lords? Who is behind the kidnapping?”

“I… I… no!” David closed his eyes. “The Earl of Exley. Dowling. Probably others. That’s all I know, truly! The Lords don’t reveal themselves in numbers. That’s how they keep their secrets.”

Kyle narrowed his eyes. “And you keep their secrets as well?”

“I… yes.” David swallowed. “Yes, I’m a member.”

“Loyal enough to betray your own blood.” Kyle shoved him away as if touching David dirtied his hands. “Christ, have you no honor, man?”

“Honor?” the other man spit, his hands at his throat. “Honor? If you hadn’t cut me off I’d never have helped lure the boy. Christ, he wasn’t even the one we wanted. We were supposed to kidnap Christopher, not Peter. Why would you even care about Peter?”

Alf’s eyebrows drew together. Was David insane?

Kyle was staring at him. “Peter is my son.”

David threw back his head and laughed. “No, he’s not. He can’t be. Katherine told me.”

“I don’t give a damn what Katherine cared to tell you,” Kyle said, his voice precise and controlled. “Do you take me for as much of a fool as you are? I’ve known that Peter wasn’t from my blood since before he was born. I had the choice of ignoring that innocent babe—the brother to my own flesh and blood—or bringing him up as my own. I chose the latter. Wholeheartedly. Without reservations. Peter is and always will be my son. Whom Katherine slept with to make him doesn’t matter to me. He is my son.”

Alf blinked back tears, amazed by Kyle’s love for Peter.

“Of course it matters.” David’s mouth twisted, disgust and confusion crossing his patrician face as he stared at Kyle. “He’s not yours despite your justifications. Why you would even make this much fuss over the little cuckoo—”

Kyle struck him hard in the jaw, laying David out flat on the floor.

Jenkins raised his eyebrows and bent over the man. “Out cold.”

“Take him and lock him up—somewhere he can’t escape, mind.” Kyle shook his hand. “Get the papers ready. I’ve an appointment to make at Crewe’s house.”

Talbot threw David over his shoulder and Jenkins and Riley followed him out of the room.

“They’re going to kill you,” Alf said.

“They’re going to try.” Kyle was examining his knuckles. They looked as if they were bleeding. “Doesn’t mean they’ll succeed. He’s my son.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Give me your handkerchief.”

She got up and found the decanter of brandy in the corner. She wet the handkerchief with the liquor and came back with the cloth.

He watched as she dabbed at the broken skin on his knuckles. “He’s so small. I can’t stand to think of him alone and afraid.” He swallowed. “Maybe hurt.”

She looked up at him and placed her palm on his cheek. She couldn’t fathom the wonder of him. Men—especially aristocratic men—put everything into their lineage. Into their bloodlines. Into whether or not their children were their own. Even in St Giles the very worst thing you could call a man was a cuckold.

Yet Kyle had knowingly brought up his wife’s bastard as his own son. More, he’d not shown any bias in his dealings with either son. If David hadn’t blurted out the truth, she would have never guessed that Peter was any different from Kit.

He sighed and leaned his forehead against hers. “I’ll need to have my men follow me to wherever they take me. I don’t want to put you in danger, my darling imp, but you’re the only one who can climb those rooftops. It may be the sole way to keep up with them unseen. Will you do this for me?”

She kissed him gently, her lips closed. “Of course I will.”

“Thank you.”

She looked at him, his determined black eyes, his black bristly pirate’s face, his sinfully full lips, this man who was going to almost certain death for a son not of his blood.

She loved him.

She loved him and she was going to let him go.

HUGH PAUSED OUTSIDE the boys’ room and took a breath before entering.

Kit was on the bed, the puppy curled asleep beside him. He glanced at the dog. Doubtless it shouldn’t be on the furniture, but he would not be the one to scold his son today.

Not if it might be the last memory the boy would have of him.

“Father?” Kit had looked up at his entrance.

Hugh tried to smile, but it seemed an impossible task just now. He sat by the boy instead.

“Are you going to bring Peter home?” Kit asked.

“Yes,” Hugh said. “I want you to know…” He cleared his throat as he reached out and stroked back the boy’s dark curls. His hair still hadn’t been properly brushed this morning. “I want you to know that I love you and I love Peter.”

Kit frowned. “Then why did you leave us?”

Hugh blinked, something inside him squeezing. He hadn’t… well, he supposed he deserved that question, but now? Now he needed to get to Peter.

And… oh hell. He might never have another chance to answer the question.

Impossible as it was to answer properly for a little boy. “Your mother and I argued. We didn’t get on and we couldn’t live together. But I’ve always loved you both.”

Kit was still frowning, but he nodded. He peeked up through his tangled hair. “You shouldn’t leave again.”

He had to clear his throat to answer, and even then his voice was husky. “No, I won’t.”

He hoped that Kit would forgive him if it turned out he was lying. If he didn’t return tonight with Peter. But he was going to do everything in his power to fulfill this promise to the boy.

To come back and become the father he should have been all along.

Hugh squeezed his eyes shut, praying to a god he wasn’t even sure he believed in anymore. Then he kissed his son’s forehead and got up.

Kit was crying, trying to hide it bravely, his little lips pressed together, but the sobs shook him.

Hugh placed a hand on his head for a second, his fingers trembling, and then turned and strode to the door.

He had to stop for a second with his hand on the knob and draw breath. Dear God, let him come back alive. A boy shouldn’t grow up without a father. He knew that firsthand.

He shoved the thought aside. Shoved it deep within a corner of his mind, because he had to make sure he came out of this alive and with his younger son in his arms.

Outside Kit’s room he found Bell and Riley.

He looked at the boy first. “Will you stay with my son for me, Bell?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Bell’s eyes were red-rimmed, but he stood straight and tall.

“Good lad.” Hugh opened the door for him.

Then he met Riley’s eyes. “Guard him well for me.”

The former soldier wore a brace of pistols and had a sword on his hip. “Aye, sir, I’ll guard him with my life.”

Hugh nodded and then turned and ran down the stairs and to the front entry hall, where Talbot, Jenkins, and Alf were waiting for him.

He looked at them each in turn, lingering on Alf’s lovely face because he couldn’t help himself even now. “Remember: no matter what, don’t reveal yourselves until you see Peter.”

All three nodded. Hugh waved the men to the back of the house. They would be following his carriage, each in his own way.

He turned to Alf. “Do I have your word?”

She tilted her head. “Of course.”

He took her shoulders and couldn’t refrain from a little shake. She was such a passionate thing, and he knew she had some affection for him. “They may beat me or even try and kill me. You must not intervene. This mission has only one goal: to rescue Peter. If you show yourself before they take me to him, all this will be in vain. We will have lost him.”

She set her jaw, her big brown eyes serious, and for the first time he saw in her gaze all the years that she’d lived on this earth.

“I know,” she said as she cradled his face in her palms. “We’ll bring back your son, safe and sound. Together.”

“Be careful,” he said fiercely, and kissed her hard.

He turned and went out the front door.

The carriage ride to Crewe’s house seemed to take an age. He watched from the windows, though he couldn’t see either of his men or Alf.

That was a good thing, he reminded himself. If he couldn’t see them, then any of the Lords watching wouldn’t be able to see them, either.

When the carriage finally stopped, Hugh stepped out with the papers in a folder under his arm. He mounted the steps to Crewe’s house and knocked.

The door was opened by Dowling, looking nervous. “You’re by yourself?”

Hugh nodded. “Where’s my son?”

Dowling ignored his question to peer at the street behind Hugh. “Come inside.”

Hugh stepped into the house. Immediately two men came at him, one from either side, and took his arms. He didn’t resist. Dowling snatched the file away as the men found and removed the dagger in Hugh’s coat pocket.

Dowling nodded to the bully on Hugh’s right.

They led him farther into the house, down a hall, and into a sitting room.

Exley was waiting there, drinking tea, and looking more like a cadaver than ever.

He glanced up on their entrance. “Did he have the papers?”

Dowling stepped forward, handing over the file.

“Where’s my son?” Hugh demanded again.

Exley flicked a finger without looking up from the file.

One of the rogues holding Hugh punched him in the side of the head.

He fell to his knees, his ears ringing. Hugh planted one hand on the floor to brace himself and stood up, glaring at the earl.

“They seem to be all here,” Exley drawled after another minute. He finally looked up at Hugh. “Your son is… safe.” He smiled. “For the moment, in any case. Make any attempt at escape or at harming any of us and he won’t be, I can promise you that. Do you understand?”

“I’ve already brought you the papers,” Hugh said calmly. “All I want is Peter back.”

“Good.” Exley nodded at the toughs.

Immediately a hood was thrown over Hugh’s head. He fought not to struggle, not to resist in any way, but it was hard. Especially when their next step was to tie his hands together in front of him with cord.

They marched him through the house and out the back door—he could tell from the smell of the kitchens. Through the gardens and into the mews. He hoped his men and Alf could see him. A carriage was in the mews, and he was roughly bundled in.

The carriage rocked as they set off, but then jolted to a stop not five minutes later. Hugh tensed and felt himself being shoved out one carriage door and into another without even touching the ground. The carriages must have been side by side.

Immediately the second carriage pulled away.

Had his men noticed the switch?

He turned his head, inhaling, listening, trying to discover where they were in London.

Once again they stopped abruptly, and once again they changed carriages.

Now he could smell the rot of fishes. The river? Were they headed to the wharves?

The carriage stopped for a third time, and Hugh prepared to stand.

“Just a minute, Your Grace,” Exley said, and a hand pressed the hood to Hugh’s mouth and nose, while others held his arms and legs.

He bucked. Despite the warning to submit. It was an instinctive reaction to the lack of air.

He heard Exley’s laughter as his body jerked and his lungs seized, and he knew: he’d failed.

He’d failed.

Then everything went black.