On the twelfth anniversary of the defeat of the White Sorceress, the Black Warlock caused a great celebration to be held at the ruins of Castle White. He stood with his son in the exact spot where the sorceress had died and spread wide his arms as he crowed in triumph to a gathered crowd.

And as he did so a circle of magical fire sprang up around him and the Black Prince. The White Sorceress’s dying curse was finally being fulfilled.…

—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

Hugh woke to peace. To the sun at the window and a warm breast against his arm, and truly his first emotion was joy.

Followed immediately by fear.

For it wasn’t as if he’d never felt joy before in his life. He’d thought himself blissfully in love with Katherine once. That had led to screaming arguments, anger the like of which he’d never known, and exile from his land, his home, and his family.

He turned to look at Alf. She lay with dark lashes on her delicate cheeks, her pink lips parted in sleep. Her hair was tangled about her head, a lock almost across her closed eyelid.

He gently brushed it aside without waking her.

Alf was nothing like Katherine, in looks or temperament or station in life. Alf was lovely and quick and cocky, where Katherine had been an elegant dark beauty. Alf made him laugh with her teasing.

Katherine’s teasing had led only to sex or bitter arguments.

And of course Katherine had been the better match. She had been an aristocrat, born and bred to be the wife, if not of a duke, then certainly of a titled gentleman. She’d been taught how to plan balls, how to talk to foreign princes, how to pour tea.

Alf knew none of that. She simply brought him joy.

That was what sent a thrill of unease down his spine. In this emotion he could not trust himself.

But he could not draw away, either. He’d tried to keep himself apart from Alf and failed.

He watched as she sighed and turned her head on the pillow, her palm curling against her cheek.

He wanted her. Not just her body. He wanted her laughter. He wanted the spark he saw in her eyes when she teased him. He wanted the way she ate too fast, the appetite and enthusiasm she had for jam. He wanted the way she held his sons and told them unsuitable stories. He wanted her worldly cynicism and her innocent wonder. He wanted her running beside him, in the night or in the day. Hell, he wanted to cross swords with her and then make love to her afterward, still panting with their exercise.

He wanted her beside him always.

And he couldn’t trust his want.

He must’ve made a sound then, for she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

Her pink lips curled in welcome. “Hugh.”

“Alf.” He bent—he couldn’t bloody stop himself—and brushed a kiss across her mouth. She was warm. Humid. Smelling of woman and him. He was hard against her—he’d woken hard—and his hips shifted, his cock sliding on her thigh.

He raised his head and her smile widened beautifully. The hand by her cheek disappeared underneath the coverlet and he knew where it was headed.

He caught her wrist.

That beautiful smile died. “Guv?”

He cleared his throat. “I need to speak to Shrugg.”

“This early in the morning?” She glanced at the window and then back at him, her smile uncertain now. “I never knew swell coves were up and about before noon.”

He hated that he’d made her doubt herself, but he needed to think.

And he couldn’t think naked and in bed with her. “Some of us are.” He let go of her and rolled to the edge of the bed. “I should have seen Shrugg yesterday to give him my report on the Lords of Chaos and to hand over both the list of names and the cypher that Iris decrypted, but I didn’t want to leave Peter and Kit. I’m surprised he didn’t send messengers to pound on my door at dawn’s first light.”

He stood and began dressing. “I’ll make sure that Cook prepares some breakfast. You can have it either here or in the dining room, whichever you’d prefer.”

God, he sounded like a bloody stiff ass. He knew it even as his mouth was forming the words, and yet he couldn’t stop himself.

She sat up, wrapping her arms around her legs, but didn’t reply.

He frowned, feeling ill at ease as he donned his waistcoat. Would she find herself bored in the house without him? There were the boys and his men, but perhaps she didn’t consider them adequate company. Of course she could go out.

The thought reminded him.

He crossed to a heavy chest of drawers and took a key out of his pocket to unlock the top drawer.

Inside he found a purse of coins, and he turned with it in his hands. “I owe you this, I think. You’ve more than done the job I originally hired you for, and I never gave you the second payment.”

He handed her the purse, a slight smile quirking his lips. What would she spend the money on? Would she tell him when he returned? Or did she hoard her coins like a small fiery dragon?

“Thank you, guv,” she said, her voice gruff. She’d bent her head over the purse, held in her lap, so that he couldn’t see her face.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, turning to the door. “I have my son’s life because of you. Don’t think I’ll ever forget that, Alf.”

“I’m not likely to forget anything about you, guv,” she called.

He turned.

She’d straightened in the bed and was staring at him, the covers pooled in her lap, her breasts proud and bare. She looked like an Amazon warrior.

He hesitated. This was all wrong and he knew it. He almost returned to her and that warm bed, but he was already dressed and he hadn’t lied about Shrugg. The man had sent two urgent letters yesterday, demanding information.

He shook his head. When he got back maybe he’d have lifted himself from this awkward humor. “Good-bye, Alf.”

“Good-bye, guv.”

He left then without turning back, because if he did he wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to resist temptation a second time.

He walked to the palace and then spent nearly three long and tedious hours explaining and going over everything that had happened in the last three weeks with Shrugg.

At the end of that time the older man sat back and nodded with evident satisfaction. “I’ll task my men with checking the names on the list you’ve given me against the gentlemen we arrested at the church, but I can tell you now that there are very few names on that list that I don’t recognize and already know to be dead or in prison. I think the Lords of Chaos are done.”

“Yes,” Hugh replied. “They’re finished. We don’t have Dyemore, but what can he do without a society to lead? Everyone else is gone.” He rose and smiled grimly. “Besides, I’ll be watching him.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Shrugg stood as well. “His Majesty is most pleased with the result of your endeavors.” He hesitated. “Are you still interested in traveling? I’ve word that a gentleman of your talents will soon be of use in Vienna. Especially when you marry Lady Jordan. An intelligent and sophisticated wife can be a very helpful tool for a diplomat.”

Hugh’s lips firmed. “I’m afraid Lady Jordan has informed me that we no longer suit.”

“Indeed?” Shrugg’s bushy eyebrows nearly reached his wig. “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Grace. But never fear, there are other ladies in society of equally old lineage. When you find your new duchess I’m sure she’ll be the sort to be able to move in the courts of Europe.”

Hugh opened his mouth… and then closed it. The fictional woman Shrugg described was exactly what he had wanted when he’d considered marrying Iris. A member of society. A lady from a good family. Someone who could manage his household. Someone who wouldn’t disturb him. Someone who would never cause him pain or passion.

And he knew in his heart and in his soul and in his gut that he didn’t want that anymore.

He wanted Alf.

No one else.

He took a breath and looked at Shrugg. “I won’t be able to travel to the Continent. Not while my sons are so young. I’ll be staying in England for the foreseeable future.”

“A pity.” Shrugg sighed heavily and then brightened. “But I’m sure we’ll find something for you to do here as well.”

“Hmm,” Hugh replied noncommittally. The truth was, he might want to take some time to simply be with his sons.

And Alf.

He inhaled. He couldn’t think of a future—a family—that didn’t have her in it. Even if she never learned how to hold a ball or pour tea properly. Alf was part of the whole that was he, Peter, and Kit.

And really he’d rather be convincing her of that for the next several years than running all over London destroying secret societies.

He nodded to Shrugg, made his final farewells, and left.

Outside, the day had brightened, and he strode briskly toward his house, wanting to get home to Alf and the boys. If Alf was still at the house, perhaps they could liberate the boys from the nursery. Take them for a ride or simply sit in the library while they played with Pudding.

By the time he ran up his own front steps he was smiling.

The butler took his hat and cloak and Hugh asked, “Is Alf still in?”

“No, Your Grace,” Cox replied. “Miss Alf left several hours ago.”

He grimaced in disappointment. “Did she take the carriage?”

“She left on foot, I believe—”

Damn. He should’ve told her she was free to use the carriage.

But the butler was still speaking. “—carrying a bag.”

For a moment Hugh stared at Cox. A bag? Why would she be carrying a bag?

He walked to the staircase, his muscles tensing for some reason, and then he was running. All the way to the top, to the servants’ floor. He strode down the hall and flung open the door to the room that Alf had been using.

The bed was neatly made. The room was empty.

He checked the tiny chest of drawers to be sure, his breath coming faster for some reason, and then descended to his own room.

He startled Jenkins when he burst into his bedroom.

“Sir?”

Hugh ignored the former soldier, scanning the room. Nothing remained of Alf.

His chest was heaving now as he stared. She hadn’t had much to begin with, he reminded himself. The clothes on her back. Her Ghost attire. The bag of money he’d given her this morning. Was there anything else?

He couldn’t remember.

There was no point in panicking. She’d probably only left for the day. She was a woman used to going about by herself. If she returned…when she returned, he would talk to her very strongly about changing that. About at least telling someone where she was going and when she’d be back.

Until then he’d just have to wait.

Which he did.

All day and into the night.

But when the clock struck midnight Hugh had to finally believe it: Alf was gone.

SHE HAD NO true place in the world anymore.

Alf stood on a corner and wrapped her arms about herself. She wore her one dress—the blue dress that used to belong to Iris’s maid. Why, she wasn’t sure, because it wouldn’t be wise to go into St Giles as a woman. But she’d not exactly been in a thoughtful frame of mind when she’d donned her clothing this morning.

All she could think about was that it was over. Kyle—Hugh—had paid her off. Let her know that he considered their liaison at an end. She’d just wanted to flee and lick her wounds a bit.

And she had. All day. Walking up and down London Town, her bag in her hand.

The problem was this: she’d had a life as a boy in St Giles. A place to stay. A means of making money. A way of being. It hadn’t been exactly the best life in the world, but it had been hers and hers alone.

But Hugh had come along and picked her up, looked her in the eye, and shaken her. Told her she could be more. Turned her inside out and upside down and now, now she was a woman.

She didn’t know how to make her way as a woman. Well, aside from on her back, and she’d rather not, thank you very much.

She started walking, her feet weary and sore. She was so tired, and it was cold and dark now. She just wanted a place to lay her head so she could think.

Because she wasn’t sure she was the same person anymore. She’d spent the last weeks not only wearing a dress, but hoping and laughing and holding little boys who held her back. It was as if her heart had been a tiny seed, alone in a dark box, and Hugh and his boys had shone light on it. Her heart had grown right out of that box, thriving on all the love she’d felt, and now it was hard, so hard to try to shove her heart back into that too-small box. To try to forget what she’d felt. To forget the warmth and comfort of others.

To be alone again.

Strange, that once it had seemed easy to be alone. But perhaps she’d been deceiving herself before. Perhaps it had never been easy to make her way in the world, depending solely upon herself. But it wasn’t until she’d had the comfort of a warm strong shoulder to lean on—had that shoulder and lost it—that she felt her terrible solitude.

She stumbled over a cobblestone and looked up.

She was at Saint House.

The windows of the house were dark, but two lanterns were lit at the door.

Alf swallowed. She hadn’t been back since she’d spied upon St. John and his wife and babe in the nursery. Hadn’t spoken to him since she’d run away after their sparring lesson weeks ago.

But he was a kind man. And she had nowhere else to go.

She went to the front door and knocked. Then stood, shivering in the wind, waiting to see if anyone would answer. It was past midnight. They might not.

But then a light shone at the cracks of the door, and an elderly and rather cranky-looking manservant in a nightcap and coat opened it. “Who might you be?”

“Is Mr. St. John in?” she asked, realizing what a stupid question it was.

“No, miss,” the butler said, and her heart plummeted. “He’s not returned from dinner yet.”

“Who is it, Moulder?” came a woman’s voice.

Alf was already backing away, but she wasn’t quite fast enough.

“Stop!” It was Lady Margaret, St. John’s wife, looking quite fierce for a heavily pregnant woman in a pink-and-peach wrapper. “Don’t you run away, Alf.”

Alf turned to stare at her. “Lady Margaret. How—?”

Lady Margaret stomped forward and grabbed her wrist. “You come inside,” she said, pulling her into the house. “How do I know who you are? Don’t be silly. Godric talks about you all the time. He’s been worried sick over you. Not of course that he’s actually said much of anything. Oh no, he’s simply brooded. Where have you been? Oh, and do call me Megs, I feel we know each other already.”

It might’ve been the big dim hall, it might’ve been all the scolding yet worried chatter, or it might’ve been that last. The offer of friendship.

Alf burst into tears.

Megs wrapped her arms around her. “Don’t worry. You’re here now.”

THREE DAYS LATER Hugh sat in his dark library with his pounding head in his hands. He’d sent his men into St Giles. He’d spent hours scouring the streets, made inquiries of every informant he had, ducked into countless taverns and tiny shady gin shops and even checked at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children.

No one had seen Alf, and he was half out of his mind with worry for her. Had she gone back to St Giles and been taken by the Scarlet Throats? Was she even now some nameless corpse floating in the Thames? Or had she disappeared like so many others—like her childhood friend and protector, Ned? Had she gone out one day and simply vanished?

He might spend the rest of his life never knowing what had happened to her.

Then he truly would go insane.

Two things only were keeping him in his right mind. One, that she’d survived on the streets by herself so long—she was strong, canny, and tenacious, his Alf.

Two, that he was almost certain she was deliberately hiding from him, which was his own bloody fault. He’d gone over and over that last morning with her and damned himself for what he’d neglected to say to her.

What he should’ve told her immediately.

Stay.

Don’t leave me.

We’ll talk when I return.

I care for you.

I want you in my life.

He groaned into his hands. He’d let his cynicism and fear make his words too cold toward her on that morning, and he’d driven her away.

What a bloody damned idiot he was.

“Papa?”

The small voice was Peter’s, and Hugh looked up, though his eyes were damp with pain.

His son stood in the doorway, Pudding in his arms. The puppy looked half-asleep even though Peter held her under her front legs, her back end drooping. The boy looked uncertain and lost.

“Peter.” His voice was rough, and he cleared it. “Come here.”

The boy stumbled over, the puppy swaying in his arms.

“You have to hold her bottom, too,” Hugh said gently, showing the boy. Then he picked up both his son and the dog and settled them in his lap. “Where are your nursemaids?”

“Getting tea.” Peter’s lower lip was trembling.

“What is it?”

“Where’s Alf?”

Hugh inhaled, closing his eyes for patience. He’d already had this conversation with both boys—many times over the last three days. Kit was barely speaking to him. Peter had had two magnificent tantrums—and both boys had spent all three nights sleeping with him. His bed now smelled vaguely of puppy and boys.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I’m looking for her. I will bring her back.”

“When?” Peter demanded, his lower lip beginning to tremble as he fingered one of the buttons on Hugh’s waistcoat.

Hugh closed his eyes, knowing he was priming the cannon when he replied softly, “I don’t know.”

“I miss her.”

He looked at his son. Instead of the boy falling down and screaming, Peter’s blue eyes were welling with terrible, sad tears.

He met his father’s eyes. “I want Alf.”

“I do, too.” He laid his cheek against the boy’s soft head.

Not long ago he’d not even known Alf. He’d met her only once and believed her an urchin boy. Now her absence was like a ghost haunting his and his sons’ lives. When he walked into a room, it seemed empty without her. When he heard a woman’s laughter he turned and sought her smile. When he sat down to dinner, he looked across the table and remembered her smearing jam on her bread. And at night, lying in bed, when he listened to his children breathing in sleep, he ached to be able to reach over and touch her shoulder.

She’d left, leaving a hole in his very soul. He wasn’t sure a man could stagger on thus injured.

“Your Grace.”

He lifted his head and saw Jenkins.

The gray-haired former soldier approached, his grave face looking uncharacteristically excited. “Riley has discovered one of the former Ghosts of St Giles. The man is in London now.”

Hugh’s head was suddenly clear. He’d known all along that someone had taught Alf. Someone had shown her how to fight with swords and perhaps given her the Ghost costume.

And maybe that someone knew where she was now. “Who?”

“Godric St. John.”