“You can’t arrest me,” Shayles shouted, attempting to pull himself together, but looking ridiculous as he scrambled for something to hide his arousal. He edged sideways, to where his clothes were strewn over a wicked-looking iron chair with leather straps in key places. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Malcolm barked a laugh. “Nothing wrong? Look at you, man. Look at that poor girl.”

Shayles barely spared a glance for the weeping, shivering girl. One of Craig’s men had thrown his jacket around her shoulders and was trying to coax her to get up and leave the dungeon with him. She was too traumatized to move.

“Since when was it a crime to pass the evening with a willing partner?” Shayles asked, chin tilted high. He continued to creep toward the side of the room.

“Check that girl’s age,” Craig ordered, crossing the room to intercept Shayles. “Interview her. I’d wager she isn’t here willingly.”

Shayles sneered. “You can’t believe a word a girl like that says. She’s trash, you know. She parted her legs for a scrap of—”

Shayles never finished his sentence. Craig threw a punch that snapped his head to the side, bloodied his lip, and jolted him out of the grip of the officers holding him. Malcolm wasn’t sure which surprised him more, the usually cool Craig losing his temper or the fact that he himself hadn’t been the one to throw the first punch. The former was satisfying, but the latter made him unaccountably angry.

Craig turned to Dowland, rubbing the hand he’d used to punch Shayles. “Sir Christopher, can you positively identify this man as Lord Theodore Shayles.”

“Yes, I can,” Dowland said, looking a little green around the gills as he stepped forward.

“And can you confirm that he offered you a variety of illegal services, as detailed in the document you presented to Scotland Yard—” Shayles’s eyes went wide with alarm, “—including service by underage girls and practices that could be classified as torture?”

“Yes,” Dowland answered, then swallowed and glanced away.

A creeping sense of wrongness slithered down Malcolm’s back at the exchange. Craig should be turning to him for that kind of confirmation. He was the one who had spent the greater part of his life in the last several years making the case against Shayles. But for all Craig and Dowland were concerned, he wasn’t even in the room.

It was Shayles who noticed Malcolm, appealing to him with, “You aren’t going to let them do this to me, are you?”

Malcolm was so taken off-guard by the pleading in Shayles’s question that he was slow to respond with, “You’ve brought this on yourself.”

“How long have we known each other?” Shayles went on, forgetting his sideways pursuit of clothing to approach Malcolm. “Since university,” he answered his own question. “You and Gatwick were some of my closest friends, some of the first members of this club.”

Malcolm’s chest tightened as it filled with rage. “I know what you’re doing, Shayles, and it won’t work. You won’t implicate me in this mess.” Though he stopped short of defending Gatwick’s innocence. Who knew if Gatwick was innocent or not? “I have had nothing to do with this filthy hellhole for decades and you know it.”

“We shared such good times,” Shayles went on, a clever spark in his eyes. “Very good times.” He glanced to Craig. Craig shifted to study Malcolm with narrowed eyes. “You met your dear wife, Tessa, here.”

Even though he was standing in the middle of the room, Malcolm felt backed into a corner. “Craig knows all about Tessa,” he told Shayles, then turned to Craig. “He treated her no better than that poor girl.” He nodded to the shivering form that Craig’s man was carrying out of the room. “I got her out of this place and helped her to obtain a divorce.”

“And that’s as far as your association with the club goes?” Craig asked. “You know your way around awfully well.”

Malcolm wanted to throttle the inspector as much as he wanted to put a bullet in Shayles’s brain for the agony he’d caused Tessa, and every other woman unfortunate to fall into his clutches in the last two decades. “That was a long time ago,” he growled. “Before this place turned into a nightmare.”

“Lord Campbell,” Craig began with brittle respect. “Perhaps you should wait outside while we continue with police business.”

Behind Craig, Shayles burst into a wry smirk.

Malcolm saw red. “I’ve devoted my life to this. How dare you shut me out when the hour of triumph is here?”

“I understand your desire to see justice, Lord Campbell,” Craig began, approaching Malcolm in a way that was designed to back him toward the door.

“I will be a part of this,” Malcolm shouted.

“Yes, I’ve heard that before,” Shayles muttered, loud enough to catch Craig’s attention. When Craig turned to him, Shayles went on with, “Strange how you’ve known about the club for decades, and yet it’s only now that Mr. Craig here has accosted me.”

Malcolm’s eyes went wide with fury. “I’ve been working to clear away the corruption within the police force that has shielded you for so long, you miserable shit.”

“One must question how hard you have tried,” Shayles drawled, crossing his arms. Even naked, he had the easy stance of a man who was winning his point.

Craig let out a frustrated breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “We’ll sort this out when we’re through here.” He turned back to Shayles. “My men are rounding up your clients and getting the girls to safety as we speak. Put some clothes on.” He turned away from Shayles, who had gone white with sudden fear. “Gather up as much documentation as you can find,” Craig went on. “Bring in the photographers to document—”

He didn’t get any farther. As soon as he turned his back, Shayles leapt toward the chair where his clothes were. He didn’t reach for them, though. Instead, he tore at a small cabinet on the wall, wrenching open the door and pulling a series of levers.

For about five seconds, there was a sinister hiss. Malcolm frowned and glanced around. It came from the narrow pipes that lined the floor and ceiling of the room. The faint scent of gas filled the air before a second, louder whoosh filled the air, followed by a booming explosion. In an instant, the room was on fire.

“The place is rigged,” one of Craig’s men shouted.

“Get out,” Craig shouted. “Get everyone out of here as fast as possible. Don’t let him out of your sight.” He thrust an arm in Shayles’s direction before leaping toward the door.

Malcolm shot into motion. Shayles’s dungeon room ignited like a tinderbox. The hem of his trousers was singed as he passed by one of the leaking gas pipes. There was no telling how long they had to claw their way back to ground level before the entire dungeon exploded.

His flight was made worse by the rush of panicked men who jumped into the halls from the side rooms. Screams echoed around the dungeon caverns as Shayles’s clients pushed their way toward the narrow staircase and up to the ground floor. Craig’s men were caught between trying to arrest them, save the unfortunate women who had been abandoned in the dungeon rooms, and getting to safety.

“Evidence,” Craig shouted somewhere behind Malcolm. “We need evidence.”

Malcolm would have laughed, if the smoke filling the crowded corridor wasn’t choking him. Shayles wasn’t stupid. He must have known a day would come when his wicked endeavors would be discovered. The entire building must have been piped with gas that was set to explode. It was a wonder the whole place hadn’t burned to the ground by accident before.

The thought brought Malcolm up short as he reached the top of the stairs and dashed out into the club’s main hall. Everything was on fire, even on the ground floor. But the genius of the system was instantly forgotten as a much greater thought rushed to the front of Malcolm’s mind.

“Katya,” he shouted, sprinting across the hall to the corridor she’d disappeared down. Dowland followed on his heels, but he hardly noticed. One thought superseded all else: Katya was in danger.

Her girls had played their parts well. Katya hadn’t been able to inform them of the raid, not when it had been organized so swiftly, but her girls were always alert. Those that could had abandoned their clients to let Inspector Craig’s men into the building at the first signs of the raid. By the time Katya made it upstairs to the halls that held private rooms, the building was swarming with policemen who were in a mood to arrest anyone and everyone male, regardless of how lofty their title or position in society.

“Lottie,” Katya called out when she spotted one of the girls who had been working covertly for her for the longest amount of time. “What’s the situation here?”

Lottie skittered to a halt at the end of a hall where three blustering men in various states of undress were being carted out of rooms by policemen.

“Lady Stanhope,” she exclaimed in surprise, then changed direction to meet Katya. “Are you responsible for this, m’lady?”

“Only indirectly,” Katya said. She glanced up as a woman screamed, only to find one of the policemen yanking her into the hall, looking as though he would arrest her as well. She swore under her breath. “I was afraid of this.” She left Lottie to march down the hall to the officer. “Keep your hands off the girls. They’re innocent victims in this whole enterprise.”

The officer stared at her with shock and indignation. “They’re prostitutes,” he argued. “They’re no better than the blokes.”

“You ignorant dolt,” Katya scolded him, her voice shaking. “Most of them are here against their will. They are victims, not criminals.”

The officer gave her a look of such condescension that it was all Katya could do to keep from slapping him. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he began.

“That’s Lady Stanhope to you,” Katya cut him off, turning back to Lottie. “Gather up as many of the girls as you can find and get them to safety. I don’t trust this lot to treat you with the respect and compassion you all deserve.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Lottie bobbed a quick curtsy before dashing off, hollering for the girls to follow her.

“You’re interfering with official police business,” the officer yelled at her, an edge of uncertainty in his eyes when she didn’t immediately back down. “Inspector Craig will—”

“I’m here with Inspector Craig’s full authority, and I will not—” She stopped abruptly, sniffing the air. The sharp scent of gas had suddenly filled the hall. Faint hissing came from all around her. “What the devil?”

Seconds later, an explosion reverberated through the hall that nearly knocked her off her feet. It was followed by a second explosion that threw her against the wall as a sudden ring of flames roared around her. The suddenness of the heat enveloping her knocked the air from her lungs and filled her with panic of a sort she had rarely experienced. Screams and shouts erupted around her.

The raw instinct to survive took over after the initial thunder of the explosion. Everything around her was on fire—the walls, the floorboards, the ceiling. The hallway had become a tunnel of flame. She dashed for the end of the hall where Lottie had headed.

“Lottie,” she called out, her voice strange and choked. “Get the girls out.”

“I am, m’lady,” Lottie’s voice came through the fiery hallway.

The burst of relief it brought was short-lived, though. Katya backpedaled, rushing for the end of the hallway where she’d entered from the staircase. But once she reached it, instead of fleeing downward to get to safety, she charged up.

“Get out,” she cried when she reached the top hallway. “Get out at once.”

She threw open the door nearest her, hoping to find someone she could help get to safety, but the room behind the door was filled with fire. Male and female screams echoed through the conflagration. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the intensity of the flames as she peered down the hall, praying that the girls were making it to safety, but not sure how they could. They knew the building far better than she did, though. They must have known ways out.

She, on the other hand, didn’t. The danger of her situation hit home, and panic filled her. She turned, fleeing back down the stairwell.

“Katya! Katya!”

The sound of Malcolm’s voice searching for her was a beacon she could latch onto. “Malcolm,” she shouted in return, dissolving into wild coughing.

“Katya, where are you?”

The stairwell was filling with smoke so swiftly that she couldn’t see more than a few steps in front of her. The roar and crackle of the entire building burning around her drowned out almost all sound. All the same, she continued to push forward, nearly falling down the stairs in her haste.

“Malcolm,” she shouted as she reached the first-floor landing, although her voice was little more than a croak.

“Dear God, if anything happens to you….” Malcolm’s shout seemed far too distant and faded. “I’m coming, my love, I’m coming.”

“Malcolm,” Katya gasped.

“I’ve got you.”

A pair of arms closed around her, and her head spun as she was lifted. But it wasn’t Malcolm’s arms around her, and it hadn’t been his voice to reassure her. She blinked through the blinding smoke, barely able to make out the surprisingly heroic features of Christopher as he carried her through the burning front hall toward the door.

“What are you doing, man?” Malcolm’s voice joined them a moment later. Even through a fit of wrenching coughs, he sounded like fury itself.

“I’m getting Lady Stanhope to safety,” Christopher said, coughing himself.

“But, you…but, she….”

Malcolm didn’t finish his protest. The three of them burst out of the front door—which was ringed with flames—and into the chill of the night street. The contrast was so sharp that Katya instantly began to tremble in Christopher’s arms. She clasped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. There was as much pandemonium outside as there had been inside. A fire brigade had just arrived, and men were shouting orders. Dozens of spectators had gathered to watch from the park across the street, where Christopher took Katya. As soon as they were well out of the way of the flurry of activity, Christopher stopped.

“Are you well, my lady?” he asked.

Katya attempted to reply, but all that came out was coughing so vicious that it made her gag.

“What are you doing to her, you fool?” Malcolm demanded.

Katya was too busy feeling as though she would cough her lungs right out of her body to pay much attention to him…until her world tipped off-balance once again as Malcolm wrenched her from Christopher’s arms.

“I’m not sure that’s—” Christopher started.

“Mind your own business, you usurping buffoon,” Malcolm growled.

He tried to clutch Katya tightly, but between coughing and indignation, she pushed away from him.

“What…in blazes…are you doing?” she managed to wheeze, doubling over. Her ball gown was singed all over and burnt through in several places. She hadn’t been aware of it catching fire or of someone putting it out, but she wasn’t surprised.

“My whole life,” Malcolm raged between coughing fits of his own. “Bringing Shayles down has been my whole life. And you robbed me of that.”

It took Katya a moment to realize he was shouting at Christopher, not her.

“Inspector Craig asked—” Christopher began.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to make that man pay for what he did to Tessa,” Malcolm raged on. Katya straightened enough to see the mad fury and grief in his eyes. “That was my victory. Mine! Not yours. And Katya….” His words faded into a coughing fit that ended in retching.

“Malcolm, hush,” Katya wheezed.

“Lady Stanhope needed help,” Christopher defended himself. “You were distressed yourself and—”

“Christopher saved me,” Katya tried to explain, her head throbbing and her lungs burning.

“It’s always going to be someone else instead of me, isn’t it?” Malcolm demanded of Katya, ignoring Christopher entirely. “I’m never going to be the hero in your eyes.”

“That’s not true,” Katya said, although her words were without the true emotion she felt behind them.

“I was never good enough for Tessa either,” Malcolm raged on. “I was her way out, but nothing more. I can’t even avenge her without someone else taking the credit.” Two, clean, damp lines cut through the caked soot on his face, from his eyes across his cheeks.

The pain Katya felt through her body and soul doubled. “Was Shayles arrested?” she gasped, coughing hard enough to turn herself inside out.

“He was,” Christopher told her.

“This is my battle, not yours,” Malcolm shouted, agony sharpening his voice. “Stay out of it.” He pushed Christopher aside and gripped Katya’s arms, his eyes reflecting the fire of the club burning down as he stared at her. “I’m never going to be what you want, am I? I’m never going to be young enough or clever enough or…or just enough, am I? I’ve wasted my entire life chasing you and trying to bring Shayles down. I could have lived. I could have made something more of myself, but I’m just a lonely laughingstock with nothing to show for it. Tomorrow, the papers will rave all about how brave Sir Christopher Dowland was and how his efforts brought an end to Shayles’s evil. He wasn’t even involved until last week. And what will they say about me?”

“I’ll insist that your name is mentioned as one of the key operators in this,” Christopher said.

If Katya could have warned him to keep his mouth shut, she would have. But between her coughing and the sorrow that burrowed so deeply into her soul that it left her paralyzed, she couldn’t summon up a word.

“This is not your battle,” Malcolm bellowed at Christopher. “This is not your war. You interloper. This is my life, my love, and you stole it from me.”

“I didn’t—” Christopher clamped his mouth shut before he could say more and make it worse.

Malcolm took a step back, the red-orange light of the fire illuminating him. He was a man of passions in the best of times, but the sheer agony in his expression was enough to sap the last of Katya’s strength. She tumbled to her knees in the damp grass, clutching her stomach as she coughed. Christopher leapt to crouch beside her, holding her up, but she tried to push him away. The help he thought he was offering was only making things worse. In that moment, Katya needed to be miserable, needed to feel pain. Because she couldn’t shake the horrible feeling she was as responsible for Malcolm’s misery as Shayles or Tessa or anyone else. She could have been more open with him. She could have told him about Natalia, told him all the reasons she’d refused to marry him. She could have told him about Robert and the way her life had been stolen from her. But pride had kept her silent. Teasing him had been more enjoyable than being honest with him. She’d taken the easy way out for too long.

At last, after a long silence filled with the crackle of fire and the crash of part of The Black Strap Club caving in, shouts and screams and mayhem, none of which were half as potent as the desperate rise and fall of Malcolm’s shoulders as he stared at her, Malcolm wiped his face and shook his head.

“What have I been doing all these years?” he asked in a voice so calm and quiet it sent a chill down Katya’s spine. “Why have I wasted so much time?”

No answers came. Malcolm turned to the crumbling club, heaving a sigh, shoulders slumping. He shook his head again, then turned and walked away.

Katya opened her mouth to call out to him, to beg him not to go, but her heart wasn’t in it. She didn’t feel as though she had the right anymore. Instead, she clutched her stomach and bent over, coughing and retching as her lungs and her stomach convulsed, as her world dissolved around her.

“My lady, let me take you to a hospital,” Christopher said, closing his arms around her and attempting to lift her.

“No,” Katya croaked, pushing him away. She tried to stand, but Christopher had to assist her.

“Really, Lady Stanhope. You’re quite unwell. You need to see a doctor,” Christopher insisted.

“I just want to go home,” she sobbed, shocked at how weak she sounded.

“But there’s a hospital not far from here,” Christopher said.

Katya shook her head and pushed against him, but she couldn’t extract herself from his support. “Please. Just take me home.”

Christopher made an uncertain noise, glancing around as if someone else might come to help them. There were masses of people on the scene, but everyone was busy watching the club burn down.

“You’re friends with Viscount Helm,” Christopher said at last. “He used to be a doctor. Could I take you to his house?”

Katya shook her head. “Take me home.” She sagged against Christopher, making it possible for him to lift her at last. “But you can send for him to come to my house,” she conceded.

It was the last thing she would concede. It was the last order she would give as well. In the blink of an eye, age had caught up with her. All she wanted to do was go home and hide under her covers until the pain within her stopped, but she feared it never would.