London in the dark was a menacing place, no matter what Alex’s reason for being out. It was well past the hour when decent people were sound asleep, as the hired hack wound its way through one of the more dangerous sections of town. Phillips and Ruby had arrived at the house as Alex and Malcolm rushed out, and with a little persuading in the form of a gold sovereign, the hack’s driver had been convinced to take them and Phillips on to Bethnal Green.

“Speed is of the essence,” Malcolm explained, his Scottish accent more pronounced than usual. “If Turpin and Shayles have noticed my men keeping an eye on them, they might very well be ready.”

Alex grinned in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “Don’t tell me you agree with Katya.”

Malcolm made a bitter scoffing noise. “Not even if she told me the sky were blue.”

The mystery of Malcolm and Katya’s tangled relationship kept Alex distracted as they journeyed on through streets teeming with men who kept their faces hidden and women who left very little to the imagination. The sense of time ticking away plagued Alex, and along with it, the sickening sensation that the entire situation was completely his fault. If he had been a better father, if he had put his family before his career, if he hadn’t rushed to attack Turpin with the information about Ruby, none of this would have been happening. Turpin wouldn’t have lashed out at him, causing the carriage wreck. Marigold would still be carrying his child and capable of carrying more. Lives had been shattered because he let ambition rule him. He wouldn’t let James’s life be ruined as well.

“Stop here,” Malcolm called out to the driver, though they were several blocks from Pollard Street.

The driver dutifully brought the hack to a stop under a flickering, gas streetlight. Malcolm jumped out of the carriage first, Alex and Phillips right behind him.

“Wait here,” Malcolm told the driver, handing him another large coin. “We shouldn’t be long, but we may need to beat a hasty retreat when we come along.”

“Can’t pay me enough for this,” the driver mumbled under his breath, but he hunkered down into his coat all the same. He set the reins aside and looked ready to wait things out, which was all that mattered.

“This way,” Malcolm whispered, gesturing for Alex and Phillips to follow him.

Between the feeble glow of a few streetlights placed far apart and the light of the moon as it flickered in and out of clouds, Bethnal Green left Alex with an unfriendly feeling. Almost all of the windows in the craggy and dilapidated houses around them were dark. The only sounds were the occasional bark of dogs or human coughs that reminded them they weren’t alone. A man stepped quickly into the alley between two houses as they rushed down the main street, then turned onto a darker, narrower one.

“Psst.”

The signal came from the shadows at the corner of Florida and Pollard Streets. Malcolm abruptly stopped, leaving Alex and Phillips to collide as they tried to stop as well.

“What news?” Malcolm asked the shadow.

A grey-haired, grizzled man, leaned toward them from the corner of a house. “They’ve got the child there, all right.”

Alex’s chest tightened painfully, and he stepped up to Malcolm’s side.

“He was crying and kicking, so Fulton dosed him with laudanum to shut him up,” the man went on.

Rage spread through Alex like a wildfire. “We have to get him out of there.”

Malcolm nodded. “Do you know where in the house he’s being held?”

The man in the shadows shook his head. “I only saw them take him in and heard Fulton talk about dosing the boy. Don’t know where they went once they were in the house.”

“It’s likely they’d’ve taken him in as deeply as possible,” Malcolm said, his expression darkening. “Do they know we’re coming?”

The man in the shadows rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “Hard to say. They’re playing it close to their chests, they are.”

“We haven’t got a moment to lose,” Alex said. “We need to go in, even if we have to break down the doors to do it.”

The man in the shadows didn’t seem impressed by Alex’s bravado. He let out a breath and reached for something in his coat. “If you’re planning to storm the castle, you’ll need these.” He drew out two revolvers, handing one to Alex and one to Malcolm.

Alex swallowed. He hadn’t used a weapon since his days in the army, decades ago. He’d believed he was past such uncivilized behavior. It was strange how quickly his instincts returned once he had the cold metal in his hands.

“Hurry,” Malcolm said, nodding to the man in the shadows, then walking on. “The longer we wait, the more of a chance they have to guess we’re here and what we’re up to.”

Alex followed him, mouth pressed tightly shut. He’d never been to that part of the city and didn’t know where they were going. He was at Malcolm’s mercy, and glanced furtively at the houses looming around them. None of them stood out from the others, but all of them had an air of mischief at best, evil at worst.

A few yards down Pollard Street, Malcolm held up his hands, bringing them to a stop. He pointed to the only building on the street that had a light in one of its windows. Then he held up his gun. With a gesture toward the alley beside the house, he set off, silent as a specter.

They slipped around the corner of the house. The scent of sewage and rubbish hit Alex’s nostrils, adding to the sense of danger pressing down on him. In spite of his determination to find and rescue his son, no matter what it took, things didn’t feel right. The house was too quiet, their progress too easy. He paused to glance over his shoulder at Phillips, who stood out, white as a ghost, even in the dark. Phillips returned his look with one that said they were a bunch of fools to go charging in, but he continued to follow.

When they reached the back of the house, they were joined by three other men. Alex swallowed his initial instinct to shoot as Malcolm gestured to the trio, signaling that they were his men. They evidently knew how to take silent orders as well, and within seconds, their band of rescuers closed in on the kitchen door.

Before they could reach the door, it burst open. Light poured through, enough to blind them, as half a dozen lanterns were uncovered. They blazed throughout the house’s cramped back garden, completely stunning Alex. He raised his arm to his face to shield his eyes, his revolver useless in his hand. He didn’t think to use it before someone shouted, “Stop where you are!”

The next thing he heard were shots being fired. Before he could get his bearings, pain seared through his arm, then his side. Then the world went black.

The clock in the downstairs hall at Croydon House chimed three in the morning, and Marigold sighed in agony. Time was crawling. Alex and Lord Malcolm should have been back hours ago, as far as she was concerned. She should have gone to bed, but it would have been pointless. Not to mention the fact that Lady Stanhope was still with her. She stood with her elbow propped against the mantel, her face more angular than usual, as it was pinched in thought. Marigold watched her from the sofa across the room, her legs tucked under her. The pensive scene was rounded out by Ruby sitting on the very edge of one of Alex’s overstuffed chairs, as though it might burst into flame under her. Ruby’s expression of guilt was as powerful as Lady Stanhope’s ruminative look.

A thousand questions ricocheted through Marigold’s mind. Where exactly had the men gone? Why were they taking so long? Would they have help, or were they on their own? But more than anything, prayers poked their way up through the questions. She prayed for Alex to stay safe. She prayed for James to be returned to her whole. She would sacrifice her entire life for that boy, if only he were returned to her arms.

A clatter at the front door seemed like an answer to her prayers at last, and she leapt to her feet. Lady Stanhope sucked in a breath and turned away from the fireplace. Together, they marched from the parlor into the hall, Ruby jumping up to follow.

But the bustle and throb of energy that shot through the front door wasn’t what Marigold hoped for.

“We need to get him upstairs,” Lord Malcolm shouted at Mr. Poole.

“Yes, my l—” Mr. Poole’s words dropped into stunned silence.

Marigold gasped, a small scream escaping her as she saw what Mr. Poole had. Lord Malcolm and Mr. Phillips carried Alex’s limp, bloody form between them through the hall and up the stairs.

“My God, Alex, Alex!” Marigold shouted, tearing up the stairs after him.

Lady Stanhope was hard on her heels. “What happened?”

“It was an ambush,” Lord Malcolm growled. “Alex got in the way of a few bullets.

“No!” Marigold yelped, trying to push her way past Mr. Phillips to see if her husband was still alive.

Lady Stanhope held her back as the men rounded the landing and mounted the last of the stairs, heading down the corridor to the master bedroom. “You’ll get in the way,” she said.

“But Alex,” Marigold panted, beside herself. “He’ll die.”

Lady Stanhope’s hand tightened on Marigold’s wrist. “If they’re hurrying, then he isn’t dead. Which means he lasted all the way from Bethnal Green to here. Which means he has a fair chance of making it through, if we don’t get in the way.”

“But—”

“Go fetch Dr. Armand Pearson,” Lady Stanhope ordered the small cluster of anxious servants that had gathered at the bottom of the stairs, cutting off Marigold’s protest. “Don’t fetch any doctor other than Dr. Pearson. Do whatever you must to get him here. He lives at—”

“I know where he lives, my lady,” Mr. Long, the footman interrupted, shooting straight toward the still-open front door.

Marigold clutched a hand to her chest, sending her prayers with him, then continued up the stairs.

“Ruby, do you know the Pollard Street house?” Lady Stanhope continued to take command of the situation.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then get there as fast as you can and watch to see if they move James. Which they’re bloody well likely to do at this point,” she added in a grumble.

“Yes, my lady,” Ruby said, curtsied, then dashed out into the night as well.

Marigold didn’t wait to see if Lady Stanhope gave any more orders. She picked up her skirts and ran along the hall, bursting into the bedroom she shared with Alex. Lord Malcolm and Mr. Phillips had deposited Alex on the bed, bloodying the coverlet as they did.

“How did this happen?” she asked, pushing past Mr. Phillips as he backed away to sit by Alex’s side. She started to reach for his hand, but was taken aback by the blood soaking his right sleeve.

“The bullet only grazed his arm and his head,” Lord Malcolm said. “It’s the one in his side I’m worried about.”

“He has a bullet in his side?” Marigold’s voice rose to a terrified squeak.

“It’s not deep,” Lord Malcolm insisted, though he didn’t sound certain. “Phillips staunched the bleeding as best he could.”

Marigold spared a quick glance over her shoulder to Mr. Phillips, who looked equal parts furious and anxious, and was wearing only his jacket without a shirt underneath. She didn’t have time to worry about him, though. She turned back to Alex, taking his hand in spite of the blood.

“Alex, Alex, my darling, can you hear me?” she pleaded with him. “Alex, wake up.”

He didn’t respond. Blood was still seeping from a wound under his hairline, slowly dampening the pillow beneath his head. The worst of the bleeding in his arm seemed over, although it still oozed. It was Alex’s tightly-bound middle that had her shaking.

Gingerly, she lifted the hem of his bloodied shirt to get a closer look. Mr. Phillips had done an admirable job of binding whatever wound lay under what looked like torn pieces of a shirt. He must have used his own shirt to stop the bleeding. A circle of red marred the white cotton all the same. There was no telling how bad the wound beneath it was.

“I’m here, Alex,” Marigold said, calmer, even though there was a catch in her voice. “I’m right here with you. I’m not going to leave you.”

“I should fetch clean water and bandages, if we have any,” Mr. Phillips said. “Dr. Pearson will need them when he arrives.”

“You do that,” Lord Malcolm said. He stayed where he was as Mr. Phillips left the room, but after a few minutes, when Marigold didn’t even look at him, let alone speak to him, he too left.

It was a strange sort of relief to be alone with Alex, as dire as his condition was. At last, Marigold felt as though she could weep freely and clutch his hand, kissing it the way he’d kissed hers when she lay in bed with a fever, her body broken after the carriage wreck. She prayed that Alex would recover, that they were experiencing all of the sorrow of their lives at once, right at the beginning of their days together, and that the rest of their lives would be blue skies and calm seas.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” she whispered, leaning closer to kiss his sweaty, blood-speckled cheek. “I love you, Alex. I do. You can’t leave me now.”

She bowed her head, afraid to rest it against his chest, but wanting to hug him all the same. Her heart felt as though it was in danger of shattering if Alex was grievously injured. She hadn’t realized it was possible to love someone so much. The agony she felt now made the scintillating infatuation she felt in the spring pale into nothingness.

And then he raised his left hand, resting it on her side. Marigold gasped, lifting enough to look at his face. His eyes opened just a crack before closing again, but that was all she needed. Alex was alive, and he was fighting.

She wasn’t sure how long it was before another commotion started downstairs. She heard steps coming upstairs, then Dr. Pearson burst through the door, medical bag in hand.

“How is he?” he asked.

Marigold pushed away from Alex and stood. “He’s alive.” She blinked and swallowed. “Do you treat men as well as women?”

Dr. Pearson sent her a sideways look as he reached Alex’s bedside. “We are all trained in the basics before studying our special tracks.”

It was all the explanation Marigold felt she was going to get, but it was enough. She stepped back, watching with wide, horrified eyes as Dr. Pearson cut Alex’s shirt and Mr. Phillips’s makeshift bandage away to assess the damage. He was silent as he worked, leaving Marigold to guess at the extent of Alex’s injuries, but the fact that he left the wound in Alex’s arm and head in favor of focusing on the bullet in his side was enough to indicate even to Marigold’s uneducated eyes where the real problem was.

Mr. Phillips entered the room less than a minute later, his arms filled with linen and a steaming pitcher. “We have some carbolic acid in the scullery, if you don’t have enough.”

“What I have should be fine,” Dr. Pearson answered him. “The bullet isn’t lodged deep. Whoever fired this one must have been standing farther away. I should be able to extract it.”

Marigold took another step back as Mr. Phillips brought his things to the bedside and climbed around to where he could assist Dr. Pearson. She watched for as long as she could, until Dr. Pearson took what looked like a long, thin pair of tongs from his bag. A flash of ice-cold poured through her, along with unaccountable fear. Her mind grasped futilely at another memory, one she could barely recall of writhing in pain as she lay on her back, Dr. Miller hovering over her. A wave of nausea hit her, and she rushed into the hall.

There wasn’t much in the way of fresh air in the hall, but it was enough to steady her stomach and her nerves. She marched a few steps, then leaned her back against the wall to catch her breath.

The sound of raised voices downstairs pulled her out of her attempts to calm herself.

“…never listen to me, even though I’m right,” Lady Stanhope shouted.

“You’re a bloody fool for thinking you’re right all the time,” Lord Malcolm answered her.

“I have to think I’m right all the time,” Lady Stanhope argued on. “Do you know what happens to women if they don’t demand what’s theirs?”

“Yes, they live happy, peaceful lives!”

“They get plowed under with the rest of the refuse that men like you think they don’t need.”

Marigold pushed away from the wall, her face burning. As curious as she’d always been about Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm’s past, a sudden, towering rage filled her. She charged down the stairs and across the hall to the parlor, where they stood face-to-face, toe-to-toe, glowering at each other.

“If you had listened to me,” Lady Stanhope continued, “none of us would be in this mess.”

“Listening to you was what started this mess in the first place,” Lord Malcolm shouted back. “You and your bloody wedding present. You knew as well as I did Alex would run off half-cocked to bring Turpin down on his own. You’re always causing trouble, always instigating disasters because you can’t stand how dull your life has become.”

“How was I to know—”

“Stop!” Marigold shouted, holding up her hands.

Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm jumped apart, radiating fury as they turned to Marigold. Marigold balled her hands into fists as she continued to hold her arms up.

“My husband is upstairs fighting for his life,” she flung at them. “My son has been kidnapped by notorious men who have already tried to kill us once, and who have caused irreparable damage. I will not stand here listening to some foolish lover’s quarrel.”

As soon as her speech was finished, she gasped at her own audacity. Lady Stanhope, on the other hand, sent her a quick grin of approval.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Croydon,” Lord Malcolm said, darting a vicious sidelong look to Lady Stanhope. “Alex and James are our first priorities.”

“Are they?” Marigold lowered her arms at last. Her hands and her gown, the same dusty gown she’d been wearing since dressing at Winterberry Park that morning, what felt like a lifetime away, were dotted with dried blood. “What do you propose to do about them, then?”

Lord Malcolm stepped toward her. “Our first attempt might have failed, but Turpin is bound to contact us with his demands before dawn.”

“He has already contacted us with his demands,” Marigold said. It took all of her willpower not to shout. She felt as though she’d reached the end of her tether, and there was nothing but anger and determination left in her. “He wants us to put an end to all of the rumors about Ruby and to restore his good name.”

“But he hasn’t yet said how or when he’ll return James,” Lord Malcolm added, softening his voice. “There will be more demands to come.”

“And he’ll move James,” Lady Stanhope added. “Now that he is aware we tracked him the first time, he’ll move James somewhere he thinks we can’t track him.”

“Are there such places?” Marigold asked.

Reluctantly, Lady Stanhope nodded. “They’re not the sort of places you would want any child.”

“Then we have to stop him.” Marigold glanced between Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm. “Would I be right to assume that if we wait too long and James is slipped out from under either of your web of spies, we would have no choice but to play along with Turpin and to give him what he wants?”

Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm exchanged a look. It was the first look of accord Marigold had seen pass between them, but it wasn’t comforting.

Lady Stanhope stepped toward her. “If Turpin’s men steal James away to a place we aren’t aware of, yes, it would complicate matters. If Lord Shayles is involved, which I am absolutely certain he is, it could present an even greater set of dangers.” She paused, pressing her lips together gingerly as if debating sharing something even more horrible. At last, she said in a cryptic rush, “Shayles has no scruples at all and would seek to profit off of whatever assets he thinks he has.”

Marigold swallowed, though all moisture had left her throat. She couldn’t quite piece together why Lady Stanhope’s words frightened and horrified her so much, but she remembered the terrified young woman she’d seen in the window of the Black Strap Club just after her marriage. She didn’t want to know why her fear was suddenly doubled, she only wanted to take action.

“What can we do?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“As soon as we know where James is being held, if they’ve moved him or if he’s still at Bethnal Green, we move in to extract him the same way he was taken from you,” Lady Stanhope said.

Marigold blinked and shook her head. “We kidnap him from the kidnappers?”

“We use stealth and cunning instead of announcing ourselves with a full, frontal assault,” Lady Stanhope answered, sending a dismissive glance in Lord Malcolm’s direction.

“How the devil do you expect to use stealth to best a man who prides himself on being one step ahead of everyone else?” Lord Malcolm growled, narrowing his eyes at Lady Stanhope.

She didn’t have a chance to answer. The front door flew open once again, letting in the first rays of dawn, and Ruby with them. The pink-faced maid rushed into the parlor, a hand clasped to her chest. She gulped for air, then announced, “They’ve loaded him in a carriage and are taking him to the Club.”