Two days later, Anthony waited in the foyer at Chandos House to escort the countess and her niece to the opera.

Despite the worsening situation between Sardinia and Austria—or rather, because of it—Queen Victoria and her advisors had directed him to remain in close contact with the Austrians.

He could see the sense in it, though he didn’t like taking the ladies into a potentially difficult situation. Still, it was the opera. Surely no harm could come to them there. He’d remain extra vigilant, and, upon his recommendation, there would be members of the Queen’s Guard scattered throughout the crowd.

He did not have long to wait before Countess Dietrichstein and her niece appeared at the head of the staircase, dressed in their finery. With a stab of amusement, he saw that once again he and Miss Brunner had worn very similar colors.

He gown was sage green with a silvery gauze overskirt that matched his silver-embroidered green waistcoat to perfection. The dress revealed the creamy curve of her shoulders and bosom, the full skirts accentuated her trim figure, and, despite himself, Anthony’s mouth went dry at the sight of her.

Damnation—what was it about this woman that affected him so? He could not afford any type of infatuation, no matter how mild, to cloud his mind.

“My dear countess,” he said, resolutely turning his attention to the older woman as she descended the stairs, “how splendid you look this evening.” It was true; her golden gown and matching topaz jewelry set off her complexion perfectly. But, like a sundial attuned to the noonday sun, his attention returned inexorably to her niece. “And you, Miss Brunner, look like a nymph stepped out of the deep woods. Your gown is an exceptional color.”

Her brows rose slightly and she glanced at his clothing, no doubt noting the hue of his waistcoat.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said softly.

“Good evening, Lord Percival,” the countess said. “I cannot help but notice that you and my niece are once more in perfect sartorial agreement. One might almost think your stars are aligned.”

“It is a happy coincidence,” he said. “But I must say, I will be completely eclipsed by the beauty on either side of me.”

“Never fear.” The countess descended the last stair and set her gloved hand on his arm. “You are splendidly attired yourself.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Anthony flourished his black silk opera cape. It was a silly thing to wear, but it fit his persona perfectly. “My carriage is waiting outside. Shall we?”

The butler and a footman shadowed them with umbrellas as they stepped into the rainy night. Anthony scanned the street for any threat, but everything was clear. He handed the ladies into the carriage then took the seat across from them. The lamp sent a warm glow over the interior, burnishing Miss Brunner’s hair and making the jewels at Countess Dietrichstein’s throat sparkle.

“A pity the ambassador cannot join us this evening,” he said.

“He is much occupied these days.” The countess’s voice was strained. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the recent troubles?”

“I can’t say that I have,” he lied. “Is something the matter in Austria?”

“There are difficulties in Lombardy, that is all,” she said. “But we needn’t let politics spoil our evening.”

“Nothing could spoil it while I’m in the presence of two such lovely ladies,” he said. “Not to mention going to see an opera based on Byron. I declare, my life is complete.”

A smile flitted over Miss Brunner’s lips at his absurdity. He was tempted to declaim another extemporaneous poem, just to make her smile more widely, but the time wasn’t quite right. Later, perhaps.

“I hope you stand ready to assist me in my comprehension of the libretto, Miss Brunner,” he said. “Though you needn’t translate as they sing. A brief summary between scenes ought to suffice.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said, and he imagined he could hear a faint disappointment in her voice.

Squelching the urge to confess he was actually fluent in several languages, Anthony instead gave her a bland smile.

Soon enough they arrived at the Queen’s Theater. As he alighted from the carriage, he exchanged a look and a nod with his driver, who also happened to be one of the few people aware of Anthony’s double life. The man would keep an eye on things outside, and send a note if he saw any trouble brewing.

In the meantime, though, the rain had stopped and the crowd at the opera seemed the usual sort: lords and ladies in their finery making their way to their boxes, the middle class taking their places in the less desirable seats, while over it all came the sound of the orchestra tuning up in the pit.

Anthony ushered the ladies to the box reserved for Austrian dignitaries, then went to the railing and pulled a pair of gold-chased opera glasses from his pocket.

“I must see if there is any royalty about,” he said, by way of excuse. “Perhaps the queen and prince are in attendance tonight.”

He knew they weren’t, of course, but under cover of looking, he scanned the crowd for members of the Sardinian embassy. Unfortunately, in a box across the way, he spotted Countess Rossi, the ambassador’s wife, along with her usual entourage. She was a former opera singer, so he supposed it wasn’t odd that she’d chosen to attend. Her presence didn’t alarm him. However, the hotheaded young men—relatives of Count Rossi—might cause problems if they knew the Austrians were beneath the same roof.

Even if any trouble arose, however, he felt confident in his ability to protect the ladies. He had his walking stick, and, even better than that, training in some of the self-defense arts of the Orient. It was not a skill he advertised, of course, but it had come in very handy several times in the past. He blessed the old man who’d given him instruction, and hoped Master Nakata was enjoying his well-deserved retirement in the sunny climes of Majorca.

“Irenna, you and the viscount take the front row,” the countess said. “I’ll sit behind you and make sure you don’t get up to any trouble.”

She laughed, and Miss Brunner replied in a slightly exasperated tone, “You know very well that if I whisper to Viscount Percival, it is only to translate the action on the stage.”

“And I thank you for it.” Anthony marked the location of the Sardinians firmly in his mind, then lowered the binoculars.

“Lady Dietrichstein,” he said, “you are more than welcome to make use of my opera glasses.” They’d served their purpose for him, after all.

“Thank you,” she said. “I believe I neglected to bring mine. Not that we are so very far from stage, but I do like being able to see the costumes more clearly. Irenna, you may share with me if you like, but your young eyes probably need no assistance.”

The gaslights dimmed, and the crowd quieted at the signal the opera was about to begin. Anthony settled beside Miss Brunner as the first strains of the overture began.

He hadn’t intended his request for translation as an excuse to sit next to her, but he didn’t regret it. In the dimness, he could smell the scent of roses on her skin. Pretending carelessness, he let his arm brush hers.

It was foolish; he was acting like a green youth with his first infatuation. Yet he could not deny it made his pulse race. This was nothing like his usual flirtations and seductions, and that made his attraction—for yes, he must admit it as such—to Miss Brunner all the more poignant.

For her part, she did not shift away. Perhaps she was not aware of his arm touching hers, but he doubted it. The music flowed over them, the costumed performers took the stage, but as far as he was concerned, the most vibrant presence in the opera house was the self-contained young woman at his side.

When the first act ended, Miss Brunner leaned over and softly explained what he already knew: the Doge of Venice’s son had returned from exile, only to be unjustly convicted of murder amid his wife’s lamentations and his father’s sorrow.

“Ah yes, I recall it from the play,” Anthony said. “Matters do not proceed for the better in Act II, I daresay.”

He was proved correct, of course. Not only was Byron’s tale melodramatic, the opera took it to nearly ridiculous heights. As was the task of art, he supposed—to draw things in broad, sweeping lines. A pity that life itself was so muddied and uncertain, more scribble than heroic brushstroke.

At the end of the second act, the lights came up. Anthony glanced at the Sardinian contingent, gauging the mood of the young men he’d noted earlier. The fact that the opera was set in Venice would no doubt stoke their patriotism, and it appeared that the occupants of the box were breaking out champagne. No doubt many boisterous toasts would follow, and he felt a prickle of foreboding.

Drunken Italians were never a good idea.

“As you probably saw in Act II,” Miss Brunner said to him, “things are falling out quite badly for our poor hero. Exile from his home and family is imminent.”

“A pity the doge can do nothing to save his son,” Anthony said. “What good is it being a ruler if one cannot act to help family in times of trouble?”

“That is the tragedy,” Miss Brunner said. “For a man of honor, duty must come before all.”

His heart twisted inside him. It was a burden he was all too familiar with. He’d never known his father, who’d died fighting Napoleon at Waterloo, unaware that his wife was going to bear him a son.

Anthony had grown up under a hero’s shadow, and vowed that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. It was impossible to make a ghost proud, but he tried.

Eventually, of course, he must start a family of his own and produce an heir, but the time had never been right. Besides, how could he marry anyone when he could not show his true self?

As he had done countless times before, he stuffed the question away. No doubt it would spring upon him again, pricking him with its sharp claws, but for now there were far more pressing matters than pondering such fruitless questions.

“I would like to freshen up,” the countess said. “Do accompany me, Irenna.”

Anthony quickly got to his feet and offered Lady Dietrichstein his arm. “Allow me to escort you from the box. It would be terribly remiss of me to do otherwise.”

In fact, he intended to take them both to the very door of the ladies’ retiring room, making sure they did not leave his side for any other reason.

Despite the crush, the ladies were delivered safely. Anthony took up a station nearby, his senses focused on the crowd. He was pleased to find that the Sardinians seemed to have stayed in their private box and not ventured out to make trouble.

He bowed his head and pretended a preoccupation with his appearance, brushing lint from his sleeves and fiddling with his cuffs. Long ago he’d discovered that if a person appeared not to be listening, talk flowed more freely.

There was little to be gleaned, however. Most of the inhabitants of London, even the lords and ladies, paid little attention to matters outside their own sphere. Of course, when the news made it to Parliament it would cause a stir, but so far the tensions between Austria and Sardinia were a distant cauldron that had not, quite, bubbled over.

He prayed it would remain that way.

Countess Dietrichstein and Miss Brunner emerged from their toilette just as the lights flickered to signal the end of intermission. Anthony felt his tension ease as he led them back up the grand staircase toward the safety of their box.

“Oh, dear.” Miss Brunner paused with her hand on the railing. “I left my fan in the ladies’ room. Do take my aunt to our box—I won’t be a moment.”

“Wait.” Anthony reached for her, but she’d already turned and whisked away, her steps brisk.

His fingers curled and he could feel his expression harden. Every instinct told him to follow. But he could not abandon Countess Dietrichstein in the middle of the stairs, and the lights were already dimming.

“You may go after her,” the countess said.

Anthony gave a quick shake of his head. “Once you’re settled, I will.”

No matter what his heart said, the safety of the ambassador’s wife’s was more important than that of her niece.

To her credit, the countess stepped quickly down the hallway. After what felt an eternity but was only a minute or two, they reached the box.

“Go.” The countess waved her gloved hand at him.

He pivoted and sprinted back down the empty hall. Surely he’d meet Miss Brunner coming back, and he’d be able to dismiss the anxiety tightening his gut.

But he did not see her; not in the hallway, and not even coming up the wide staircase. He did, however, hear something that made his pulse spike. A voice with a heavy Sardinian accent and a taunting tone that made rage flash across his vision.

He leaped down the stairs two at a time, vaulted the railing, and raced in the direction of that voice.

There, by the coat check. Miss Brunner stood facing three young Sardinian men. Her chin was raised, but he could see fear in her wide eyes and imagined he could feel her pulse thudding.

“You Austrians think you can crack the whip over us?” the tallest man said. “We will show you who is in command now. Too bad the ambassador is not here to taste our wrath—but I promise he will. For now, you will do as a substitute.”

He reached for Miss Brunner’s arm, and she shrank back.

“Leave me alone,” she said. “Or I shall scream.”

“Ha! No one will hear you over the yelling they call singing up above.”

In a moment, Anthony was upon them. He pulled the tall fellow away from Miss Brunner, tumbling him backward over an adroitly placed knee to the back of the leg. With a curse, the man unrelated to Count Rossi turned and bolted away down the hallway. Anthony rounded on the last Sardinian.

“I believe the lady asked that you leave,” he said.

The man glanced at his retreating comrade, then sneered at Anthony. “Not all of us are cowards.” His breath carried the fumes of something stronger than champagne.

The man Anthony had tripped stood, an angry scowl on his face. He leaned forward, hands balled into fists.

“If you consider yourself a friend to the Austrians,” he growled, “then you deserve equal punishment.”

Anthony saw the punch coming and stepped smoothly out of its path. Pivoting, he used the man’s momentum against him, sending him careening against his companion.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink,” he said. “Rather unsteady on our feet, aren’t we?”

“You!” The tall man turned and rushed at Anthony.

A sweep of the leg brought him down this time. His friend took a step back, then unexpectedly grabbed Miss Brunner and yanked her close.

“I have a knife,” he said, raising his hand to display the weapon. “It is small, but sharp. Just as our people have suffered, so shall this girl feel our pain.”

He brought the knife up to Miss Brunner’s face and Anthony dove forward. No more time for pretty moves.

“Ah!” The Sardinian swore and jerked back, even as Anthony hit him squarely in the chest.

The man stumbled, then went down hard, his head thunking against the carpet. Anthony rolled forward onto his feet then whirled to face the other attacker.

“For Milano!” the man cried, coming at Anthony with his fists raised.

It was simple enough to trip him, sending him sprawling beside his companion. The first man moaned and fluttered his eyes, and Anthony plucked the knife from his hand.

“I should use it on you both,” he said. “Instead, I’ll be reporting this to the authorities.”

He paused, surprised to see a long welt scoring the man’s cheek. Then Miss Brunner came to stand beside Anthony, a crochet hook clenched in her hand, and the wound was explained. Admiration flashed through him at her resourcefulness. Quickly followed by anger at himself that she’d been in danger at all.

“Would it be wrong to kick them?” she asked, frowning at the men lying before them.

“While I understand your motives, I’m afraid it’s considered unsportsmanlike to attack a downed opponent.” Much as he would like to do the same. “Memorize their faces as best you can, so that we may make an accurate report.”

“This is not ended,” the taller man said, sitting up and spitting at Anthony’s feet. “We will have our revenge yet.”

“That will be difficult to do from behind bars.” Anthony put his arm around Miss Brunner’s shoulders, ignoring the empty threat. “Now, we’re going to speak to the manager, and I’ve no doubt there’s a policeman stationed somewhere nearby. Come, Miss Brunner.”

As they turned away he felt her trembling, and the urge to pummel the men who’d threatened her roared through him. Instead, he must be satisfied with the quieter justice of the law.

“Thank you,” she said softly, when they were some distance away. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You kept a clear head, and used what weapons you had at your disposal.” He nodded at the crochet hook she still held. “Well done.”

She pulled in a breath that shuddered slightly at the end. “I was lucky to have it in my reticule. Whoever thought a crochet hook might be a weapon?”

Anthony glanced behind them to see that the Sardinians had gone—no doubt taken to their heels and fled the opera house.

“You were very brave,” he said.

“I don’t feel brave.” Her voice shook. So did her hands as she tucked the crochet hook back into her bag.

Anthony steered her to a nearby bench and reached into his coat pocket for the flask he kept in case of emergency. Not just for steadying the nerves; the alcohol was handy as a rough disinfectant, to clean blood spots from his clothing, and for the purposes of appearing drunk.

“Have a sip,” he said, sitting beside her and unstoppering the flask.

She did not argue, only took it with a shaking hand and raised it to her lips. She swallowed a mouthful, then coughed. Deftly, he rescued the flask and took a drink, too. It was impossible not to think of her lips touching the metal mere seconds before his, but he forced down the awareness that filled him.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come to find me,” she said, looking up at him. “They might have…” She caught her breath and her eyes filled with tears.

Before he could help himself, he gathered her into his arms. She clung to him, not sobbing, but her body shook with the aftermath of her fright.

“Hush,” he said. “I did come, and I would never let you be harmed.”

After a few breaths, she quieted. Anthony gently wiped away the single tear that had trailed down her cheek, far too aware of the softness of her skin.

“Thank you,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Three against one were not good odds, and yet you didn’t hesitate to rush in. How did you defeat them so handily?”

She should not be asking such questions, especially not with such a clear, bright light in her eyes. It was past time for a distraction, so he did what he was best at. Gathering her closer against him, he bent his head and kissed her.

Their lips touched. Fire and need and the sweet burn of brandy ignited through him as their mouths met. His arms tightened around her, and for a long, desperate moment, his mouth devoured hers. He felt like a man lost at sea, at last sighting the beacon of a lighthouse flaring through the dark.

Then the common sense clamoring in his ears won, and he pulled away. She blinked at him, her eyes unfocused, and he reminded himself that sexual impulses were a natural reaction to the stress of an attack.

“Forgive me,” he said. “That was ungentlemanly.”

She straightened and pulled out of his embrace, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I don’t know what has come over me, my lord. I assure you that, despite my behavior, I’m not a loose woman.”

“I never thought it for a moment.” He took her hand and pressed it in reassurance. “You’ve had a scare, that’s all, and the body reacts strangely to such things.”

Stop it, he told his own overreacting body sternly. All he wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and carry her away somewhere safe.

But the world was not safe, and Miss Irenna Brunner was not his to sweep away. The knowledge steadied him, cooling the firestorm raging in his chest. He could not afford an emotional reaction, especially now that tensions with the Sardinians were out in the open.

“Are you well enough to speak to the authorities?” he asked, rising.

She let out a breath, then nodded. “Yes, but first I must tell my aunt what has transpired.”

“Of course.”

Countess Dietrichstein was probably safe enough in the opera box, but he did not like leaving her alone for so long. Not that he was expecting another attack, but both ladies were his to protect.

To his relief, the countess was quite unharmed. As soon as he’d given his whispered explanation of the attack, she insisted they speak to the police immediately. He agreed, and without further ado they gathered their things and left the opera.

The lamentation of the soprano followed them out of the box. Despite the burning urge to touch Miss Brunner on the arm, or back, or cheek, Anthony kept himself in check. He knew he’d let his persona slip, but didn’t have the heart to utter any more foolish witticisms that evening. Let the ladies think the attack had unsettled him—which it had—and pray they thought no more of it.

On the morrow, he would be back to his usual foolish self. But for tonight, he would remember how it had felt to kiss a woman he could not afford to fall in love with.

The tragic thing was, he feared it might already be too late.