The parlor had become a prison.

Two doors, and Penn stood guard outside one, while John lounged beside the other, staring out the window, and waiting for William to arrive. Her mother lay as still as death on a chaise, blonde hair matted with dried blood and starkly pale skin mottled with the start of terrible bruising.

Samantha dashed a hand across her eyes, then knelt down so their faces were nearly level. “Mother? Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered and eventually prized open, revealing the dull, unfocused gaze of someone in so much pain they had retreated deeply within themselves.

“You should never have come back,” Eva mumbled. “Should have stayed with Jane. You love her most, anyway.”

“You’re my mother.”

“I carried you, at least. Awful time. That’s how I guessed about your baby. You had me bent over a chamber pot every day. And labor…ugh. I wasn’t sorry when they said only one child for me.”

Samantha reached over and took her hand. “But who is my father?”

“Oh. You heard that, did you?”

“I did. And…I’m glad. Very glad. But my real father is dead?”

“So many questions,” said Eva, closing her eyes. Eventually she opened them again, and turned her head. “I hate looking at you.”

The words struck like a full-body blow. “Am I really so ugly?”

“Not ugly. You just look so much like him, it hurts me. Those nasty curls of yours, they are from him. And your eyes. Exactly the same as Charlie’s. Gazing at me and wanting more.”

“Charlie?” Samantha said carefully.

“Charles Buchanan, 3rd Earl of Claremont. He died of a fever not long after I became pregnant. Charlie was so excited…so eager to be a father. He thought Samuel for a boy.”

“He d-did?”

“Yes. But then he got sick. And he didn’t fight. He didn’t try to get well. He didn’t love me enough, and he died. I hated him then. So I went to the man who hated him also. John…” her mother finished with a pained cough.

Both speechless and anguished, Samantha stared at Eva. But there was no smirk on her face or even a vacant expression indicating a descent into madness, just stoic resignation. Someone with nothing left to lose finally unburdening a long-held secret. “Would you ever have told me the truth?”

“Never. But you are Samantha Charlotte so I wouldn’t forget what he did to my heart…damn you, stop looking at me. Go. Go, and never come back.”

“No.”

“Run, you stupid girl,” hissed Eva, her temples dripping with perspiration. “Marry Standish. He’ll give you lots of money and gowns. There is nothing for you here.”

Samantha took her hand and gently squeezed it. “I won’t leave you alone, Mama.”

“Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl,” said Eva, but a single tear rolled down her rouged cheek, leaving a pink streak in its wake. Then the lightest return pressure came back.

After twenty years of indifference the gesture made Samantha want to sob her heart out, but crying was a luxury she didn’t have right now. She had to keep her wits about her, especially with John getting visibly more agitated, the longer there were no arrivals outside.

The sound of determined footfalls outside the door he stood next to had her scrambling to her feet, the better to protect the limp form of her mother. Seconds later, a startlingly familiar man strode into the room, closely followed by an elegant middle-aged woman.

“Mr. Ashcroft?” blurted Samantha. “What are you doing here?”

“Lady Samantha,” he replied, bowing as though they were acquaintances greeting each other at a soiree. “Actually, I prefer Phillipe. And this is my companion, Mabel.”

Chills danced up her spine. At the dinner, Phillipe had sounded like an upper-class British gentleman; now his accent was unmistakably French. And he was so calm, and so cold, as though the sight of her mother lying broken on the chaise was no more interesting than a discarded napkin on the floor. Meanwhile, Mabel was smiling and holding out her hands as though they were the oldest and dearest of friends.

“Hello, lovie,” said Mabel in a broad London accent. “It is lovely to make your acquaintance—I’ve heard so much about you. And your marquess, of course. What a tricky opponent Lord Standish is! Almost a pity he must die.”

Samantha swallowed hard against a rising surge of nausea. Who were these people who could commit such vile acts and speak as though it were nothing?

Deliberately she turned away, ignoring Mabel’s hiss of anger when the slight registered. Instead she glared at the man she had called Papa, and clenched her fists behind her back. It was possible. It was actually possible to loathe someone so much you wanted to tear them apart with your bare hands. How could she ever have thought him a flawed but essentially decent man?

“Fine company you keep, Uncle John.”

Claremont laughed. “Eva, chronically unable to keep her mouth shut. Or her legs, for that matter. But I would advise you, Samantha, to keep a civil tongue.”

“Why?” Samantha snapped. “I see no gentlemen, or ladies, in front of me.”

Phillipe’s genial smiling mask slipped away into pinched cheeks and pursed lips. Then he reached into his satchel and pulled out a pistol. “You are entirely too free with your opinion, mademoiselle. I’d shoot you right now, except I won’t deny myself the pleasure of killing you in front of Standish so he is forced to watch you die. Then he’ll meet the same fate.”

“Not just her,” drawled Claremont. “An unborn child as well.”

Mabel clapped her hands together. “Oooh, does Standish know? It’s always interesting to see what a man does when his woman is with child. So unpredictable. So passionate.”

“Indeed, chere,” said Phillipe. “But I am being rude. Lady Samantha, I must take this opportunity to thank you for all the information you passed on to your, er, uncle. You made our task so much easier.”

Samantha lifted her chin. “And yet you still failed. No match for Lord Standish’s bravery and intelligence and skill.”

“Again, an unpleasant tone, Lady Samantha. Especially in front of your maman, who looks to be in terrible discomfort. Perhaps we should assist. I believe Mabel has some laudanum…”

Spinning on her heel, Samantha leaped forward to stop the other woman, but Claremont grabbed her by the arm in an unrelenting grip. “Now, now, you’ll only be in the way, Samantha. I don’t know why you’re even concerned—it’s not like she ever loved you. Remember?”

“You were a worse father. I won’t stand by and watch you kill her!”

The earl frowned. “If you won’t stand, then sit. Here will do,” he snapped, half-dragging, half-shoving her into a chair near the wall. Then, yanking the cravat from around his neck, he tied her hands together behind her back.

“Excellent,” Phillipe purred. “We are now ready. All that is left is to wait for the arrival of dear Lord Standish.”

* * *

Hardly daring to breathe, William peered around the slightly ajar parlor door to assess the location of each person in the room. Samantha now sat perched on a chair in the far corner, her stiff posture demonstrating exactly how tightly her wrists were bound behind her back. Rage bubbled in his veins, but he had to remain calm and concentrate. A cool head would win this day, and he already knew the enemy never allowed emotion to get in the way of the task at hand. That was why they had been so successful in their deadly games—nothing was too brutal or difficult. And they never gave up. The sheer number of prison escapes and dead witnesses attested to that.

Straightening his shoulders, he allowed his gaze to roam the rest of the room. Lady Claremont lay deathly still on a chaise to the right of the door, with a second woman bent over her, prodding and poking with a careless touch. She must be Mabel. On the other side of the room, Claremont stood talking to an older man with a French accent. Although bragging would be more accurate, as he spoke of his recent achievements.

Interesting. What was giving these people such confidence today? Did they have information about Napoleon’s plans that even White didn’t know? Did they know when and where the emperor might launch an attack on the allied forces?

William leaned in closer to listen.

“Simple people see what they want to see,” the earl drawled. “A little padding, some makeup, a wig, and voila, Claremont the overweight drunken fool. Worst part was pretending to be permanently half sotted on that awful cordial masquerading as brandy. Vile stuff.”

Mabel laughed. “Sacrifices are required in every great quest, lovie.”

“But this was a truly great sacrifice. An affront to taste.”

William’s lip curled. Christ, it was going to be a pleasure putting a bullet in Claremont’s skull. Pushing open the door, he aimed his pistol directly at the earl. “You have the fool part right. It was always only a matter of time before the Home Office had sufficient information to strike.”

“Standish!” Claremont crowed. “Now that you’re here, the festivities can properly begin. By the by, I would congratulate you on your impending fatherhood, but I’m not at all impressed with Samantha’s choice of seed provider. And none of you will live to see the day anyway.”

William shrugged and rolled his eyes, as if being forced to converse with an unspeakably dull party guest. “I couldn’t imagine a career traitor ever being happy his daughter was expecting a baby with the man sworn to bring him to justice.”

“Fighting words from England’s favorite marquess! But I must correct you on one important point—Samantha is not actually my daughter.”

“Then my day just became infinitely brighter.”

A bark of laughter sounded from across the room, and the older man sauntered forward. “You are quick-witted, monsieur marquis. But please, excuse my colleague’s appalling manners and allow me to introduce myself. I am Phillipe.”

Glancing sideways at the Frenchman, William froze as every hair on the back of his neck lifted. His mind catapulted back in time to the side of the London-Eton road, the place where he’d learned about pure evil and soul-shattering loss. The two men who had attacked his parent’s carriage had worn folded cloths over their mouth and nose to conceal their identity. But those silver eyes. That voice…

“You,” he breathed, as hatred sparked a fire in his belly. Two men to kill today, then.

Phillipe smiled as he bowed. “So you do remember me. How gratifying. It’s been, what, sixteen years?”

“Something like that.”

“I must express my condolences for your loss. Your mother was never supposed to die, but women in love do foolish things, no? It cannot be helped when a lady actually throws herself in the path of a bullet. As for your father, much like you, he was a worthy opponent. I did regret having to kill him, but he was getting far too close. Close enough to stop us. And that I could not allow.”

William’s fists clenched, sending a jolt of pain straight to his injured shoulder. “Thank you for the reminder that my parents were better and braver than you could ever hope to be. You or your bastard cohort over there.”

Claremont scowled. “I was going to say that killing you would pain me, Standish. But it really won’t. You grow tiresome…Penn? What in the devil happened to you?”

Hell and damnation. Clearly his wrist- and ankle-tying skills needed a great deal of improvement. It was only slightly mollifying to note that the butler was weaving around like a young buck at the end of his first night out drinking.

“That wretch,” said Penn, pointing unsteadily at William, “knocked me out, tied my hands and feet, and left me in a cupboard.”

Phillipe laughed and tapped his pistol on his arm. “Not a very good job, if here you are. Or were you rescued by a kind maid?”

“I rescued myself. I always do,” slurred Penn. Then, without warning, the butler lifted a hand-sized statue and swung it blindly at William’s temple.

The movement was labored enough to be easily seen and avoided, and the weak blow was nothing more than a sting that might leave a faint bruise. Yet William forced himself to fall to the floor and drop the uncocked pistol, as though he’d felt the brutal kiss of a perfect right hook from Gentleman Jackson.

The next move was theirs.

* * *

It took every ounce of her will, but Samantha managed to quell her scream into a low whimper when William was hit and slumped to the wooden floor.

Mere minutes ago her heart had swelled with love and pride when he walked through the door and pointed his pistol at Claremont. And the way he had faced down Phillipe, the man who had murdered his parents. Now only one emotion gripped her, making her eyes sting and causing perspiration to drip relentlessly down her temples and neck, to where it pooled between her breasts.

Fear.

But she couldn’t allow terror over both William and her mother to send her directly into madness. If they were to have any chance at all, she had to think of some kind of plan. Getting her hands free was obviously imperative. If she could achieve that without anyone noticing, then she would have the chance to retrieve the dagger hidden in her bodice. One good throw, and she could account for at least one of the criminals in this room.

Discreetly she rotated her wrists, tugging and stretching the tight binding securing them together. The cravat was made of a silken fabric. If she could just loosen the knot...

Suddenly Phillippe stamped his foot, the loud thump rocking several small porcelain figurines on a nearby ledge and jerking her from her thoughts. “Standish is not moving! Is he dead?”

“Hopefully,” Penn replied, smiling proudly yet rather dizzily at the results of his handiwork.

The Frenchman cursed, cocked his pistol, and fired.

Penn staggered backward, his face a portrait of shock and confusion. The statue in his hand dropped to the floor and shattered, then he fell heavily against the parlor door and slid down, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind him.

Oh God. She had just witnessed a murder. Bile rose in her throat, and Samantha pressed her lips to her shoulder to try and stop herself vomiting. If they could do that to one of their own without second thought, what would they do to her and William and her mother, in the end?

“Phillipe! What the hell did you kill him for?” snapped Claremont, glancing down at the body that had stopped moving. “Penn was an excellent butler.”

“Wrong,” the Frenchman replied coldly, tossing the used pistol onto a high-backed chair. “Excellent butlers know their place—they do not interrupt important occasions and deny me long-awaited prizes. Standish had to be alive and well to see these events unfold.”

Teeth chattering even though the parlor was overwarm, Samantha wrenched again and again at the cravat around her wrists. For something so soft it was remarkably strong, and the fabric was chafing and burning her skin. Wait. Could it be starting to loosen? Desperately, she yanked harder, rotating her wrists and pulling at the material while attempting to wedge her thumb between two layers and force it further apart. Her wrists hurt and her fingers were cramping, but she would defeat this blasted knot.

And then, right when she wanted to scream in pain and frustration, the fabric gave way. With quick, sharp tugs, she unwound the cravat until only one loop remained around her wrists. For the moment, it still needed to look as though she was bound. First, she needed to calculate some odds for her throw, and assess who presented the best target in terms of angle and distance. With only one dagger, she had to get it right.

“Lady Samantha. Poor little thing, shaking with distress. Do not fret, my dear, this will all be over soon enough,” said Phillipe as he leaned down to open the black leather satchel sitting next to the chaise on which her mother lay so frighteningly still.

A rush of loathing surged through her body like a firestorm, fierce and relentless.

Plunging her hand into her bodice, Samantha yanked out the dagger, unsheathed it in one jerky yet effective motion, and hurled it toward the older man with all her might. Phillippe let out a startled roar of pain as his upper palm was pinned hard against the front of the chaise and bright red blood spurted from the wound near his wrist.

“You little whore! I’ll kill you for that!” shrieked Mabel, launching herself across the room just as Claremont pivoted and fired his own pistol.

The woman’s head snapped back, and a spray of blood and something Samantha didn’t even want to think about splattered across the parlor window. Her stomach lurched at the ghastly sight, and when the heavy scent wafted under her nose, she fell forward onto her knees and vomited onto the floor. This was too much. Too horrific.

But Phillippe merely cleared his throat. “An exceedingly careless shot, Claremont,” he drawled, tugging his cravat from his neck. With a grimace, he then carefully withdrew the dagger from his hand and wrapped the length of linen around the wound site to stem the steady flow of blood. “Now I shall have to find another woman to add to my collection.”

“Forgive me, but I felt as you did. Tired of another supporting player attempting to steal my thunder. Mabel always did have poor timing. Give me your other pistol.”

“There are two more in the satchel. I was just fetching them when your sweet little niece turned feral and threw a knife at me. Perhaps you should do the honors after all; I am starting to feel a little lightheaded. And hurry. I’ve already been here too long—these were supposed to be quick kills. Delays give the enemy a chance. And we are so close to victory.”

“I know,” said Claremont. As her uncle walked past, he backhanded her across the cheek. Dizzy from the blow, already so unsteady, Samantha could only watch as he knelt beside the satchel and withdrew a fresh pistol. “Don’t worry, Phillipe. I am going to attend to matters once and for all. Right now.”