He awoke with a start. Someone was pounding on their bedroom door. In one fluid movement, he swung off the bed, his feet hitting the ground solidly as he stood up.

“James!” Panic saturated Arden’s yell, dowsing the last dredges of sleepiness in his mind. “Come quickly! Someone’s approaching!”

He reached over, rousing Vivian with a shake. “We have to go.”

She sat up, holding the sheet up to cover her bare chest. Yawning, she blinked up at him. “What’s going on?”

Before he could answer, Arden hit the door, shouting once more. Vivian’s grip on the sheet tightened.

“Get dressed,” he told her, swooping up his breeches from the floor. He tugged them on, then his shirt, ignoring his waistcoat and other accoutrements. He located Vivian’s dress and chemise, slung across the bench at the foot of the bed.

“Where are my stays?” she asked, as she accepted her clothes from him.

“No time.” He pulled his boots on, grabbing the three small knives on the bedside table and sliding them into the lining. On his way to the door, he grabbed his holster, strapping it on around his waist and loading two daggers into it.

His heart beat a little slower whenever he was properly equipped, alarm no longer clogging his throat. He could breathe again.

“He’s here, isn’t he? Sauveterre.” Vivian’s voice shook as she tossed her dress over her head. She came to stand next to him, and he did up the back of her gown in record time.

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears. “In the closet, there’s a rapier. All those fencing lessons over the years? They’re about to mean something.”

The color drained from her face as she rushed to the closet, her fingers wrapping around the cup hilt of the straight-bladed sword. “No button.”

“No, love,” he murmured. “No button.”

When thrust properly, the two-edged blade would slice through flesh, reducing it to ribbons. Now that she might actually have to exact that revenge she’d spoken so much of, she hesitated. He recognized that mien of dread; the slump of her shoulders, for it was the same way he’d looked before his first mission.

But there was no room for second-guessing.

He opened the door, stepping out into the hall. Vivian peeked out around his arm, still holding the rapier. Arden came to them, her hands poised on opposite ends of a long staff. Northley trailed behind her, clutching a parasol that James suspected had a knife built into the tube, for the tip was a bit too pointy. In this circumstance, he was glad the maid was armed. Taking in the lines etched in Arden’s wan forehead, he had a feeling they’d need all the help they could get.

“Is it Sauveterre?” Vivian asked.

Arden lifted her chin, her gaze fastened on him. “That is the most likely scenario.”

He caught the unsaid meaning behind her words. The list of enemies to the Clocktower was expansive—without knowing what Sauveterre looked like, they couldn’t positively identify the threat. They had to be prepared for anyone.

“Where’s Nixon?” he asked, following Arden toward the front door.

The hall was wide enough they could walk two abreast. Vivian made a move to walk beside him, but he shoved her back behind him. Protecting her was the priority. If anyone attacked, he’d be able to better shield her with the bulk of his body.

“Outside watching,” Arden said.

Her short answers sounded another alarm in his mind. Yes, time was of the essence, but Arden didn’t suppress the details unless there was a reason.

He reached for her arm, halting her. He refused to leave the stronghold of this house without knowing what he was facing. Not again. “What’s out there, Songbird?”

The use of her code name snapped Arden’s head up, her breath sucking in an audible hiss. Good. Her mind was back in the game.

“Five men, possibly more,” she said. “All armed. Looks to be clubs and knives, mostly. One gun. Nixon thinks it’s a rifle with a bayonet attachment. French military is our best guess.”

“Blast,” he muttered. “I do so loathe bayonets. Still, that’s doable—not even two men for each of us. We’ve fought worse odds before.”

He heard the intake of Vivian’s breath. Stretching out his arm behind him, he laid his hand on her arm. Her body relaxed slightly under his touch.

Arden watched them, her lips setting into a thin line. “We can’t leave Nixon alone much longer,” she suggested gently, as if she hated to intrude, but duty called.

“Go. I’ll meet you outside.” He nodded, turning around to face Vivian. How he abhorred the whiteness of her face, the tremble of her hand against the rapier. This place was supposed to keep her safe, not endanger her further. “Listen, I want you to take Northley and go back in our bedroom. It’s the safest room in the house. Position something heavy in front of the door, and don’t move it for anyone. You understand?”

“I can help,” Vivian protested.

Her assuredness did not reach her eyes. Before his mind’s eye flashed an image of Louisa, as she’d been the night she begged to take on Nicodème.

He said what he should have said then to his sister. “No.”

Yet compliance without question was not in Vivian’s blood. “You’ve trained me. I’m ready.”

“It’ll take years of training before you’re ready,” he said gruffly. “I don’t have time to argue with you. Just do this for me.”

She grasped his hand, her touch like a lightning bolt through him. “I don’t want to leave you.”

And he broke at the seams. This was not a mission like any other. This was her life.

“Please love, I can’t lose you too,” he murmured.

Her resistance faded at the crack of his voice. His weakness, on display again for her.

She stood up on her tiptoes, planting a kiss on his lips. “You better come back to me.”

“Always,” he said as she turned, heading back down the hall to the room. Northley glared at him, and then she was gone too, after Vivian.

He strode forward, his body loose. Alert. Vivian had claimed she was ready, but he truly was. Reprieve lay outside this house, in preventing the death of another one he loved.

By the time he pushed open the heavy wooden door and joined Arden outside, not more than ten minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity. He stood by her side, waiting. Watching. Nothing appeared in the distance.

Until Nixon burst out from the forest, his arms undulating, clumps of grass churning up underneath his well-worn top boots. He dashed to them, leaping up onto the porch. He swung his flintlock off from his back, hurriedly loading the gun and getting into position.

The enemy breeched the tree line, seven armed men descending upon their secluded retreat. James drew out his knife. Arden rocked her left foot forward, her fists outstretched in a fighter’s stance.

The shot from Nixon’s flintlock pierced the air, the percussion still echoing in James’s ears a moment later. The bullet found its target—one of the men flung backward, as the ball lodged in the tender flesh underneath his right shoulder.

“One down, six to go,” James muttered.

The French agents fired off a shot, but it swung wide and landed in the porch railing. But James did not breathe a sigh of relief, for the accosters picked up pace, advancing quickly.

Nixon reloaded the gun as Arden and James jumped down as one from the porch, onto the level ground. They raced toward the French spies, each taking opposite sides. For a second, their opponents hesitated, all looking toward the man in the middle of their group: a gargantuan man armed with a rifle, who outweighed even the brawny Nixon. The leader nodded. The men fanned out, two going toward Nixon on the porch. Nixon began to use his flintlock as a truncheon, for the gun would not be as useful in close range. Another man went after Arden, expecting that as a woman she would be easy to take down.

James’s lips curved into a sinister sneer. They’d soon find out how wrong they were about her.

That left only the leader and another of his men, a tall, wiry man with an unruly thatch of red hair. James held his ground; knife outstretched in his most forward hand. The leader stood back, as if he wanted to see if his man could finish the job without him needing to be involved. Abstractly, James noted his egotism—it could be used against him. Was this man Sauveterre? He did not know.

The thinner man charged, swiping upwards to the left with his knife. James darted to the side, avoiding the blow. He swung out with his own blade, but Red Hair moved at the last second. They traded attacks like this, blade notching at cloth, never doing more than nicking their skin.

Until the swipe of Red Hair’s knife cut James’s forearm. A piercing pain shot through him, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the sluice of blood down his arm. A sick grin twisted Red Hair’s lips, and he leaned in for the kill.

“You’re going to die, English,” the Frenchman spat, as if being English was the worst insult he could think of.

“Not likely,” James rejoined.

His hand whipped out, grabbing the other man’s weapon hand. Striking out with his fist, James connected with Red Hair’s nose. The move threw him backward. James took advantage of this. He thrust hard with his forearm, slashing into the operative’s lung with one long, deep stroke. The assailant’s muscles tensed, catching the blade before James tugged it out. Blood poured out from his chest, his mouth, and he plunged to the ground.

But James did not stop. The carnage barely registered. These invaders were coming for Vivian—and they’d kill anyone in their way as quickly as James had dropped their man. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Arden had dispatched the man she was fighting and joined Nixon’s battle.

His people remained in danger. Vivian was safe for now in the locked room, but that might not last.

The leader surged toward James, hunched over, the bayonet of his rifle outstretched and gripped between his two hands.

Of course. Always the damned bayonets.

The larger man jabbed the bayonet upwards. James jumped back, narrowly avoiding a gash to his neck. He scurried off the side, using his free hand to block the butt of the leader’s rifle. He thrust with the knife at the man’s flank. The man dodged. Though he had a good fifty pounds on James, his steps were slow and sloppy—he staggered, instead of moving on the balls of feet.

James needed to outmaneuver him. He must be swifter.

He swiped outward, the blade of his knife skittering against the man’s sleeve. The man came at him with the stock of the gun, trying to throw him off balance. Once James was stunned, he’d follow that up with a stab of the bayonet.

But not today. Expecting his opponent’s next move, James scurried out of the way. When the heavier man crowded him again, James seized the opportunity of the closer quarters—he drove the knife in his hand upwards at an angle, stabbing from beneath the man’s jaw. The blade sliced through, buried in the man’s skull. He fell to the ground with a disturbing thud, the knife still stuck.

If indeed the man was Sauveterre, he was dead now. Perhaps he’d spared Vivian from becoming a killer yet.

James did not waste time with further recollections. Instead, he threw himself into the fray with Arden and Nixon. The man who had been shot in the shoulder had risen, rejoining the fight.

Three men against three—he liked those odds.

* * *

Not more than a quarter of an hour after Vivian left James, a sharp, loud crack penetrated the windowless bedroom where she huddled with Northley. Vivian recognized the sound instantly from her practice sessions with James earlier that week.

Gunfire.

Oh God, what if James were hurt? She held tight to the counterpane, her knuckles whitening. No, James was strong. He was smart and skilled and he knew how to fight. As a spy, he’d been trained for these very circumstances.

But so had Evan.

That thought stole the remainder of her composure. Dropping the quilt, she burst up from the bed, intending to go toward the door. Northley’s hand snaked out with more speed than she thought the old woman possessed, snagging the back of her dress and anchoring her to the spot.

“You’re not going anywhere, mite,” Northley stated.

“Let me go.” Vivian slapped at her hand, attempting to walk forward. The maid hauled her back, her grip tightening on the muslin of her dress.

“His Grace said you ought to stay here, and so here you will stay,” Northley replied, the levelness of her tone surprising Vivian. As if this was all habit to her.

“You don’t understand,” Vivian snapped. “I have to get to him. I can’t stay in here.”

James was out there fending off a group of armed villains because of her. How could she have been so shortsighted? In these last weeks, James had become her everything. He’d made her feel normal again.

And she’d in turn sacrificed him for a chance at revenge.

The snapping sound of another gunshot ripped through their chamber. Fear snatched at her gut, twisting until she felt like her entire body was being contorted and maligned. Her heart pounded furiously against her chest, her breath coming in pants instead of measured exhales.

No, no, please no. Not James.

He’d risked everything for her.

She’d save him, or die trying.

Vivian wrenched her dress from Northley’s iron grip, racing toward the door. On the way there, she grabbed the rapier James had given her. She ignored the maid’s call for her, her hand on the door. Her ears strained for any sound of the outside fray, anything that might indicate whether James was hurt.

There was nothing. She didn’t know if she should be relieved or not. In the past year, she had come to dread the unknown. Stealing herself for whatever she might find outside this safe room, she opened the door.

She almost slammed straight into a short, portly man with a round face and a receding hairline. His brown hair was streaked with gray, whilst his ears stuck out, seemingly too large for the rest of him. He dressed all in black—except for the white neckcloth adorning his thick neck.

He appeared wholly unthreatening. Until his almost black, beady eyes set upon her with such coldness that it sucked the warmth from her body, leaving her frozen. Then his thin lips curled into a sneer so malevolent her grip faltered on the rapier.

After a year and a half of searching for the man who had killed her brother, she knew without question she was now face to face with him.

She couldn’t move. She was mesmerized, her feet pasted to this spot. For a second, she even forgot to breathe, so caught in the strange, malicious magnetism of this bastard.

“I see you recognize me, though you did not expect to see me here. That was the plan—one your man followed perfectly, even if you couldn’t. I sent my men out front to distract him, while I crept around the back for you.” His voice was quiet, as equally unassuming as his features, yet somehow that made it more unsettling. If one did not know who he truly was, he was easily forgettable, the type of man who could slip easily through a crowd without anyone ever remembering he’d been there to begin with.

The type of man who could stomp out her brother’s life without there being any witnesses to recall the violence.

That thought freed her from his thrall. She raised her rapier, thrusting out. Sauveterre dashed to the side, avoiding her blade. She stepped out of the doorway, further into the hall, expecting to follow Sauveterre. But he was still in the hall—he barreled into her, using his stocky weight to his advantage.

One minute she was standing on her own two feet, and in the next, the world spun around her. She was falling, falling. Her head crashed into the corner of the bedside table. Her hip slammed hard against the floorboard, sending a roar of pain through her.

Sprawled out on the ground, she gasped for air. Her head thrummed fiercely, and when she laid her hand to her forehead, slick, sticky blood coated her fingertips. Sauveterre was short, but he was far stronger than she’d anticipated and he knew how to leverage his bulky mass for optimum impact. And he was fast, so much faster than she was.

She heard the smack of Northley’s feet against the floorboards. The maid came to defend her. Northley got in a good slash of her parasol, but then Sauveterre rounded on the elderly woman, his fist driving into Northley’s nose with a revolting crack. As blood streamed from her nose, he punched her again and again, until she tumbled to the floor, no longer moving.

“No!” Vivian screamed. Her stomach roiled, bile rising in her mouth.

Quickly, Vivian sat straight up. Blood rushed to her head, and for a second she saw spots until her vision cleared. Northley’s chest still moved. The maid was alive, but gore flooded her wrinkled face, disguising the liver spots with a horrific mask of crimson.

The sight of Northley’s stricken form flooded Vivian with the desperate need to stop this butcher. No more people would be harmed by his hand. She found the strength to stand, though her knees were wobbly; though ache laced through her entire body from her fall; though fear for James, for her own life threatened to immobilize her.

She would fight, and fight again.

Sauveterre’s sinister eyes observed her as she struggled and finally found her footing. “You are prettier than I expected, Miss Loren,” he noted, with the same cool appreciation an entomologist had toward one of his mounted specimens.

“You’ll address me as Her Grace, the Duchess of Abermont,” Vivian sneered, jutting her chin outward, as regal as she could appear when claret trickled down from the open gash on her forehead.

“Ah yes, that. Who would have predicted Falcon was such a white knight?” A flash of irritation lit up Sauveterre’s eyes, the first real rush of emotion she’d seen. He stalked toward her, crowding her, pushing her back against the bedside table. “Nowhere in my studies of the man did he seem gallant. He’s a murderer, Vivian, worse than I am. Do you know how many French lives he’s taken? My friend Nicodème, for instance.”

James’s broken speech as he admitted to taking the life of his sister’s killer echoed in her ears. She couldn’t fault him for what he’d done, or for other questionable acts he’d had to perform for this country—for her—to stay safe.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the metal rapier. It had tumbled from her hand when she’d fallen. Sauveterre must have kicked it away, for now it was across the room, by the desk. If she could just get there and grab it again, she’d stand a chance at him.

She stood stock still, keeping her eyes on him. She dared not look straight at the blade, for fear he’d sense her plan.

“James didn’t kill my brother. You did.” She flung the accusation at him, like the bullet she wished she could fire.

Sauveterre shrugged. “A necessary casualty. Your brother had some very important papers in his possession. I needed them. If he hadn’t fought me, he’d still be alive. Now, Nicodème, his death achieved nothing.”

To hear him talk about Evan with such cruel nonchalance sparked the rage within her she’d worked so hard to contain. She could not be calm. She launched herself at Sauveterre in a flurry of fists and kicks. She clapped his ears, and he winced, but he was not deterred. She jabbed her elbow in his stomach, and he responded with a punch to her shoulder. Pain resounded through her, but she kept going. She aimed for his eyes, jabbing her fingers in, but he grabbed hold of her before she could do much damage. He came at her again, the sheer speed of him terrifying her.

She remembered what Arden and James had taught her. Extending her hand upwards, she chopped him with the hard part of her wrist, hitting that carotid artery between his neck and collarbone.

He collapsed to the floor.

For a second, she remained stunned, staring at his downed body. When he did not move, she crossed to Northley, nudging her. “Come on, we have to go.”

But Northley did not stir. Her breath flowed in and out, but her eyes were closed and she no longer remained consciousness.

So Vivian ran, ran, ran. She ran faster than she’d ever done before, her shoes slapping the floorboards, sprinting through the hall, past every closed door until she came to the main room.

It was not until she’d skidded to a stop at the front door that she heard Sauveterre’s approach. Unlike her jagged, loud gasps for air, he sprinted with ease. Before she could put her hand on the handle, he was upon her, slamming her into the door. Her head smacked against the wood, fresh blood oozing from the existing cut on her forehead. Black spots swum before her eyes again, and for a second she feared her knees would give out entirely.

The rapier was still in the bedroom. She had no weapon, no way to get to a weapon, and her vision swam. Terror surged through her, white-hot and blinding. She was going to die. Killed by the same man who’d murdered her brother. Sauveterre wouldn’t need to send James her teeth—he’d force James to view her mutilated corpse as she took her last breath.

To us, for we have survived when we wish we had not.

James’s voice rang in her ears, powerful and reassuring. His love strengthened her. She had not survived the last year and a half to have her flame snuffed out so brutally. She wanted to live—not just for herself but for James. She’d just found him. They deserved a long life together.

She would not be taken from him so soon.

When Sauveterre stepped back from her, she straightened up, looking over her shoulder at him. She used the only ammunition she had on him: his dismay over the death of his friend. Her voice did not shake—no, she spoke decisively, even vehemently. “Nicodème deserved to die. He tortured and raped innocent women.”

A dark shadow crossed Sauveterre’s face. “That is one man’s side of the story. Just because a man exhibited his basest passions around the so-called fairer sex does not mean his death is warranted. You should not speak of things you know nothing about.”

“You disgust me,” she hissed.

With one swift move, he spun her around so that she faced him, her back pressed up against the door. “And yet of the two of us, I’ll be the one to leave here alive. I’ll be the one to present Falcon, Songbird, and Nixon to the Talons. Me, Vivian. Let’s see them mock my plans now. I have succeeded where they failed.”

His appreciation of his own supposed genius repulsed her. She let him ramble, offering up no resistance, trying to lull him into a false sense of security. If she could get past him, she could use the fire poker as a makeshift épée.

“Abermont House was supposedly a fortress. Too well-guarded. They said no one could get in. They said I was fool to try.” His lips perverted into a self-satisfied smirk. “So I thought outside of the box. I sent you in.”

She took a small step forward, then to the left. Then another. If he’d keep reminiscing, she might make it to the poker.

But he had other ideas. He narrowed the distance between them, skimming his fingers underneath her chin, tilting her head up so that she peered directly into his black gaze. “What did Falcon see in you, Vivian?” Her Christian name from his tongue slithered down her skin, making her feel dirty. “Why couldn’t you follow the plan? It was such a good plan. If you’d found the right information, I never would have had to threaten your life.”

She tried to look away, but his hold on her chin tightened, affixing her.

“If you weren’t going to help me, then I had to clean house,” Sauveterre continued, his nasal voice disturbingly taciturn. “I couldn’t run the risk that you’d be tracked to me, especially if I needed to send in a new operative to do what you could not. But I was good to you. I gave you one last chance, a little warning.”

“You call sending me my brother’s teeth being good to me?” Vivian ground out.

Sauveterre shrugged. “I could have sent you his balls. Would you have preferred that?”

She shuddered. “You’re revolting.”

“A pretty little governess is supposed to distract Falcon long enough so that she can get information. Our profession depends on the lure of sluts.” His eyes left her face, trailing down her body. “But you, you must have a golden cunny to get a duke to marry your strumpet arse.”

Vivian stiffened against his touch. “I am no man’s whore, least of all yours.”

He sniggered. “Your British law makes a woman her husband’s slave. It is the aspect of your code that Bonaparte appreciates the most.”

“Then Bonaparte is a sick bastard,” she jeered.

He backhanded her across her mouth, the hit so hard she heard her own teeth rattle. “Never speak about the First Consul that way.”

She spit out a mouthful of blood and saliva in his face. “If you wanted my loyalty, you shouldn’t have killed my brother.”

Fury spasmed across Sauveterre’s face, altering his inconspicuous features in a petrifying manner. This was the man who’d stomped on her brother’s face, who’d beat him until only his bloody coat could identify him.

He swiped a hand across his face, wiping off her spit. “Falcon should do better at training his bitches. Let’s tell him that, shall we?”

As his voice became dangerously cold, she gave up any hope of subterfuge. She tried to run from him, but he rounded on her, wrapping his arms around her. He squeezed her so tight she could barely breathe. It was happening—the moment she’d worried about in training. He was taking to her another place, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Sauveterre dragged her to the door, opening it. He shoved her out in front of him, hanging onto her arm in case she tried to escape. In one fluid movement he pulled a knife out from his sheath, bracing it against her throat.

She stood on the porch, the blade poised at the sensitive skin at her throat, and she surveyed the slaughter in the yard. Three men dead. Another two writhing in pain. Arden and Nixon stared at her, their faces mirror images of shock.

James, bruised but still standing, turned around. The color drained from his face.

“I love you,” she gasped out, not daring to say anything more, for a trickle of blood seeped down her throat as Sauveterre dug in the tip of the knife.