Two days after she’d strolled through the garden with Abermont as if she belonged in this house, Vivian was reminded once again that her life was not her own. How she both loathed and eagerly anticipated the first and third Mondays of every month, when Sauveterre’s next orders would arrive. She’d trek down to the post office on the other side of the village, and pick up missives from her supposed old aunt Aline Stuart, Sauveterre’s alias when writing to her.

This time, there was more than a single letter waiting for her. The postmaster handed her a parcel wrapped in brown paper, not much wider than the width of her two hands pressed together, but about as tall as a shot glass in height. When she shook the box, she heard a slight shifting sound.

The knot in her stomach that always formed upon receipt of Sauveterre’s missives tightened, until she had to lean against the post office window to catch her breath. She fought the urge to rip the package open here, out in the open, daring anyone who watched to judge her. Maybe, if the right person saw her, they could help her out of this ordeal.

Foolish girl, she chided herself. No one will help you. They’ll throw you in gaol for what you’ve done, and then how you will find out who killed Evan?

No, she must soldier on. She pushed off of the post office window and began the long walk back to Abermont House.

More lies. More secrets. With each passing day, the web she spun grew more complex, until the simple act of remembering what she’d said she was doing versus what she was actually doing required a herculean mental effort.

Yet the sole chance for release was when she completed this mission to Sauveterre’s liking. The police had no new information. She doubted they were even still investigating Evan’s death, a year and a half later. They’d been so quick to claim it was a robbery that had escalated into murder. If she went to the authorities now, she’d lose any opportunity to identify Evan’s murderer.

She was alone in this, just as she’d been alone in everything else since her brother’s death. It had always been the two of them against the world. When her cousin, the new Viscount Trayborne, had thrown them out of the home they’d grown up in, Evan had found a small cottage for them in Devon by the next day. It did not compare to the sprawling estate of the viscountcy, but she hadn’t cared. Everything would be fine, as long as they had each other.

If she hadn’t asked him to move to London, maybe he’d still be alive. If only she’d known how dangerous London could be.

A half hour later, she’d returned to Abermont House. Taking the servants’ entrance upstairs, she passed by the nursery, entering her own room next door. She waited until she’d locked the door and taken a seat on her bed before opening the packet. As she sliced through the seal with a penknife, her hands shook. What would Sauveterre ask her to do this time? Each missive from him had brought increased demands. He wanted additional information, and not just odd details about the family’s whereabouts. He wanted the kind of information she could only get by listening in on private conversations, her ear pressed against the door, risking exposure. She’d even sent him notes on the duke’s investments, obtained by snooping through the drawers in his office.

The very office in which she’d shared a drink with Abermont.

She was a survivor, yes, but she was also a traitor.

And nothing seemed to satisfy Sauveterre. He always wanted more.

Her knife bit through the last speck of sealant. Vivian tore into the package, dropping the contents onto her lap. A letter in Sauveterre’s handwriting, written on the same thick, stiff paper he always used. Whoever he was, he was rich enough to afford high-quality stationery.

The letter was not surprising. But the second item in the package concerned her. An emerald velvet bag no wider than her hand, held closed by a black-corded drawstring. She picked it up by the string, examining it. There was no insignia anywhere on the bag, and the velvet was uniform, giving no indication of where it had been made. It was neither extravagant in make, nor low enough in caliber to be conspicuous.

It, like the blasted Spencer family, was blatantly normal. Not a hint of covertness anywhere.

Yet for all its typical appearance, there was something insidious about it. She couldn’t put her finger on what unsettled her, only that the second she had touched the bag, she’d felt troubled, as though the contents would change her life in a way she wasn’t prepared for yet.

Nonsense, Vivian. It’s probably quite innocuous.

But she couldn’t think of a single thing a man such as Sauveterre would send her that wasn’t in some way damning. She glanced from the bag to the letter and back again.

Holding the bag between her pursed thumb and index finger, she raised it to eye level and gave it a shake. An ominous muffled rattling emitted from inside, not tinny enough to be coins, nor as tinkling as glass. Her palms began to sweat. The beat of her heart was now akin to the repeated slam of a door. In one swift motion, she upended the bag, dumping the contents in her hand.

Teeth. Sauveterre had sent her yellowed teeth. Seven jagged, broken teeth.

Oh, God.

The world crashed around her. She didn’t scream. She couldn’t. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Panic clogged her mind, until all she could do was keep breathing, one breath after the other, faster and faster. No amount of air seemed to help her. Her chest contracted, but she didn’t move. It was impossible to tear her eyes from her outstretched hand.

Each tooth was no bigger than her fingernail. The buds were a dingy white, but the roots were stained with long-dried blood, as though the teeth had been forcibly ripped from someone’s mouth.

This can’t be happening.

That one phrase kept repeating in her mind, over the din of her pounding heart, and the roaring in her ears. She could not be here, with teeth in her palm.

The room spun around her. Her head felt so light. For a minute, she could not focus on anything. Her hand dropped, falling to her side. The teeth scattered onto the bed, contaminating everything they touched. Her sheets. Her skin. Her mind. She’d never be clean again.

She burst from the bed, seizing the basin of water and the soap she kept on the bedside table. She scrubbed her hands until they were red and raw, but still she could feel the grime on her. The rose scent of her soap wafted to her nostrils, but it could not erase the foul odor of decay.

Whirling back around, Vivian dried her hands on a towel. A part of her had hoped that the teeth would disappear while her back was turned. That this had all been some awful nightmare. But no, the offending molars remained on the bed. She breathed in again, trying to calm her racing heart to no avail.

She needed to get the teeth out of sight, and she needed to never, ever, ever touch them again. Wrapping her hand in the towel, she lifted each tooth back into the bag and then closed the bag. Still using the towel, she picked the bag up and took it over to the window. She opened the window, tossing the bag outside. It fell to the ground with a horrid rattle.

One of Abermont’s many gardeners would find it and dispose of it. She’d never have to see the teeth again.

She tugged the counterpane down on her bed and then sat back down, her legs no longer able to support her. Why in God's name would Sauveterre send her this? And perhaps more importantly, whom had those teeth originally belonged to? She bit at her bottom lip, fearing the answer.

What if—what if the teeth were Evan’s? Evan’s face had been so badly beaten when she’d went to identify his body. She closed her eyes, the image of his body on a slab in the coroner’s office appearing before her. Her stomach seized, and for a second, she thought she might vomit. Swallowing the bile back down, she put her hand on her stomach to quell the roil. Dash it all, she’d been too distracted by his bulging eyeball, the footprint across his cheek, to notice if his teeth were missing.

She opened her eyes. A speck of white peeking out from the edge of the quilted counterpane caught her eye. The letter.

With trembling fingers, she plucked the paper up from the bed and slit the seal. For once, Sauveterre's missive was quite short. The first line read:

You see now what I did to your brother.

Her mind reeled, as the pieces of the puzzle smashed into place. No, no, no, no. How had she missed this? She was so stupid! Fury boiled within her, threatening to take hold when she needed logic the most.

Sauveterre had killed Evan. She’d wasted six months of her life obeying his every bloody order. Six months of being led around like a pony with a carrot in front of its nose, when the man she’d wanted all along had been right in front of her.

Except she didn’t know a damn thing about Sauveterre, other than the fact that he could afford expensive paper and his letters were postmarked from a coaching inn in Chatham, Kent. Five months ago, she’d written to the proprietor of that coaching inn for information on Sauveterre—but the proprietor had claimed they never received, or sent out, any letters for such a man.

She reached in the top drawer of her bedside table for a map, spreading it out on the bed. Chatham was approximately eight hours away from Maidstone, or a day’s ride in a carriage. She had enough blunt saved up for at least the trip there. But once she arrived at Chatham, what would she do? She could go to the coaching inn and demand an explanation, but there was little chance their answer would be any different. As someone in service, she simply wasn’t important enough to warrant the truth.

And if by some slight chance they did tell her where Sauveterre was, what was her play? Yes, she was a skilled fencer, but she’d never handled a gun before. The blade of her sword triumphed in close combat, but her ability to defend herself from a distance was minimal at best. Evan’s body had been badly brutalized, and he was a much better fighter than she’d ever been—not to mention he’d had five stone on her. The ludicrousness of her plan was now startlingly clear. If the police hadn’t believed he’d been a targeted murder when the crime scene was still current, why would they believe her now when she had only shadowy evidence? She couldn’t fight Sauveterre on her own.

Any hope she’d cherished in the last six months ripped from her. Her head hung down, her chin in her hands. Tears rolled down her face, slow at first, but then faster, as sobs shook her shoulders. She cried until her throat ached. Until she had no tears left, and all that came forth was silent, dry bawling.

But wait. There was more to the message.

Find me confirmation that James Spencer is in British intelligence. If you disappoint me again, I’ll send you to hell in the same manner I did your brother.

A keening whimper escaped from her throat. She’d refused to think of her own life in the last few months, so focused was she on getting revenge for Evan. Her existence had seemed immaterial if she couldn’t accomplish that goal. But now, faced with the immediate threat, she could only think one thing: she did not want to die.

We have survived when we wish we had not. We are too strong for our own good, but we cannot change.

Abermont’s words resonated in her mind. He’d called her a survivor. He believed in her strength. His confidence in her bolstered her more than it should. More than she wanted to admit. She grasped at his support, letting it shape her mind. If it would take a day for her to get to Chatham, the opposite was true. Sauveterre could be on his way here. Or, Chatham could simply be a forwarding address, and he was already in Maidstone. Watching her.

When she’d seen the duke’s hand bleeding, she had not hesitated. She’d done what she had to so that the bleeding stopped. This could be no different. She had to act with determination and purpose. Remain alert, for at any moment Sauveterre could come for her. In order to stay alive, she must develop a plan.

She set the letter down on the bed and exhaled. If she could get the information Sauveterre wanted, then the threat would disappear, for the moment at least. Tonight, she’d search the duke’s library one last time.

And if she still couldn’t find anything, then she’d have to go to the duke himself. Even gaol was a better alternative than waiting for a madman to kill her.

At least in gaol, she’d be safe from Sauveterre.

* * *

Vivian stood in the center of Abermont’s personal library. Behind her, filing cabinets lined one-half of the back wall, while floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered the rest of the wall. To her right, the red draperies were pulled across the big bay windows, blocking out her movements from the outside. She breathed a sigh of relief at that, for at least here, she felt somewhat protected—as long as no one found her.

She directed a glance over at the door. No one was in the hall. For now, she was alone. The duke had gone to the local public house, while Lady Elinor and Miss Arden Spencer retired to their rooms early. Thomas was already asleep. The other staff took advantage of their master’s absence to natter on in the servant’s hall.

Sucking in a deep breath, she went to the door and gave it a push. Almost shut. A little space so that she’d hear if anyone approached, but closed enough to hide her actions. Her stupid, fruitless actions—for she’d searched this library before and turned up nothing, as she no doubt would now. How was she supposed to prove the Duke of Abermont was a spy, when he clearly had nothing to do with anything out of the ordinary?

One last try to forestall Sauveterre. One last fool’s errand.

She rubbed her palm across her skirt, her fingers digging into the fabric. The muslin was light and soft against her skin, yet the hairs on the back of her neck prickled as though she’d brushed up against the smooth slickness of bone again.

She dropped her grip on her skirt. Summoned the little bit of courage she still had left. Stepping to her left, she rifled through the popular novels stacked on the low table. Fanny Burney’s Camilia. Lyrical Ballads, which had her favorite poem, Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Her hand wavered as she flipped through the pages of the book, looking for...something. What in particular, she didn’t know. Messages in the margin, perhaps, or papers folded inside.

But it was simply a book, with no hidden answers. She stacked the books back in order. Had they been facing straight ahead or off to a jaunty angle? She couldn’t remember, so she left them centered on the table.

She paced to the cabinets against the wall, slowly opening the top flat drawer. Architectural plans for some sort of quarry, if the first few sheets were any indication. Nothing there, either.

Oh, God, she was going to bleed out in the street like Evan. Alone. No one would stop to help her. No one would care.

An image of Abermont as he had been that night in his office, the fresh bandage tied on his hand, sprang before her. She’d felt comfortable around him. Almost normal. As if somehow her mind knew she could trust him, despite the fact that prior to this week they’d only ever exchanged a few pleasantries. As if he’d mourn her death, no matter how much she’d betrayed his trust.

Yet feeling sorry she’d died was a different emotion entirely from wanting to help her stay alive. She couldn’t guarantee he’d help her if she were forced to confess what she’d done.

Vivian moved to the next drawer. More plans, this time for improvements to the farmer’s cottages in the villages. The next drawer was deeper and taller, housing a big bound volume. She pulled it out, staggering under the weight. She rested it on top of the cabinet, flipping through the pages. Lists and lists of tenant rents, costs of the quarry, expenses pertaining to the upkeep of the house.

The same type of information she’d already sent, to no avail. Sauveterre claimed that Abermont was financing some sort of revolution in France, but she hadn’t been able to locate any indication of that in the duke’s financial records.

She slipped her hand into her pocket, her fingers brushing against the note written by her brother’s murderer. He’d shaped his quill, dipped it in ink, and formed threats to her with the same hands he’d used to thrash Evan. He’d walked the letter down to the post with the same booted feet he’d stomped onto Evan’s face.

And he’d kill her with the same hands he’d used to squeeze out the life from her brother.

Not if she had anything to say about it.

Vivian yanked her hand from her pocket. Thrusting her chin out, she crossed to the window seat and pulled off the cushions. She had too much to accomplish to let Sauveterre win. The bastard would pay for what he’d done to Evan. A life for a life, and she certainly wouldn’t be trading hers.

She opened up the wooden bench. The cavity inside was stuffed with extra pillows and a few blankets. Again, nothing useful. But she did not break down. She did not cry.

She was stronger than that.

She crept to the escritoire pushed up against the wall near the door. As she pulled open the center drawer, the slides stuck, letting out a tremendous groan. Vivian halted immediately, directing an apprehensive glance at the door. Still no one. But if anyone had heard the squeak, her time was limited.

She moved quicker, shifting through a pile of recent mail. Invitations to house parties, invitations to routs, invitations to the musicale...Good Lord, how did one man know so many people, let alone have that many friends? While she fought for her life, Abermont went to musicales! The absurdity of their opposite situations struck her, snapping her head back up. Stuffing the invitations back in the proper space, Vivian yanked open the next small drawer, all cautiousness forgotten in the wake of her ire. Writing quills. The remaining tiny cubbies were for sand, a blotter, and an inkpot.

Nothing. No, no, no. It was becoming glaringly obvious that she’d have no choice but to throw herself at the mercy of Abermont. But first, one last check...

She kept searching through the desk, but all she could find were half-written notes to his secretary about the village, and blank stationery for future purposes. She knew he kept his seal locked in the left top drawer, but she hadn’t been able to lift the key off of him when he’d visited the schoolroom.

“Blast,” she murmured. “Blast, blast, blast.”

Footsteps sounded outside the library, approaching swiftly. Closing the drawer, she crept to the left, pressing herself up against the back of the door. Within a minute, the interloper appeared in the hall—the housekeeper, heading toward the servant’s stairs in the back of the house. Her breath stilled in her lungs until the housekeeper passed by.

Finally, as the door to the stairs clicked shut, Vivian let out the breath she’d been holding. That had been close. Too close. If the housekeeper was out and about, the rest of the servants might be too. With one last fleeting look around the room, Vivian fled the library, slipping into the murky darkness of the hall.

Tomorrow, once she’d completed her morning responsibilities, she’d go to Abermont and tell him everything. Tomorrow, she’d beg him to not to throw her in gaol. Tomorrow, she’d put her life in the hands of another man, all based on a feeling she had when she was around him.

Tomorrow, she’d cease to be a free woman.