This must be what hell felt like.

Not the stab of sudden pain, nor the squeeze of one’s lungs gasping for air, but instead the slow tick of a clock toward doom. It was the waiting that would undo her. The agony of not knowing when her demise would come, yet all the while being fully aware that destruction was imminent. Unavoidable. She waited as the sun rose, stripping away the darkness of the previous night. Waited as she took in breakfast. Waited as she taught Thomas an hour’s worth of French, then assisted his tutor with the history lesson.

By the time the hour struck three and she was finally able to extricate herself from Thomas’s side, Vivian considered a quick death a humane alternative to the torment of her present situation. She’d never been so glad to see Miss Spencer, who had come by the schoolroom to take Thomas out for an afternoon ride. Finally, finally, she could cease waiting and act.

If she could only find the dashed duke.

She’d checked the dining room, the parlor, the billiards room, the gymnasium, the ballroom, and a seemingly endless supply of other rooms, for Abermont House was nothing if not spacious. He was not there. Nor was he in the library she’d raided, or the office where she’d drank with him and been considered—for a few minutes anyhow—his equal. She did not know if she should feel relieved by that; perhaps Fate paid her some small gift in forcing her to speak to him somewhere not already clogged by memories.

She stood now under the archway of the exit door out into the garden. One half-boot on the tiled floor of the conservatory, the other on the grass of the lawn. The symbolism was not lost on her, even as she debated going outside. She’d be exposed in that long swatch of green. Nowhere to hide, not until she reached the maze deep in the garden, and that was far away from here. While some shrubbery lined the paths and trees were interspersed amongst the flowerbeds and statuary, the garden had been created for visibility and atmosphere. It was a garden of the indolent rich, those with so few problems they had hours in the day to while away in the tranquility of the outdoors. It had not been created for women with threats against their lives.

Stepping back, she worried her bottom lip between her front teeth. Sauveterre could be watching her right now, plotting her demise, as she waited at the threshold. In the house, she had some level of protection. Guards patrolled at all hours, for the Spencers liked their privacy. At first, she’d found this fact odd, but she’d attributed it to the habits of the highly wealthy. When one estate harbored so many priceless objects, it was bound to attract thieves.

And deceitful spies like her.

She laid her head against the cool wood of the door. Pretended that it steadied her, when in truth her heart beat so fast she feared it might burst free of her chest. Wouldn’t it be better, to live without a heart? That fanciful thought took hold of her, and she sucked in another breath, wishing for a life where she did not hurt so. Her heart had brought her nothing but pain and suffering. A life without passion, without the bitter thrust of a knife to her gut every time she remembered Evan: now that would be heaven.

But she could not close her eyes without seeing him on the coroner’s table. His skin bloated. His abdomen discolored and green, while his legs appeared marbled as if violet-black spider webs interwove across his body. Sauveterre had done this to her brother, and now he was coming for her.

A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. Her frayed nerves were splitting at the seams and she had nothing left to patch them back together. For a year and a half she had waited to find Evan’s killer, and now that she had a name, she was even more powerless.

“Miss Loren?”

Abermont’s voice surrounded her. Intruded upon her thoughts, her very being, his words loud and bold. She wondered if she’d imagined him, for he’d arrived at the moment when she needed him most. When she was so frail the act of turning around to face him nearly made her drop. She’d fought for so long, lied for so many months, all for nothing.

She did not know how it happened, exactly. One moment, she was standing up right, albeit unsteadily. Her shoulders did sag, yes, but her knees were most certainly not caving—until they did, and she was falling to the ground. But then a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, keeping her standing, anchoring her. She did not feel so alone anymore. Not when he was here, not when he held her.

For a second—a blissful, fleeting second—she allowed herself to breathe in his woodsy scent, pine and leather. It wove through her senses, mingling in her mind, until everything was him and he was everything. His hands burned through the gossamer sleeves of her sienna day dress, catching her body aflame.

And she wanted to lean her head against his broad chest and pretend that it was all going to be fine. There was no mysterious man hunting her. No secrets blackening her name.

She had been wrong before. A life without feeling was not heaven.

This was heaven.

Too soon, he pulled back from her. It had not been more than a minute passed, yet she felt the inexplicable change echo through her. She stood again, on her own two feet, her stance firm. She remembered exactly who she was. At nine, she’d learned to ride astride, despite the objections of her uncle. At fourteen, she’d bested her brother in a fencing match, and when he’d claimed it was a lucky riposte, she’d done it again. And again.

She was a survivor, blast it, and she’d make it through this battle as she had all the rest.

Her chin notched higher, she met the duke’s inquiring gaze. Perhaps a flush slipped across her cheeks, for his eyes were so intense, twin whirlwinds reaching for her. But she ignored their pull. Ignored his appeal. In recalling her sense of self, she was again aware of the chasm between them.

Abermont gave another of his nods, as if he was assured she wouldn’t faint again.

“I need to speak with you,” she said.

Just as he said, “I need to speak with you.”

She blinked. What would he need to talk to her about? Her weekly report on Thomas’s progress wasn’t due for another few days. He’d already thanked her for bandaging his hand. There was little else between them.

Unless he already knew she’d been spying upon him. Wouldn’t that make life easier, if he already knew? But she’d have no chance to turn the story to her benefit if he’d already made up his mind. Her gaze flitted to his face, yet his gray eyes were unreadable, a calm sea when she longed for a storm to indicate his intent. His lips flattened into a thin line as he peered down the bridge of his hawkish nose at her.

He did not speak. When her own words died in her throat unspoken, he gestured for her to follow him deeper into the conservatory. Wall to wall glass window panes ensconced in white window frames faced the garden, allowing the onlooker to enjoy the beauty of the outdoors without exposure to the elements. Allowing Sauveterre to see inside. Was he looking now, as she trailed after Abermont? As she handed over her life’s fate to another powerful man whose moves she could not anticipate?

The sound of her steps seemed akin to the coronach played at Evan’s funeral. Onward they walked, until they reached the center of the room. Several whitewashed iron benches grouped around a marble fountain featuring three women, each with a hand extended to the giant basin atop their heads. She’d loved this spot. The tree ferns placed strategically all around the little alcove had made this spot secluded, cut off from outside problems. Here, she’d felt free.

She did not feel free now.

But the alcove in the conservatory was private. The ferns surrounding them were tall enough that no one outside in the garden would be able to see them. A few short years ago, she would have been expected to have a chaperone any time she was alone with a man such as the duke. Now, she would gladly embrace that scandal, if it meant her true misdeeds would never see the light of day.

How quickly the tides of her life had changed. From a viscount’s ward to a governess to a criminal in a few small jumps.

Abermont sat down on a bench, looking expectantly at the spot next to him. She gulped. Too close to him. Instead, she sat on the opposite edge of the bench, as far as she could get from him without disobeying his order.

Abermont turned on the bench so that he faced her. “You said you needed to speak to me. Was there a particular matter that concerns you? Is my brother not doing well in his schooling?”

He did not know, then. For if he knew, his voice wouldn’t sound so bloody emotionless, whilst every breath she took in was a fight against panic. He must suspect something, but not the real truth.

“Thomas is fine.” An automatic response, born out of rote. When he relaxed against the bench, she remained stiff, her shoulders back, her chin forward. An imitation of strength, when she felt none. “I have not been honest with you.”

His brows knit. “I’m not sure I understand. What, precisely, have you lied about?”

“Everything.” She could not meet his gaze. Instead, she looked at the potted fern farthest from him, beginning to count the number of branches. One. Two. Three. Twelve.

Abermont’s tone was still unbearably even. “Everything is a very broad term.”

“I suppose everything is not correct,” she granted. “My name is truly Vivian Loren, and the family history I gave your sister when applying is quite true. Even the references from my uncle’s friends were genuine, all born out of their sympathy from seeing me reduced to service.”

She chanced a look over at him and instantly regretted it, for he was nodding along with her words. Not pity, but the factual acknowledgment that she’d been reduced in circumstances. She didn’t want him to think of her like that, a fraction of what she’d once been.

“The story you told me of your brother’s death.” The smallest hint of emotion lined his voice, belying his imperturbable mien. “Was that true?”

“Yes, though I wish it wasn’t.” If only that had been a lie. If only she could bring Evan back with the power of her words.

Was it her imagination, or did Abermont seem relieved by the fact that their shared pain was not fabricated? She did not know how to perceive that. She ran her hand down her skirt, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle. Once, twice, thrice, until the gesture was more about keeping her hands busy than the semblance of normalcy.

“My brother’s death was not a random act of violence. He was murdered.” She forced the words out, for it was so much harder to say this to him than it had been to anyone else. Her fate lay in his hands—but there was something else she did not want to acknowledge, yet she felt it all the same. The fear that he might not believe her. The shock that his opinion mattered.

He waited for her to continue, his reactions not fitting at all with what she’d predicted. Where were the questions? The fury? She’d anticipated following his prompting. But in this as in all other things, she was alone.

“I came here because I wanted to find out who killed him.” Damn the tremble of her voice, that fragile weakness when she wanted so badly to be fierce.

Abermont’s intense eyes fastened on her face, his complete attention upon her. “And did you?”

“Yes.” She opened her hand, half-expecting to see yellowed teeth upon her glove. Their absence did not make her stomach seize less.

Abermont tracked her motion, a spark of concern lighting upon his face. “I believe you’d better start at the beginning, Miss Loren.”

So she did. She let her mind fly back to the very beginning, the night of Evan’s death. It did not take much coaxing to bring back all the details. The overwhelming odor of chemicals could not hide the nauseating stench of decomposition from the various corpses in the coroner’s office. She’d had to cover her nose with her lilac-perfumed handkerchief just to be able to breathe without choking. And when the coroner drew back the sheet from Evan’s body, the rank pungency made her gag. It reminded her of the pig they’d once found on uncle’s estate, mauled by wild animals and left to rot.

“A Runner came to our townhouse in Clerkenwell. It was a Thursday. I remember that because Evan always left early for work on Thursdays, so that he’d be able to leave the bank before three and take me to the circulating library.” She reached for her handkerchief, her fingers fisting in the scented fabric, just as they had that day after she’d identified his body. “I hadn’t seen him since the night before. If I’d known it would be the last time I’d ever see him, I would have held onto him and never let him go. I would have told him I loved him.”

“I am certain he knew that,” Abermont murmured. So many people before him had tried to tell her that—but when Abermont said it, she believed him, because he too had experienced the regret of a last day. She wondered what he wished he’d said to his sister.

“The Runner asked me to come with him to the coroner’s office. He said they’d found my brother dead in an alley in Seven Dials. The damage...” Her nails sank into the fabric of that handkerchief, but she could not stop her voice from breaking. “The damage done to his body was so extensive that had I not sewn a label with his name in it into his coat, they would have just thought he was another dead drunk in the stews.”

Abermont brushed his hand over hers. His soft touch anchored her in the present. “That was clever of you. I shall have to tell my valet to sew labels into all my coats.” He released her hand, catching her eye.

A short, biting laugh escaped. His attempt at gallows’ humor had broken some of the tension within her.

“It is always good to plan ahead,” she rejoined, with some steadiness to her voice. “Were you to check the collar of my dress now, you’d find my name stitched into the muslin.” She tried to play that fact off as a light—albeit morbid—joke.

Abermont sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing. “Do you fear for your life, Miss Loren?”

His directness caught her off-guard. She’d grown used to his not asking questions, yet she couldn’t shake the notion that he’d been waiting for her to reach a certain point in her narrative. As if he’d ferreted out the reason behind her coming to him, and all the rest before it had been inconsequential.

He saw a problem, and he was going to fix it.

She nodded, releasing her hold on the handkerchief and spreading it across her lap. Digging into her pocket, she dropped Sauveterre’s notes into it, and lifted up the handkerchief by the ends so that it formed a small purse. A half hour ago, after her initial search for him had been fruitless, she’d gone back to her room to collect the notes. At least then she’d have evidence of her claims.

Abermont watched her, his hand out to receive the makeshift bag, but she did not give it to him. Not yet.

“My brother was beaten to death in an alley in Seven Dials. When I asked the Runners why he’d been in Seven Dials, they couldn’t give me a reason.” She clenched her teeth, her grip on the bag like iron. “You told me you’d avenged Louisa’s death. So you must understand; you must be able to imagine, how it feels not to have answers. To not be able to get revenge for your loved one.”

Abermont nodded again. Such a simple gesture, yet it conveyed more anguish than any of the pithy sayings repeated to her in the last year and a half. That nod, combined with the sorrow in his eyes, was enough to get her through the next few sentences.

“I lived without answers for almost a year. A horrible, exhausting year, in which I did nothing but search for something that would tell me why my brother died.” For a second, she closed her eyes, letting the darkness soothe her. She’d always felt better in the blackness, for it was what she deserved. “Evan had enough money saved that after the townhouse was sold, I was able to let a small flat in Clerkenwell too. But everything reminded me of him, and then the money ran out.”

“Did you think of going home?” Abermont asked. “Not home, per say, but to your other relatives.”

She shook her head. “My cousin, Viscount Trayborne, wants nothing to do with me. My grandfather has never met me. Grandfather stopped recognizing Papa as kin as soon as he married Mama. Supposedly, Grandfather didn’t agree with the match.”

“Still, maybe...”

She raised her chin higher, meeting Abermont’s inquiries with fire. “I would rather work myself to the bone than rely on the charity of others.”

“I admire that.” The tiniest smile creased the duke’s lips. “So you became a governess. But I still don’t see how this has anything to do with lying.”

She held up the bag. “For six months, I have been receiving instructions from a man named Sauveterre. He wrote to me, and I didn’t question it. I should have, I know. A missive arrives on your doorstep with no return address, signed by an obvious pseudonym. Usually, people want to know where it’s from.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I think I was scared to question it,” she said. “Every attempt I’d made in investigating Evan’s death met with failure. Here was this person who promised me the keys to everything I wanted—answers and employment. I didn’t want to look deeper and find out it was a ruse. I just wanted to believe for a little while, I had a chance at revenge.”

Her grip on the handkerchief shook as she breathed in. Nothing would ever be right again, and she’d done nothing to stop it. “But I failed. I failed my brother, and I failed you, because the very man who killed my brother is the same one who claimed he’d help me.”

Abermont did not focus on that detail. “What did he want in exchange?”

“Information on you.”

There it was, the marked change in Abermont’s countenance. The suddenly autocratic tilt to his neck, as he looked above her, no longer keeping her gaze. The way he swept back in his chair, putting distance between them.

“Who could you possibly fear more than me, Miss Loren? You must know what I could do to you as duke. Yet you confess your treachery to me...” He paused, dragging his hand through his hair, an expression she’d come to mark as him being lost in thought. “You come to me as if you think I can help you.”

Her resolution lagged. She’d made a terrible mistake coming to him. What would he want with a governess who had hurt his family? She’d be better off running, for then at least she’d be independent. But then what would she do? She couldn’t get another position without references from this one, and the duke would surely tell all his friends not to hire her. She couldn’t go far on what she had saved.

So she had no choice. Convincing him to help her became her only salvation. For herself, and for Evan—for the Runners worked on a reward system, and they’d be much more willing to look into Evan’s murder again if they thought they’d get a hefty sum from Abermont.

“I can explain, Your Grace.” She handed him the makeshift bag. “That is every letter I ever received from the man who calls him Sauveterre. I have carried the last letter on me since I received it yesterday, as a reminder of the true nature of this blackguard.”

He took the folded handkerchief, emptying the contents on his lap. She had numbered the margins on each note, so that he could follow the story.

With each note, the impassiveness of his features contorted, until the raggedness of his emotion washed it away entirely. The fury that had shone in his eyes spread to his cheeks, even to the tip of his crooked nose. She saw it in the death grip he had on the notes, in the way his shoulders hunched over the paper. When he deposited the notes into his coat pocket and turned to her, she expected to be blasted with his ire for what she’d done to him.

Yet something had changed. She would have bet an entire year’s salary on that. His eyes were so bright and full of fire that her breath stilled in her throat.

“A man who threatens a woman is the worst sort of man,” he said finally, his voice so gravelly, so raw that it sent a shiver up her spine.

Never had she heard him sound so…candid.

So dangerous.

He’d thrown his arm around her before she could react. God’s above, he should be furious with her. Instead, he’d taken compassion on her. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, the superfine of his coat smooth against her flaming cheeks. Yes, his body was as hard as she’d imagined. Yes, he was as strong as she’d always thought. His body was rough and toned, reminding her of a warrior.

And though she knew it was the pinnacle of insanity, she wished he’d be her warrior.

But she’d betrayed him. She’d broken his trust. She’d hurt him and his sisters, all for some false promises made by a man she did not know and could not find.

“He’s going to kill me.” Droplets of water streamed down her cheeks. She’d dreamed of being wild and free, but this was something differently entirely. Giving in to the knowledge that she was doomed, no matter what she did. “He sent me my brother’s teeth.”

Abermont shuddered. That such a robust man as him was repulsed by Sauveterre’s actions did not comfort her.

“He’s going to kill me like he did my brother and I’m never, ever going to get revenge for Evan. Everything I have done for the last six months has been for nothing.”

He pulled her closer, his big hand heavy against her arm.

“No. Nothing is going to happen to you, Miss Loren.” His rich, clear voice rang out in the conservatory, his unshakable determination making her believe him, even though she knew the odds were against them. “I’m going to protect you.”