To Mary, Edinburgh was a city of startling smells and contrasts.

Hewn from damp, gray stone, the city boasted teeming, unwashed masses and tall tenement buildings. Some four stories below their hotel room, the squalor spilled forth onto Cowgate, rivers of waste running beneath carriage wheels, ragged clothes flapping from lines crisscrossing the cobblestone streets.

And yet, just ahead, through the hotel window, Mary could see the shine of the newer part of the city, the streets widening to accommodate the deeper pockets of Edinburgh’s wealthier citizens. Further on ahead, on a bluff of dark granite and green moss, Edinburgh Castle rose like a phoenix against spinning, dark clouds.

“Looks like rain tonight,” West remarked as he came to stand behind her, his body not even touching hers, but nonetheless sending electric sparks singing beneath her skin. She crossed her arms, trying in vain to ignore the way her body reacted to him. They’d not been intimate since the night of the ball, and she wasn’t at all sure how she felt about the idea of being intimate now. Somewhere in this city, traitors were plotting the death of the queen.

And trust in her husband was proving a difficult thing to regain.

He’d been nothing but a gentleman the entire journey. At her request, he had ensured that their hotel room—small though it may be, thanks to their late arrival and the burgeoning population in town—had separate beds. His patient accommodation of her every request boggled the mind. This was a man who could have anyone he wanted. Before their marriage, he’d garnered an immense reputation for enjoying a variety of women—and not all one at a time.

And yet, he seemed willing to sleep alone tonight, because that was what she said she wanted. Even if she was no longer sure of her own feelings on the matter.

Drawing a deep breath against the treacherous leanings of her heart, Mary peered out the window onto the early evening cityscape. The clouds did look ominous, boiling on the horizon. “Hopefully the rain will hold off until tomorrow, when it would do us some actual good. A damp day might discourage such wide attendance during the procession.” She looked down, feeling again that sense of dread to see how many people clogged the narrow street below. “Although, the threat of rain doesn’t seem to be thwarting any of their enthusiasm at present. The streets are absolutely mobbed.”

“Yes, tomorrow’s event has drawn crowds from the surrounding countryside, hoping for a glimpse of their queen.” She felt the gentle brush of his lips against the nape of her neck, the small scrape of unshaven whiskers against her skin.

Shivering against the unwelcome feelings he could pull from her, she turned to face him, placing a hand against his chest, pushing gently. “You need to shave.” A lie, that. In truth, she liked him like this, slightly unkempt, a bit of a rogue. But she needed her wits about her for what was coming, and unfortunately, proximity to this man made her head spin in unfortunate circles.

She needed a moment to breathe, to think.

He yielded, though he looked none too happy to do so. She saw him rub a hand across the stubble on his chin, knowing he was wishing for his valet. But they’d travelled light and fast, eschewing the accompaniment of servants in favor of time and stealth. No one at home even knew where they were, thanks to West’s story about taking a brief wedding trip to the Lake District, a tale everyone seemed to believe.

“I could go and see about a barber,” he offered, working his jaw.

Mary sighed. He was trying so hard, but it only forced her to sidestep him at every turn. “The fate of the entire country could be hanging in the balance,” she told him, though she prayed things weren’t as dire as that. “Instead of a barber, we might first start with a visit to the Edinburgh authorities. Perhaps they would believe us, if we just went to them and explained—”

“Impossible,” he interrupted with an impatient shake of his head. “I am on their list, too. Grant and I attended the University of Edinburgh, and there was that time when we—”

“West.” She wrapped her arms around her, feeling sick. Good heavens. She hadn’t known he’d lived for a time in Edinburgh. It was yet another reminder there was so much about him she didn’t know, and she was beginning to despair she would ever learn half of it, especially given their current predicament. “For heaven’s sake, this isn’t a joke!”

“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t a joke. It is a bloody dangerous mission, and I am not entirely sure what we are doing here, but it seems we have a better chance to do something here, in Edinburgh, than pacing the streets of London.”

Mary hesitated. “I just . . . that is . . .” She wrapped her arms more tightly about herself, half-wishing they were her husband’s instead. This forced separation, the stiffened shoulders—none of it was helping. But she’d made her preferences on the matter of his proximity all too clear, and his arms stayed firmly by his side. “There are times,” she breathed out, frustrated, “when it just doesn’t seem fair that we must be the only heroes in this.”

“I know.” He looked down at her, shaking his head. “I’ve got a bloody Victoria Cross gathering dust on my bureau, but I don’t feel like a hero, not even close. But fate has a way of forcing one’s feet into the fray, making heroes of the worst of us. Some may say we made this bed ourselves, me with my reputation for pranks and you with your wild imagination. But regardless of how it came about, it seems we are the ones meant to do this.”

She drew a deep breath. “You are right.” She nodded. “But how can we stop it if we don’t know what Southingham is planning?”

West didn’t have a proper answer to that.

It would definitely help to know Southingham’s plans, where the man planned to do it, and more importantly, how. But they lacked those crucial pieces of the puzzle.

Worse, West didn’t know what his wife was planning either. Something about the slant of her brow told him her mind was working hard, and he wasn’t to be privy to the entirety of it. It hurt, that she distrusted him enough to hold something of herself back.

Hurt, too, to know that perhaps he had earned the new doubt in her eyes.

“I know. I am worried, too,” he admitted. His gaze pulled to something beyond Mary’s slim shoulders, a movement through the window, down on the street. He stepped around her and peered down through the glass. Relief skittered through him, to finally have something to do other than wait for whatever it was that would happen on the morrow. Because outside the window, four stories down, he caught the profile of someone he recognized.

“But we might yet find out what they plan,” he muttered.

“What do you see?” she asked, stepping up to stare out the window beside him.

“There.” He pointed, guiding her gaze. “The man there, walking down Stevenlaw’s Close. It’s difficult to see from here, but he’s got a scar on along his jaw. That is George Carlson, the Duke of Southingham’s man. I recognize him from the day I chased him in St. Paul’s Cathedral. When Queen Victoria arrives on the morrow, the royal route will surely take her over South Bridge, on her way to Holyrood. Perhaps he is scouting locations nearby.”

Beside him, Mary gave a small gasp. “Oh, but that is perfect! We can follow him.”

“I can trail him,” West agreed grimly, “but I think you ought to keep watch from the window.” But his thoughts fell into empty air. He heard the click of the door latch, the creak on a hinge. Turned his head to see Mary’s skirts, disappearing into the hallway. “Oh, bugger me blue,” West groaned, dashing after her. “Mary, wait!”

She whirled to face him, having nearly made it to the stairwell, a belligerent pinch to her mouth. “You aren’t going to leave me out of this,” she warned. “Not this time.”

As if he had a prayer in hell of stopping her.

“I only wanted to ask . . . do you have your dagger?” She lifted her wrist, showing him the reticule that dangled from it. “Better to keep it in a pocket,” he advised. “Stuffed in your reticule like that, it’s a bit useless as anything more than a bludgeon.”

She nodded, pulled the sheathed knife from her reticule, and shoved it into a pocket of her skirts. Then, turning on her heel, she hurried down the stairs.

He could do nothing but try to keep up.

They plunged outside into the sour-smelling alley. Just ahead, West could see Carlson greet a man who was jumping down from a wagon.

“West,” Mary hissed, poking him in the side with her elbow. “Do you see?”

“I see.” And what he was seeing was money being exchanged, a good deal of it, from Carlson’s hands to the driver. The two men stood a moment, their heads bent in conversation. The wagon rumbled off in the direction of High Street, a lumpy oilcloth draped over its bed.

As Carlson set off, his hands in his pockets, Mary tossed West a triumphant look, her eyes shining with excitement. “We nearly missed our chance to follow him.” She pushed forward.

West grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

“Following him.”

“Which him?”

She paused. “Oh. There are two of them now, aren’t there?” She bit her lip. “Very well then, I will follow Southingham’s man. You should track the wagon and see where it is going.”

“I think I should follow Carlson,” he protested. He knew Carlson posed a danger. The tarp over the bed of the wagon could be covering anything. China dolls. Rotting turnips.

Cages full of rats.

“You are doing it again,” she accused, craning her neck in the direction her quarry had gone. “Carlson may very well know your face now, after the chase you gave in the cathedral. I have a better chance of following him undetected.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he protested, shaking his head.

She twisted against his grip. “The longer we stand here and argue about it, the greater the chance that he is getting away.”

Which was, unfortunately, true. Even now, their one clue to follow in the city could be disappearing into the throngs of people lining the streets. Damn it all, but it was too much of a risk to not let her go. West released her arm, cursing the situation, fate, Mary’s stubbornness, and any other number of things that had led them to this impossible crossroad.

“Go then,” he agreed reluctantly. “But please be very, very careful. Do nothing more than watch him from a distance, Mary. See where he goes, and take note of anyone he speaks with.”

She nodded, her face brightening. He was reminded of the way her eyes had shone that day when she had appeared in St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was only when he tried to hold her back that the brightness ebbed. Well, no more holding back. If this was the man she needed him to be, so be it. He only hoped he survived the uncertainty.

“Be inconspicuous.” He grinned suddenly. “Like a mouse.”

“A role I’ve been training for my entire life,” she shot back with an answering smile, then tore off in the direction Carlson had gone.

And West headed toward High Street to follow the wagon, praying he hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.

Calling on every skill in every book she’d ever read, Mary followed Carlson to the edge of Old Town. She paused, on occasion, to peer through the odd storefront, trying to give the appearance of being a woman intent on window shopping. In her plain, ordinary dress she imagined she could have been a woman of nearly any mediocre station in life, out running an errand, shopping at the milliner’s. But her mission was something more critical than purchasing a pretty set of ribbons or buying a lovely new hat.

And with each block, her confidence grew.

Carlson initially proved easy to follow through the old city, even though the dark clouds and encroaching evening promised to obscure him soon. But as they tumbled into New Town, she lost sight of him as she stepped around a busy corner. She stood for a moment, searching for the man’s battered hat, his distinctive slouch of a walk. Against the more fashionable crowd, it ought to be easier to pick him out, not harder.

Which meant, she realized with a pang of worry, he was trying to disappear.

She peered through the nearest storefront window. Inside she could see a tea shop, well-dressed men and women sitting at tables, hear the hum of distant conversation and the delicate ring of silver against porcelain. The scent of tea and biscuits wafting onto the street made her stomach rumble, but she couldn’t take the time to eat when there was an assassin on the loose. “Where have you gotten to, Carlson?” she muttered beneath her breath.

“Right behind you,” an unexpected growl rang in her ear.

Mary turned. Gasped at the dark eyes glaring down at her. She drew her hands up, though her reticule proved a hopeless shield between them. “Please,” she gasped, even as his hand came up to snatch at the bit of fabric, the ribbons close to breaking. “If you want money, I can get it—” She tried to reach inside, only to realize with a sinking feeling that her dagger was no longer there.

“What do you ’ave in there?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “A weapon?” He snatched the reticule from her wrist and tossed it to one side.

As she watched the bit of fabric fly through the air to land in a foul puddle, her dreamy adventure came skidding to a halt, along with every bit of her confidence. Oh, but what was she doing? West had warned her that she was to watch the man. Keep her distance. And she had tried, truly she had. In the books she had read, the heroines were never caught spying on the villain. She was beginning to suspect someone ought to write a more accurate book.

Carlson grabbed her hand, his fingers cruel against her wrist, and pulled her around a corner, into a narrow alley, her feet grappling uselessly on the cobblestones.

“Please, sir,” she gasped. “I am just an ordinary woman, looking for an ordinary cup of tea.” She tried to step around him, dash back out to the relative safety of the street.

He grabbed her arm and pushed her against the wall, and the hard pressure of his fingers against her arm made her cry out in pain. But he’d chosen this moment and this location well: no one could see them, or come to rescue her.

“’ardly ordinary,” he growled. You know my name. I ’eard you, I did. And I know yours as well.” His mouth opened in a terrible grimace, and she could smell his sour breath. “You’re that bitch, Miss Channing. The one I arranged to send the note to.”

Oh, God. He knew who she was after all.

Against his punishing grip, Mary’s free hand reached through the folds of her cloak into the pocket of her skirts. Closed in relief over the dagger West had ensured she knew how to use. Untangling it from her skirt pocket, she pulled it out of its sheath and pressed the tip of it carefully into the man’s groin. “That’s Mrs. Westmore, thank you very much,” she somehow found the courage to say, though her heart was tearing a hole in her chest.

“What in the—”

“And next time you take a woman’s reticule, you might want to make sure that’s where she’s stored her knife.”

“Whoa, there. Easy, luv.” The man released her arm and held up his hands, his eyes wide with fear. “No need to get so excited.”

“I’m not the one whose future excitement is in jeopardy.” She pressed the point home a quarter inch further, making him grunt in alarm. “Now, we can do this the easy way, or the messy way. But either way, you are going to stop calling me ‘luv’.” She lifted her chin. “Where is the Duke of Southingham? We know he’s behind the plot.”

White-rimmed eyes goggled down at her. “I don’t know what you are talking about, luv—” She wiggled the tip of the knife, earning a squeak from the man. “That is, Mrs. Westmore,” he amended. “The duke’s got nothing to do with this.”

“No?” She tsked in disappointment. “Such loyalty. I do hope he’s paying you well, given that you could swing from the gallows for him. Move out.” She jerked her chin toward the street, trying to keep the hand gripping the knife steady. “Quickly, please.”

As Carlson stepped reluctantly in the direction she indicated, Mary moved the knife to his back, urging him on. In spite of the danger, a thread of breathless excitement bubbled through her. She had captured a villain and saved herself, no need for a hero after all. A new plan tumbled about in her head. She’d march him back to the hotel, tie him up using a Blackwall hitch knot, and have West interrogate him when he returned.

They’d find out what the plan was, and then the queen would be—

A shot rang out, just as they stepped into the main street.

Carlson sagged in front of her, crumpling onto the cobblestones, a scarlet bloom spreading from his chest. Horrified, Mary gaped at him, then fell to her knees, fumbling at the man’s neck, searching for a pulse. Her hands grew slick with blood as she came to the sickening realization there was no longer a pulse to be found. She felt a howling frustration at losing the opportunity to interrogate the man. And then her thoughts flew further.

What if the bullet hadn’t been intended for Carlson?

The bullet could have come from anywhere.

Been meant for anyone.

Her lungs clawing for air, Mary leaped to her feet. Hands reached out toward her, hands that no doubt meant to detain her, question her. Panicked, she dashed toward the tea shop and plunged through the front door. At the sight of her blood-covered hands, chairs tumbled back, men bellowed, women screamed.

A surprised waiter gaped at her, his hands full with a tray and tea service.

“Is there a back door?” she asked desperately.

The waiter inclined his head toward the back of the room, and Mary darted in that direction, tripping over knocked-over chairs. All the while she held her breath, terrified of hearing another shot with so many innocent people at risk.

She dashed through a bustling kitchen and skidded out a back entrance.

Then, her hands still slippery with a dead man’s blood, she lifted her skirts and ran as hard as she could toward the relative safety of the hotel. One thought beat through her mind.

She shouldn’t have insisted on doing this alone.

She needed to remember that her husband had rather more experience in matters of life and death than she did. And, like her dagger, she needed to remember that a living, breathing hero wasn’t necessarily such a terrible thing to keep in one’s pocket.