Mary sat up, the darkness pressing down on her.

For a moment, her sleep-addled thoughts swirled, the brush with whisky still limping slowly through her veins. Her eyes tried to unpeel the darkness, searching for a hint of gray light, something to guide her. But even without it, she knew what time it was.

Five o’clock.

They’d found a few hours of sleep, at any rate.

She reached a hand through the darkness. Gasped as her hand skidded into a cold puddle of water that had not been there the night before. She cocked her head, listening. The steady drip, drip, drip of water along the walls had dissipated several hours ago, but the remnants of last night’s storm seemed spread all around them. She tried again, reaching through the black, inky space, and this time felt relief as her fingers settled over West’s sleeping frame.

She splayed her palm against his chest, and in spite of the terrible date—June 24^th—she smiled to herself to feel how soundly he slept. Exactly one month ago today, she had received the letter from her sister, asking her to come to London.

So much had changed since then, not the least of which was her.

But West had changed, too, it seemed. After their frenzied reunion, he’d slept soundly last night, in spite of the potential for vermin. No nightmares had invaded their idyll.

Unless you counted the nightmare of the coming day.

She shook him gently. “Wake up, West.”

As he came awake, Mary climbed to her feet, the toe of her shoe kicking against the empty whisky bottle and sending it rolling and splashing away across the floor. A cold wetness seeped into the soles of her slippers, wrenching a shiver from her already-chilled body.

“We seem to have been invaded by water last night,” she said dryly. “Although . . . perhaps the water has dampened the fuses?”

She heard rustling noises as West gained his own feet. Followed the sound of his movements toward the center of the room. Finally, his voice pierced the darkness. “The powder is still dry, damn it. The fuses as well. Smart bastard, to consider the possibility of rain and place them accordingly.”

“Hardly a stroke of brilliance. It’s Scotland,” Mary pointed out. “It rains nearly every day.” But unfortunately, it didn’t appear to be raining anymore. She wished, in that moment, for the steady drips of water that had lulled her to sleep. She could see now they’d missed an opportunity last night to roll the barrels closer to the walls.

Not that she regretted the distraction that had prevented such strategic thinking, but panic was now swirling inside her at the thought of what daylight was posed to bring. All those people, standing on the bridge, hoping for a glimpse of their queen—so many lives were at risk, and not only royal ones. And yet, she felt helpless to do anything to stop the march of disaster.

“West,” she whispered miserably. “What are we going to do?”

“Well, Number One, we are going to make a list,” he said. “And then Number Two, we are going to try not to panic.”

“I hope you have a Number Three in mind, because I lack pen and paper, and truth be known, I am already panicking a bit.”

“Damn it, Mouse, I’d rather hoped you had a Number Three in mind.”

She moved toward his voice, wanting to feel the strength of his arms around her in this miserable moment. Tripped over the empty bottle again, sending it splashing into a puddle. She stopped. Bent down. Picked it up. She could feel liquid sloshing in it, liquid that hadn’t been there last night, when they’d finished the last of it off.

A thought whirred through her. She reached out a hand, feeling the depth of the puddle where last night’s rainwater had collected. “Number Three,” she said, excitement vibrating through her. “Empty more whisky bottles.”

“I hope you aren’t proposing we drink the rest of it,” he said dryly. “Because we are going to need our wits about us when that door upstairs opens later this morning.”

“No, I am proposing we empty a few bottles and fill them with water.” She stood up, the bottle clutched in her hand. “Because while there might not be enough water in here to dampen the powder, surely there is enough to soak the fuse.”

They did what they could with what they had, although West couldn’t help but think Grant would have howled in outrage to see the loss of all that lovely whisky.

They used the empty bottles to collect the rainwater, carrying the precious drops through the darkness to soak the fuses. And now that it was done, now that they were standing by the door that would lead them to the street, West’s gun drawn and waiting for whatever came through that door, his thoughts centered on something far more important than whether their morning’s exertions had been enough to save the queen.

He needed to save Mary. His brilliant, passionate, maddening wife, whose idea to waste perfectly good whisky came close to mathematical brilliance, but who was still in the sort of danger that made his palms sweat around the barrel of his pistol.

If he pressed his ear hard against the door, he could just hear a distant din outside, suggesting the revelers along the bridge were gathering in earnest now. He felt the weight of that sound acutely, like a knife point in his chest. “When this door opens,” he told her, his voice low, “wait for my signal. When I tap you on the shoulder, dash out through the door and run like your life depends on it. No matter what you hear, do not stay, do not wait for me. Go toward Holyrood, away from the bridge.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she hissed back. “West, you cannot be thinking to stay behind. You told me yourself we need to stick together.” He could hear the panic framing her words. “I am not going to leave you here.”

His fingers tightened over the pistol, and he turned himself over to the truth of it. “If we are lucky, we may have been able to stop him today, but Southingham won’t be thwarted for long, Mary. He’ll find another way. If I’ve a chance to end it here, I should take it.”

“No.”

He peered into the darkness, wishing he could see her face. Bloody hell, there was that word again, and delivered as emphatically as the first time he’d heard it. He’d told her he loved how complicated she made things, but right now was not the time. Already, he was listening for the ominous scrape of a key in the lock, a sound he knew could come at any moment.

“Damn it,” he growled, “we don’t have time to argue about this.”

“Then stop arguing.” He felt her hand bump into his. “If you kill him here, you could be charged with murder. Even worse, you said it yourself last night. The authorities could blame you for plotting to kill the queen. We can find another way to stop Southingham.” Her fingers curled, tight. “But grappling with him down there in the dark, surrounded by barrels of gunpowder that may or may not go off, is not the way to do it.” He could almost feel her shake her head in the darkness. “And I am not leaving here without you.”

They fell silent, each fuming. And then West caught the sound he’d been dreading.

A key, inserted into the lock. Turning.

He pulled Mary behind him, flattening them both against the wall behind the door and sheltering her with his body. He tried to control the angry hammer of his heart. Failed utterly. The man unlocking this door was plotting to kill the queen, and had quite possibly tried to kill Mary on the street yesterday. He wanted to launch himself at shadows, choke the life out of the body coming through that door. But somehow, he held himself back.

The door swung open on a rusty creak of hinge. Sunlight flooded inside, nearly scalding in its intensity, rendering him unable to make out anything beyond an ominous shadow stepping inside. And then the man to whom that shadow belonged headed directly down the stairs, humming a tune, the sound trailing away as he disappeared into the vaults below.

West stared in the direction the man had gone, his mind racing to an importune suspicion. Even without the words, he knew that song. Had heard it roared drunkenly over billiards at White’s, whistled on board ship in the Crimea.

A damning suspicion began to take root, one born of instinct, rather than evidence. And yet, it scarcely made sense. He was looking for a duke. Your Grace. The words had been clearly uttered that night in the medical library. They had to be looking for a duke.

Nothing else made sense.

He felt the firm tap of Mary’s hand on his shoulder. Looked down to see her face, rimmed by sunlight and smudged with dirt.

“Go,” he mouthed silently, knowing that the man, whoever he was, would discover their treachery in a matter of seconds.

She shook her head.

West gritted his teeth. Because no matter how he wanted to dive down those stairs, getting her to safety was the most paramount piece of it.

And he couldn’t do that if she refused to play along.

She could see the moment he gave in, felt the relief of his capitulation all the way to her marrow. He wasn’t going to play the stupid sort of hero, then.

Thank goodness.

She’d always preferred the smart ones.

Gripping his hand tightly, she tugged him outside, and they tumbled into the shock of a blue-sky day. After the long hours spent in total darkness, the bright light felt like a branding iron to her eyes, but there was nothing to be done but grit one’s teeth and plow on.

They stumbled hand-in-hand toward New Town, careening out into a throng of people, moving opposite the mob streaming toward the bridge. They reached High Street just as a great collective shout of disappointment went up, somewhere near the middle of South Bridge.

Mary craned her neck. “There’s a happier sound than the one I was dreading,” she said, trying to sort out what was happening.

“Actually, I was just thinking they don’t sound very happy.”

Mary cocked her head, tensed for an unholy explosion, terrified the plan—either of them—hadn’t worked. But gradually, she came to realize nothing was happening.

Nothing was going to happen.

And the lack of something had never felt more crucial to a story’s happy ending.

They watched as a carriage rolled slowly past—a plain, ordinary carriage, lacking the royal arms. The shades were open, no one inside. As it turned toward the Royal Mile, heading toward Holyrood Palace, groans began to echo around them, people frustrated to have their day’s plans to gawk at royals so summarily foiled. But Mary felt only the burn of relief as the carriage rolled slowly past. “Perhaps,” she said, “they are unhappy because they were hoping for a glimpse of their queen. Some of them have no doubt been waiting for hours.”

She could feel West’s gaze, hot against her skin. “Doesn’t it seem odd,” he asked slowly, “that the queen isn’t here, given the newspaper very clearly said she would be attending today’s event?”

“Perhaps she changed her mind.” Mary permitted herself a secret smile of triumph, even as the people around them began to disperse. And even lacking a royal entourage, there was no doubt they had saved the lives of countless people standing on the bridge.

“What do you know about this?” West asked, sounding suspicious.

“Well . . . ah . . . that is . . .” Mary bit her lip. She felt a little guilty, given that she had lectured her husband quite sternly on the matter of keeping his plans from her, but honestly, she hadn’t known this piece of it would work. It had been a wild, willful gamble, albeit one that had paid off. “The queen appears to listen to good advice.”

“Listen to whose good advice?” West’s hand on her arm was gentle, but he still turned her toward him, demanding an answer. “I recognize that look on your face every bit as well as your other looks. You always bite your lip when you are thinking about some plot you’ve arranged. What have you done now, Mary?”

“I might have arranged to have a note of warning slipped to the Queen before we left London, in case it all went to shite,” she admitted, smiling to think her alternative plan had actually worked. “Wilson helped me. He called it a proper prank, one worthy even of you.”

West gaped at her, his eyes goggling. “But . . . how? Why? My reputation—”

Mary struggled to contain the smile that wanted to bloom on her face.

She did so enjoy surprising . . . well . . . the shite out of him.

“Scotland Yard might not have believed your claims of a treasonous plot, but the queen apparently did. It turns out your medal was good for something beyond gathering dust on top of your bureau. We sent the note pinned to your Victoria Cross, and even signed your name to the note.” She touched his arm, wanting him to see himself the way she saw him, for once: brave, trustworthy, believable. “And her majesty wisely chose not to ignore a warning from one of her own decorated heroes,” she finished softly.