The Golden Falcon flew high up into the blue sky, afraid and grieving and confused. She flew over hills and forests and lakes until her weary wings could hold her small body aloft no more.

And then she plummeted from the sky and landed on the terrace of a castle—the home of her family’s enemy: Castle Black.…

—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

Iris halted and blinked as she realized that Hugh was not the only one in the dining room.

But he was already advancing on her, a dark look on his face. “What are you saying?”

She glanced out of the corner of her eye at the ragged boy—really more of a youth—boldly staring at her over a plate of eggs. “Perhaps we ought to discuss this in private.”

“What?” He scowled as if she had suddenly lapsed into Chinese and then followed her gaze to the boy. “This is Alf. One of mine. You may speak in front of him. Alf, Iris Daniels, Lady Jordan.”

The youth nodded at her.

Hugh turned his full attention back to Iris, which was rather disconcerting, actually, what with his rough voice and intense gaze. “Now. What in hell did you mean that Katherine was murdered?”

“I…” Iris swallowed and pulled out a chair and sat without waiting for him to offer. Sometimes he didn’t. Perhaps it was a result of his rough upbringing or his years in the army. Oh, her mind was wandering from the point! “I said she may have been murdered.”

“Iris!”

She inhaled and closed her eyes to order her thoughts. It helped that she didn’t have to see his dark eyes staring at her so… so threateningly, almost. “When I came to visit the boys the other day I discovered a diary under Christopher’s bed—Katherine’s diary. I think he must have found it and hid it. I can’t imagine otherwise why it would be hidden there. I know I shouldn’t’ve taken it, but I missed her so, and…” She opened her eyes and looked at him apologetically. “She did things that she should not have done as your wife. Things that hurt you. I feared that she might have written them in the diary.”

He nodded curtly, waving an impatient hand at her delicacy.

Iris sighed. She’d never understood him. He’d not acted as she thought most husbands would on realizing they’d been cuckolded. As far as she could tell, he’d simply up and left for the Continent. Quite a cold reaction, really, considering that he and Katherine had initially married for love—and a blazing, passionate love at that.

She shook her head and continued. “Katherine did write about”—she darted a look at Alf—“those things.”

Hugh nodded. “As I said, you may speak in front of him.”

Had he no heart? No male pride?

She took a deep breath and decided to be frank. If he wasn’t embarrassed, why should she be? “She wrote of a particular lover last summer. A man she was initially enthralled with. Katherine thought she loved him. But then, in September, she discovered a book of terrible illustrations hidden in his bedrooms. They depicted grown men with small children.” She felt her face heat, but she forced herself to go on. “The men having intimate relations with the children, you understand.”

Alf made some sort of movement, and his fork clattered to the table.

Hugh never even blinked, though his gaze grew savage. “What did Katherine do?”

“That’s just it,” Iris whispered. “In the last entry in the diary, Katherine vows to confront her lover—and to expose him to society.”

And at last Hugh closed his eyes, looking pained. “Oh, Kate.”

Iris felt the tears start. She’d cried late last night after she’d read the passage and realized what it meant.

Impulsively she leaned forward and covered his hand. “You understand, don’t you? She must’ve gone to him. She was so brave. So determined in her convictions. If she thought that this man could hurt a child, she would’ve gone in like an avenging angel.”

He nodded.

“’Ow did she die, your lady wife?” Alf asked.

Iris sniffed, straightening and fumbling for her handkerchief. It seemed so odd to have this intimate conversation in front of the boy, but if Hugh trusted him…

It was he who answered Alf. “She fell from her horse. She was found in Hyde Park, her neck broken, by her groom. The horse was grazing nearby. The groom said that she had told him to wait while she met someone. When she did not return after an hour, he went in search of her.”

“She was never a very good rider,” Iris said quietly. “And the horse was a high-strung black gelding.” She smiled painfully at the memory. “She insisted on riding him because of how striking she looked.”

“When I received your letter telling me how she’d died, I never questioned it,” Hugh said, looking at Iris. His lips drew back from his teeth. “But if she met him alone that day—if she went in, all righteous anger and threats…”

Iris shivered. “She was so fierce and… and wonderful, sometimes one forgot how delicate she was. Her neck was quite swanlike.” She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to chase away the image of Katherine, her beautiful neck deliberately broken. Her body left to lie on the ground like so much debris in Hyde Park.

“Did she give the name of this lover?”

Her gaze jerked up at Hugh’s harsh words. His face was quite cold now. Calm, collected, and cold.

She shook her head. “She referred to him only by initials: A.C.”

“Did you meet him?” he asked. “You must’ve seen him with Katherine at some point. At a ball or an afternoon tea, perhaps? She confided in you I know.”

Iris shrugged helplessly. “She could be quite secretive, especially when she took a new lover.” She felt her face heat again in embarrassment at discussing this with him. “She thought it made the affair more romantic.”

He made a low impatient sound in his throat. “There was nothing else to describe him in the diary? The way he spoke or moved or what he wore?”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly remembering. “There was one thing. He had a tattoo. On his wrist. Of a dolphin, of all things. But I don’t see how that…”

Her voice trailed away, for Alf had straightened in his seat and was staring at Hugh now. Almost as if they shared some sort of secret.

“The Lords of Chaos,” the boy said. “’Er lover must’ve been a member!”

“That’s why he killed Katherine,” Hugh said grimly, staring at the boy. “And that’s why he tried to kill me the other night.”

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” Lady Jordan said, but Alf wasn’t paying any attention to her.

She was too busy watching Kyle, seeing his mind work behind those black eyes, those curling, almost pretty eyelashes. It was a bit like the feeling she had when flying over the rooftops. For a second she wished—oh, how she wished!—that he could see her as she truly was—as a woman.

But that was folly, and dangerous to boot, so she’d take what she could in this moment instead.

She leaned forward, holding his black eyes, holding his attention, all for herself.

Just her, plain Alf from St Giles. “You couldn’t figure out why they’d attacked you now. Well, maybe one of the men you’re investigating as part of the Lords of Chaos was also your wife’s lover. Maybe ’e started sweating and worrying over why you ’ad men following ’im. Why you were so set on finding out about ’im. Maybe ’e thought you thought ’e ’ad something to do with poor Katherine’s death.”

Kyle’s savage black eyes narrowed. “Sir Aaron Crewe.”

Alf held his gaze. “And ’oo might ’e be, guv?”

“One of the four men on my list,” he said, his beautiful lips curling with grim satisfaction.

She was smiling at him now, her heart soaring at having made this discovery with him—sharing in matching wits and putting together the pieces.

“What are you two talking about?” Lady Jordan said sharply, and Alf fell suddenly to earth.

Kyle turned his attention to her, and Alf only just kept from scowling.

She watched, a little amazed, as he told the lady about the Lords and the dolphin tattoos and tried to skip over the parts about rape and children, but Lady Jordan turned out to be surprisingly stubborn and in the end had gone bone white when he’d finished.

“Dear God,” she said softly. “That such a society should exist, should operate in secret in England and none of us be aware…” She shuddered and then looked with determination at Kyle. “You must stop it, Hugh. You must.”

“And so I shall,” Kyle said with utter certainty. “Now think: did you ever see Sir Aaron Crewe in Katherine’s company?”

“If I did I was not aware of it,” Lady Jordan said. “I’m afraid I don’t know the gentleman.”

Kyle rose from his seat. “Crewe has a town house in London. I’ll start there. You return home, Iris, and I’ll send word when I have news.”

“What will you do?” Lady Jordan stared at him.

“I’m going to arrest Crewe,” Kyle replied impatiently.

The lady’s eyes widened. “But… Hugh, darling, we have only the diary and speculation. This is hardly evidence of a man’s guilt.”

Kyle turned and stared down at Lady Jordan, his face a hard mask, his black eyes glittering. “Iris, I believe that a member of the Lords of Chaos murdered the mother of my sons. I’m going to arrest him and then I’m going to search his house until I find the evidence of his disgusting love for small children. With that I can blackmail him into telling me everything he knows about the Lords of Chaos. And after that? I’ll make him regret ever having drawn breath in this world. Now please go home.”

For a moment Alf thought Lady Jordan would refuse his instructions—she got an almost mulish look on her face. Today she was wearing pink silk, delicate and pretty, and the contrast between her ladylike appearance and her expression almost made Alf laugh aloud.

But then Lady Jordan composed herself and nodded. “Very well.”

She stood and took a step toward Kyle so that now they were quite close and then…

And then she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful, please.”

Alf stared. Somehow she hadn’t thought, hadn’t considered, what Lady Jordan was to Kyle. She looked between them, Kyle so big and manly, Lady Jordan so delicate in that pretty pink gown.

She had to duck her head. Hide her face. For she knew it burned with jealousy. They were like two halves that, put together, made a whole.

They fit.

The reminder filled her with black boiling bitterness, heaving in her chest, prickling in her eyes. She was nothing. Just a guttersnipe from St Giles, dirty and stinking, without education, women’s clothes, elegant ways, or the knowledge of how to flirt with a man.

Oh, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t.

But then most in life wasn’t, she knew that well enough from scavenging in St Giles as a child.

She’d survived that and she’d survive this.

Alf raised her head and threw back her shoulders—and only just in time, for Kyle was striding to the dining room doors.

“I’m coming with you, guv,” she called.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, his face dark and irritated. “I’ve no need of you.”

“I’m still in your employ, ain’t I?” she demanded. “This here’s my investigation as well.”

She could tell he was about to deny her.

She smiled sweetly. “Or I can just go back to St Giles.”

He swore under his breath and pointed a finger in her face. “Don’t get in the way. Don’t try anything that’ll get you hurt.”

He pivoted toward the door again before she could voice her indignant protest.

At least he was letting her come along this time. She hurried after him.

He was already snapping out orders to the haughty butler when she caught up with him.

He turned to her as she made his side. “We’ll take my men to Crewe’s house and I’ll question him there.”

“Will you take ’im before the magistrates?” Alf asked as they clattered down the staircase.

He grimaced. “It depends on what he says.”

“But the diary, guv!”

“Aye, we have that,” he said with satisfaction. “But it’s what Katherine wrote about the illustrations of children and men that Crewe kept that are most important there. He’ll not want that to get out, and I can use that fact in questioning him.”

They’d made the lower level now, and she laid a hand on his arm to stay him. “But if ’e murdered ’er.”

He turned at her touch, his black eyes stormy. “I know well enough what the stakes are, but Iris is right: the diary is tenuous at best as evidence. We’ll use it only as a last resort.”

She opened her mouth to argue further, but at that moment Talbot, Jenkins, and Riley tromped into the entryway.

“Sir?” Riley tilted his head in inquiry.

“We’re to Sir Aaron Crewe’s town house,” Kyle said. “I’ve information that he may be behind the attacks on me and Alf. He also might’ve been involved in my wife’s death.”

Talbot’s eyes widened while the other two men exchanged grim glances.

“Yes, sir,” Riley said soberly, appearing to speak for them all.

Kyle nodded curtly and led them outside to where his carriage was already waiting. Talbot took a seat beside the driver. Kyle climbed in the carriage and Alf followed with the other two men. She sat beside the duke and looked out the window as the carriage lurched into motion.

Alf glanced at Kyle out of the corner of her eye. What was he thinking? Had he known his wife had had lovers? Had he cared?

Had he loved her?

Did he love Lady Jordan?

She scowled and glanced out the window again. A woman carrying oysters in a great basket on her head bawled her wares. A beggar sat on a corner, his hand outstretched, his swollen and deformed feet in rags. Soldiers swaggered past in a group, one calling something to a pretty serving girl in a mobcap, who tossed her head at him.

Inside the carriage no one spoke. Everyone was still and tense.

Outside, London Town whirled by in constant, hurrying, yammering movement.

Alf sighed silently. What did she care if Kyle loved or didn’t love? He was like a star in the night sky above and she but a sparrow. No matter how high she might try to fly, she’d never reach him.

She told her mind this. She told her heart this. And yet she still felt a pull. He’d hunted with her in the dark woods of St Giles. He knew the thrill of the chase. He’d kissed her—her, not Lady Jordan—twice after their victories. He and Lady Jordan might match on the outside—their clothes, their accent, their ranks—but there was something wild that lived inside both her and Kyle.

The carriage jerked to a halt and Alf blinked, looking up. They were in front of a town house, not half as nice as Kyle’s, but rich enough.

“We’re here,” the duke said, and looked at her. “He’s dangerous. Stay close to me.”

HE SHOULDN’T HAVE brought the boy, Hugh thought as he descended from his carriage. Shouldn’t have let Alf wheedle his way into what very well might be a dangerous situation. But the shock of finding out that Katherine’s death might not have been accidental, of finally having a trail to follow, had made him soft.

Well, what was done was done, and besides, they were already standing outside Crewe’s town house. He shot a look at Talbot and then gave a pointed nod to Alf. The boy was still limping from his wounds, though he was trying hard to hide it.

The grenadier nodded. Good. Talbot was a smart man. He’d know to keep Alf safe.

Hugh leaped up the front steps of the white stone town house and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately to reveal a frowning butler. “Yes?”

“I’m the Duke of Kyle,” Hugh said. “I wish to speak to your master at once.”

“Sir Crewe hasn’t yet risen, Your Grace,” the butler replied in conciliatory tones. “I will inform him that you called, of course, and—”

Hugh didn’t wait for the end of the sentence. He simply shoved past the man.

Inside was a small entryway and a hall that led straight back to a dark wooden staircase. Ignoring the butler’s sputtered protestations, he made for the stairs. Crewe’s bedroom would no doubt be on the floor above.

He took the treads two at a time, his men at his back, and when he made the upper floor nearly ran down a maid standing in the hall.

The girl squeaked in alarm.

“Where is your master’s bedroom?” Hugh demanded.

“Second door on the right, sir,” she said, pointing.

He was at the door in half a dozen strides. It was unlocked and he flung it open.

And then stopped short.

The curtains were still drawn, the room shadowed, but even so the hanging shape in the center was unmistakable.

Behind him the maid screamed.

“Bloody ’ell,” Alf whispered beside him. “Is that Crewe?”

Almost at the same time, the maid sobbed, “Oh no, the master!”

“Guess that answers that question,” Riley muttered.

Hugh crossed to the windows and drew the curtains. Sunlight immediately flooded the room. He looked up at the corpse hanging from the chandelier. The man might’ve once been handsome, but the face was bloated and discolored now.

In the hall the maid was weeping loudly, and he could hear other servants coming, summoned by the commotion.

Hugh jerked his chin at Talbot. “Shut the door.”

The big grenadier did as he ordered.

Hugh glanced at Jenkins. “Suicide?”

The one-eyed man was pacing in a circle around the hanged man. “Certainly looks that way, doesn’t it, sir?”

“What was ’e standing on?” Alf asked abruptly.

Hugh looked at the boy.

Alf gestured at the floor, and then up at the corpse. It was several feet off the ground. “Must’ve ’ad to stand on something to get up there, right? A chair or a stool. Then ’e would’ve kicked it away to ’ang. ’Cept there’s nothing close enough, is there.”

He was right.

The bedroom was relatively small for an aristocrat’s town house, holding only an ancient curtained bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, and two chairs—both properly upright and set against the walls.

“Could he have stood on the bed?” Riley wondered.

“Not and put his head in that noose,” Talbot said with finality. “Too far away.”

Hugh looked between the bed and the corpse, measuring the distance with his eyes, and nodded. “Cut him down.”

Riley grimaced.

Talbot simply went and got both chairs, placing one on either side of the body. He stood on one chair, and Riley climbed on the other. Riley held the body while Talbot sawed at the rope—a short but laborious process. The rope gave suddenly, making Riley grunt as the weight fell against him, but then Talbot caught it as well, and they both lowered the corpse to the floor.

Jenkins knelt to examine the body.

“’E stinks,” Alf said, wrinkling his nose.

Jenkins glanced up at the boy. “He wasn’t dead long enough to stink, but you’re right. He smells of rotten eggs. This is why.” The corpse was wearing only breeches and a shirt and Jenkins carefully pushed back one of the sleeves. The arm underneath was smeared with a yellow paste. “He used an ointment with sulfur in it for his skin. You see? Here. And here.” He pointed to where the skin was mottled red and patchy, even with the pallor of death. “He was suffering from some sort of skin affliction and used the ointment to soothe it.”

Alf looked up, his brown eyes bright. “Then ’e was the one to ’ire the men what attacked you in St Giles, guv.”

“It would seem so.” Hugh grimaced.

So damned close. If he’d been here last night, would he have found Crewe still alive? Of course he’d not known about the connection to Katherine last night. Hadn’t narrowed his suspects down to Crewe last night.

Jenkins pushed the other sleeve up, and there was the dolphin on the back of the wrist.

Hugh balled his fists, feeling his shoulders tense, feeling a headache forming. This thing on the floor had in all probability taken his sons’ mother, had left Peter crying in the night, Kit looking at him with angry eyes. And beyond that, beyond his personal grief and thirst for revenge for a woman he’d once loved, this was the end of a once-promising trail to the Lords of Chaos.

Hugh wanted to smash his fist into the wall.

The door opened.

He pivoted to face the intruder. The man standing there was tall, thin, and pale, a walking skeleton. Of middling age, he wore his graying mouse-brown hair clubbed back, his suit a discreet dusty gray. One might mistake him for a banker or lawyer.

He was neither.

Daniel Kendrick, the Earl of Exley, was a powerful member of Parliament, a wealthy landowner, and a shrewd businessman. He was also almost impossible to investigate. As far as Hugh had been able to determine, the man led the life of a slightly boring monk.

Exley’s light-blue eyes widened fractionally at the sight of him. “Your Grace. Is it true what the servants are saying? That Sir Aaron Crewe has hanged himself?”

“That is certainly what it looks like.” Hugh gestured to the body on the floor.

The earl took a step forward and peered around Riley. He caught sight of the body and grimaced. “Dear God. Poor Crewe. He was in debt, but I had no idea it was so dire.”

“Indeed?” Hugh drawled. “What, may I ask, are you doing here, my lord?”

Exley frowned. “I’m not sure it’s any of your concern, but I was to meet with Crewe about a business matter this morning. Naturally when I found the household in a state of uproar I came up at once. And your reason for being here with so many men?” His eyes lingered on Jenkins, who had finished his examination and was rising.

Hugh waited until Exley had returned his gaze to him. “I wished to speak to Crewe.”

“Ah.” The earl shook his head. “Then it was simply your misfortune to find him.”

“Was it?”

Exley’s forehead wrinkled as if in confusion. “What else?” He sighed. “In any case, you and your entourage may go. I shall notify his solicitors and the authorities and see that his affairs are properly taken care of until such time as his heirs can arrive.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows. “How very kind of you to put yourself to such trouble.”

“No trouble for a friend.”

Hugh stared at him a moment longer, but Exley’s expression was perfectly blank. Hugh bowed curtly. “My lord.”

The earl returned his bow. “Your Grace.”

Hugh pivoted and exited the room. He’d hardly stepped into the hall when Alf was by his side. “Oi! Don’t you want to search the room?”

Hugh shook his head. “No point. If Crewe was killed, as we suspect, then no doubt anything of use to our investigation was already taken by the murderer.”

“Bloody ’ell,” Alf swore under his breath.

And Hugh couldn’t help but agree.