It was long after midnight when Sirena heard a knock at her door and rose from the chaise where she was reclining. She’d washed and changed into the fresh chemise and dress Jenny had brought, and had started another letter to Lady Jane, which she tore up and threw into the fire. She’d even dozed for a bit at Jenny’s urgings.

Bakeley stood in the doorway, looking fresh and only a little fatigued. “The wagon is here. Do you want to say goodbye?”

“Yes.”

At the door to the bedchamber where Walter and Josh were still resting, she gripped his arm. “May I have a few moments alone, or will you be insisting on making your presence known?”

“We are betrothed, Sirena. We’ll do this together.”

She sighed as loudly as possible so he would know her displeasure. What she had to say—that she would write to their mother as soon as she was able, that they should tell her if they’d heard any more of her brother—she wished to say none of that with Bakeley around.

The O’Brians were in danger because of her, and what did she truly know of their comings and goings? She’d had to take them at their word, much as she was taking Bakeley.

Walter rose when she entered the room. Both men wore fresh clothing and had washed. Poor Josh had a bandage around his head, and his jaw had sprouted a whole goose egg.

Because of her. “Please sit down, er, Michael.” She pulled a purse from her pocket. “I want you to have this. It’ll tide you over. And I’m more than sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.”

Walter looked at the purse she’d placed in his hand. He looked at a spot over her shoulder. “His lordship has already given me coins. I can’t take it, milady.”

“You must. This is my money I’ve saved.”

“His lordship said you’d be wedding.”

“I’m not wedded yet. Please do take it, my small compensation for all the harm I’ve caused. If you had not been there...”

“Mam would skin us alive if we’d let you go to the docks by yourself, Lady Sirena. You know she would. No, Josh and I, we’ve talked. We’re going home, and the devil take his lordship. Better to hang than to live on the run.”

He’d slipped and called his brother Josh. “Michael—”

“No, milady. Your lordship here knows our true names,” Walter said.

Bakeley nodded.

“An’ he’s not the lord causing trouble. That would be your cousin, milady.”

“Accushed ush of poaching,” Josh said.

She looked from one to the other. They’d often poached—her father had turned a blind eye to it, generally, as he’d had so little money to make the tenants’ lots better. No doubt they were guilty.

“Once you left, Mam was starving.”

Anger burned through her, flashes of light behind her eyes shooting tension all the way to her fists. She wanted to punch someone, stomp on something.

Damn him. Damn this new Glenmorrow who wanted nothing more than to rape his Irish estate and all the people upon it. Damn the English for driving her brother away. Damn her father for his drinking and spendthrift ways. And her brother...

No. If Jamie lived, he was all she had.

Grief followed the anger. If Jamie Hollister lived, there was naught they could do for their family home or the people who lived there. This new Glenmorrow was firmly ensconced. Finding her brother was for her. It would do their people no good.

And it would do Jamie no good if she found him and he was snatched up by Shaldon, tried for treason and hanged.

“We’ve told your lord here you were looking to meet a man on the docks about your brother. I’m sorry my lady, but lies do not come easy and we’ve had our fill of ’em.”

She took his hand and closed it around the purse. “At least give this to your mother if you won’t take it for yourself. Tell her I think of her every day.”

He nodded. “All right then. For Mam.”

She wished Josh farewell and a rapid recovery and waited while Bakeley shook their hands. It was a sight for sore eyes, a lord shaking hands with poor Irish men, nothing that her father would have done, nor the new lord of Glenmorrow.

She was trembling when Bakeley led her downstairs and scarcely noticed him wrapping her in her shawl.

Jenny appeared, carrying a valise.

“I’m going with them?” she asked, unease threading through her. Was he sending her away?

“No. Bink will accompany them. You and I are going to spend the rest of the night as Hackwell’s guests. I’ll be up early and out to Doctors’ Commons. You may help Lady Hackwell plan our wedding breakfast.”

“May I not go to my own home?”

“Lady Jane has courage, but if my father decides to interfere with our plans, Hackwell will be a more formidable adversary and a better protector.”

“But who will protect you?”

He froze, and then laughed. “Do you know, you have a point. Well, Hackwell has one or two stout footmen with military backgrounds.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “You forgot this earlier.”

He slipped the sapphire ring on her finger and it twinkled in the light of the servant’s lantern.

It was a beautiful ring, dainty, the stone perfectly sized for her own small self. She’d forgotten it, but he’d remembered. Bakeley was a determined sort.

“And here I thought I might let you slip away from the leg shackle, if you had a mind for it,” she said.

“Not a chance.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Afraid? Not a chance for that either.” God’s truth, she was terrified, but she must bluster through this.

She lifted herself up on her toes and kissed him in front of Jenny and the footman holding the door open. “A promise is a promise, Lord Bakeley. If you do not return for me, you shall see how an Irish lady takes her revenge.”

He leaned in close and whispered, “’Tis lucky for you we have all these servants hovering, else you’d see how an English lord takes his lady.”

Her heart thumped wildly. “No,” she whispered back. “Not lucky at all.” She squeezed his hand and hurried away before he could see the heat overtaking her.

“Yes, oh, yes.” Lady Jane clasped her hands together. “Barton has been working on this for days, and we’d meant to surprise you with a new gown, but here you are—you’ve surprised us. A pinch more at the bodice, Barton. Inhale, Sirena. Is this fabric not lovely? This is called gros de naples.”

The words floated over Sirena while she dutifully obeyed, surveying herself in the mirror. The golden threads of the bodice and overskirt caught the faint light of the dimming day and set the red underskirt afire.

“Princess Charlotte was married in a dress of gold,” Lady Jane said.

Barton removed a pin from her mouth. “Hold still now, my lady. And you’ll have much better luck than the unfortunate princess.”

The princess had died in childbirth. After all Sirena had been through, that didn’t scare her. To have a child of her own would be worth the risk.

“Why, yes,” Lady Jane said. “Barton and I will find a good midwife and keep away all of those men with their leeches and knives.”

“We’re putting the carriage before the horse,” Sirena said. “First the bridegroom must appear with the license and the vicar.”

Barton plucked at the poufy sleeve caps. “There.” She smiled broadly. “Jenny has done well with your hair.”

Lady Jane looked her over. “He was head over ears for you in your made-over dresses. He shall swoon when he sees you in this.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Perhaps I shall myself swoon in these stays.” Her breasts threatened to spill over the top of the tight lacing. It was nearly indecent, and a march on Lady Arbrough’s bosom-baring campaign.

The door opened and Jenny slipped in. “He’s here.”

She straightened and smoothed her skirts.

“Wait, Sirena.” Lady Jane flipped up the lid on a slim box and lifted a delicate chain, and she pulled another from her pocket.

Sirena’s heart pounded fiercely, the drumming resounding in her ears and pushing against her eyes, clouding her vision.

“I found this box amongst your things, my dear,” Lady Jane said, “and the other was on the night stand. I thought you might want to wear one of them.”

Queen Brighid’s knot swung gently back and forth, its complicated turns pulling Sirena in, twisting up her heart, pressing on her lungs. Images flashed before her eyes, the knot resting in her gram’s gnarled hand, the knot against Jamie’s broad neck, the knot on the worn carpet at Glenmorrow.

“Sirena.” A hand clutched her elbow.

She sucked in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened them, glancing at the other dangling item, her mother’s locket.

At Papa’s death, there’d only been a few items of her mother’s jewelry left, and this one she’d purloined from the Glenmorrow estate, risking a charge of theft by her greedy cousin.

She fingered the locket. It was cold, firm, the etchings worn under her own shaking fingers, and thank God for it. Had she Gram’s and Mama’s Sight, the thing might be warm and buzzing as fierce as her head now.

“Perhaps something borrowed,” Barton said, moving in front of Sirena and fluffing a sleeve cap again. “It’s one of the traditions where my people come from.”

“Of course,” Lady Jane said. She moved behind Sirena and fastened a chain around her neck.

’Twas Lady Jane’s own small amber cross, the one she always wore.

“Will this do, then? It was my grandmother’s, and she had a long and happy marriage with many children.”

Sirena’s heart settled and warmth rushed her eyes. “And was that not her wish for you, my lady? I shall give it back directly.”

Lady Jane smiled. “I should like it back, but I’m afraid my time for marriage and children has passed.”

Sirena grasped Lady Jane’s hand and studied her, a knowing quaking inside of her for this friend she’d grown to love. And perhaps she did have some of her mother’s gift. “No, Jane,” she whispered. “It hasn’t.”

Lady Jane’s mouth opened and closed.

“Lovely.” Lady Hackwell said, sweeping into the room, tall and elegant-looking. “Lady Sirena, I’m so sorry, I must rush you on your wedding day.” She smiled, but there was a tension about her eyes. “He’s here, as is the vicar, and wishes to make all haste.”

Which meant, his lord father, Shaldon, might be hot on his heels. She put a hand to her stomach. She’d slept so little that morning.

Lady Hackwell’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to do this if you’re unwilling. No matter what has transpired—”

“Lord Bakeley has been a perfect gentleman.” Well, almost perfect.

And what was she to do? She was trapped, by the simple need for shelter and food. If she ran off from Bakeley, Lady Jane couldn’t take her back and still be respectable. She didn’t love Bakeley, but God’s truth, he was handsome, and his kisses were magical.

And…he was the son of Shaldon, the man who might tell her where to find Jamie. She might find the truth. And if her brother truly was dead, by all that was holy, when she knew the how and the who of it, she’d take her revenge, even if it meant going against her husband’s father.

She straightened her shoulders. “I do want to go through with this.”

That was the terrifying truth.

A few squares over, a valet held up a dark coat for Edward Everly, Lord Shaldon, to ease into. The tight sleeves pinched at his shoulder, causing the old wound where a bullet had been dug out to throb. Even that could not bring him down.

His obstinate heir was taking a wife, finally.

“I couldn’t persuade you out of this?” The man speaking stood erect and alert. “No. By the grin on your face, I suppose not.”

“You shall accompany me and save me from the worst of my folly. As usual, Kincaid.”

“An Irish lass. Is it not poetic justice that the next Lady Shaldon will be Irish? Bink’s mother is laughing in her grave.”

He took his cane from his valet and dismissed the man. “But she would approve, and so would Felicity.” His late wife’s generous spirit had left hefty bequests for all the Shaldon offspring, including his Irish by-blow. “As do I. Imagine the boy saddled to that milksop lass of Denholm’s?”

“Would Lady Sirena have killed that man at the docks yesterday, do you think?”

Yesterday, his future daughter—or perhaps the wedding ceremony had been completed and she was his current daughter—had had a gleam in her eye to test the devil. Bakeley had chosen a strong woman. “I would have wagered on it, Kincaid. But she’d only have done it to save those men fighting in her behalf. My grandchildren will be in good hands.”

Kincaid snorted. “They’ll be Whigs, every one of them.”

He laughed. “No they won’t. It’s the plight of the parents to have their children oppose them. It seems all my children have Whiggish propensities. My grandsons will be good solid Tories.”

“It was good Bakeley appeared when he did, else we would have had to intervene,” Kincaid said. “You’ll not hold it against her that she ruined the day?”

“I should, but I find I cannot.”

“That was more than the usual mayhem. I’d say she was very close to the man.”

Shaldon frowned. “Any news of her brother?”

“The rumors are churning. But why the devil come back here and now? You’ll take an extra guard with you when you’re gadding about.”

“Hmmph. Come, we’ll be late.”

The town coach waited in front, and they climbed in.

“Hello, Father.” Perpetua smiled up at him, her lovely, bookish face framed in a most becoming bonnet. Here was another political contrarian. Finding a husband acceptable to her was proving to be quite a challenge, though he doubted she’d yet realized he was making the effort.

Kincaid climbed in and greeted her.

“What did I say about Whigs, Kincaid? You should not be attending today, Perpetua. I’m afraid your brother is becoming a bad influence.”

“Because he supports the Poor Laws, Father? Or is it on account of his interest in London sewers and the Fever Hospital?” Her smile grew bolder. “Or, because he’s given up his mistress and is marrying happily?”

He grunted. “One Spanish daughter-in-law and one Irish—cannot anyone marry a good English girl?”

“Perhaps Charley will, Father.”

Kincaid’s gaze barely glanced off of him but he caught the hint of a smirk. Since returning from the Continent, Charley had wormed himself in with the entire foreign diplomatic corps, primarily the wives. What he learned he passed on to Kincaid. What Kincaid learned, he passed on to Shaldon.

She smiled. “Though I doubt it will be any time soon.”

Bakeley paced the length of the library again.

“Good God, man, she’ll be right along. She hasn’t fled the premises, and no one has been by to snatch her up today. My lady wife is bringing her along.” Hackwell poured a finger of brandy and marched it over to Bakeley. “Down the hatch. Vicar, would you like a tot?”

“Perhaps just a little.” This vicar was not the scrupulous sort, nor one of the wealthy younger sons settled into an easy living. The generous sum Bakeley offered had pulled him expeditiously out of a parish meeting.

“Take a seat and review those documents, will you?” Hackwell pointed at a sheaf of papers on the library table. “I had the solicitor follow your requirements precisely, but you’ll wish to double-check.”

He sighed as he pulled out the chair. “I thank you.” No doubt he could trust Hackwell, but he could hear his mother’s voice telling him that honest men never minded having their work checked. Besides, this document would commemorate an irrevocable choice. He wanted it correct from the start.

A lifetime of reading legal documents allowed him to skim through the text and determine that all was in order. As he was straightening the papers, the door opened.

Lady Hackwell entered, her serious expression sending a jolt of worry through him.

Sirena had changed her mind.

But no, Lady Jane followed behind her and smiled at him. He jumped from the seat and went around the table just as Sirena entered.

His heart tried to pound its way out of his chest. She was a vision in a golden dress that glowed. Or she glowed, he wasn’t sure. Her breasts perched daringly high, ready to spring out.

Into his mouth.

Stand down, old man.

“You’re frowning,” Sirena said.

He took the several steps to meet her, like walking on soft pillows, or through a deep water. He couldn’t get there quickly enough, but he did finally reach her. He took the hands she gripped together and kissed them.

She was wearing his ring.

“Say something, then, Bakeley.”

“I am dazzled.”

“Displeased?”

“You look like a shining star.”

She laughed and he heard relief. “Are we to marry then?” she asked.

“I am not much of a poet, am I? But you are blindingly lovely. And, yes, I have the license here.” He patted his pocket. “And the vicar over there. Come and I’ll go over the settlements and we’ll sign them and then be married.”

The little frown returned to her face, as if she were steeling herself for the business ahead, perhaps for the life ahead. Indeed, as he explained the provisions he was making for her and their children, she listened intently, gripping her hands as if she were about to jump off a cliff. They signed, and Hackwell witnessed, and when he looked up, he realized everyone but Hackwell had departed.

And Sirena’s face was as pale as a snowdrift.

Hackwell must have noticed it also. “Come into the drawing room when you’re ready.” He stood and walked out.

Left alone with her, Bakeley squeezed her icy hands, then began to chafe them with his. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t cheat you over your pin money. I won’t lock you away in the country. I would never strike you, Sirena. And I won’t let my father harm you in any way.”

“I’m not afraid.” Irritation laced her voice, and her deep inhalation made her breasts rise to greet him.

He had only the wedding and the small celebration to get through and then he could partake of her loveliness.

He stroked a finger along the top of her breasts, and her cheeks pinkened. “Bakeley,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

“Bringing your color back. You were looking pale, as if you were going to faint.”

“I’m not a fainter.”

“Nor are you a coward. Shall we proceed?”

Her eyes searched his. “You’re quite certain you want me?”

“Yes. I’d be willing to show you right this moment, if you wish. Hackwell wouldn’t mind much.”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open in a breathless laugh. “You rascal, you.”

“Are you quite sure you want me, Sirena?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her cheeks going pinker, her eyes smokier, a glazed look settling over her. Finally, she nodded. “It’s madness, Bakeley, but I do.”

“James.”

She took a deep breath. “Yes. James.”

“Let us proceed then, my lady.” With her on his arm, he led her down the corridor and through the open door of the drawing room.

Her grip on his arm tightened, and a high wave of tension hit both of them at the same time. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and his own heartbeat quickened.

Two other men had joined their party. One of them turned around and cast both of them a grim glare.

“I am not too late.” Lord Shaldon raised his quizzing glass, his scrutiny directed at Sirena.

Bakeley’s blood spiked, but he patted her hand and noted she had lifted her chin, as regal as the dress she wore. Her bravery settled him.

Lady Hackwell, Lady Jane, and Perry moved around Shaldon. If he planned to start trouble, the ladies would reckon with him. Lord Hackwell had taken his station near Mr. Kincaid, along with Bink’s wife, Paulette, who shoved her small son into Kincaid’s arms, an effective means of disarmament. Two maids hovered just inside the door, Lady Jane’s abigail and the girl Jenny.

“Where is the Vicar?” Bakeley looked around.

“Right here, sir.” The man pulled opened his prayer book. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes.” Bakeley tucked her arm more firmly and marched her over. His father’s glare was like a piercing wind, or an icy spike, or a fragment of shot from a misloaded gun.

The vicar’s voice droned with the beginning prayers. Hackwell stepped up to give Sirena away. There were more droning words about the sanctity of marriage. Then the vicar started to ask if there were any objections and he could hear Shaldon clearing his throat.

“Move on,” Bakeley said. “Quickly, as we discussed.”

The vicar’s jowls fluttered. “My lord, I—”

Another throat-clearing.

“Don’t do it, Father.” Perry’s chiding whisper filled the room.

“My son is right,” Shaldon said. “Move on.”

After that command, the clergyman set a dizzying pace, and before he knew it, he was kissing his bride’s soft, chilly lips and then being congratulated by their friends. Their circuit of the room ended at his lordship.

“So you have married,” Shaldon said.

The frosty manner spiked his ire. Worse, his bride had matched Shaldon’s comment with an impenetrable sheet of ice.

Lovely. She should be glowing with happiness and warm anticipation, not icy anger. Shaldon was throwing a dampener on the wedding, which had no doubt been his intention.

“Did you not wish me to marry, father?”

“Of course I did.”

Next to him, tiny tremors rippled through his bride. “You didn’t wish him to marry me, though, did you, my lord?”

Shaldon looked at her again, with that studious gaze, as if he was looking at another species of earthworm, and he said nothing. He used this technique to intimidate his children. Bakeley was tired of it.

“Father, Lady Sirena is my chosen wife. If you plan to be rude to her, you may return home, and please, don’t bother to extend invitations to visit, as I will not subject her to mistreatment from anyone.”

“What are you talking about, Bakeley? You and she will be living at Shaldon House.”

“I have taken a townhouse.”

“Have you? That narrow building is no place for the next Lady Shaldon.” Shaldon brushed at his sleeve.

Bakeley exchanged a look with Sirena. “What are you about, sir?”

“I would speak with the both of you after the celebratory meal. Will you indulge me then?” He cleared his throat. “I will be brief.”

He looked at Sirena and she nodded her agreement.

“Yes. We will,” he said. He led her off to the dining room.

“I’ll have some things to say also, Bakeley,” she whispered.

“James.”

“James. I do hope you weren’t counting on a quiet, meek wife.”

A frown line was etched between her eyebrows. He hoped she would save some of that spirit for later.

“I believe I knew you weren’t quiet and meek when I saw you with a blade yesterday. I do hope you’ll limit your challenges to sharp words.”

“Of course. Unless your father threatens my person.”

“No, my dear, I mean with me. Over the course of our marriage, we’re bound to have a disagreement or two.”

She rolled her eyes. He had distracted her from worry about his father, he hoped.

Leave Shaldon to him. His lordship was up to something, and it was his job to make sure it didn’t ruin the wedding night.

“I’m looking for a man,” Lord Shaldon said. He’d taken a wing chair set near to the fireplace in Hackwell’s library.

Sirena turned her gaze to the man called Kincaid, who didn’t so much as shift against the mantle. Honestly, he would burn his breeches should he keep leaning so close.

While everyone had toasted the bride and groom and nibbled at the generous repast, Paulette’s uncle—for that was Kincaid’s kinship—had alternated Paulette’s wee baby and the Hackwells’ two little ones on his knees and played a game he called skat with Hackwell’s young nephew and brother, all without his dour face breaking a smile. Paulette said that her uncle and his lordship were thick as brothers, two men who could finish each other’s sentences, that was how long they’d fought side by side.

On the chair next to her, Bakeley was as stiff as one of the Beltany Stones. Waiting his father out, he was. Quite patiently. And so should she bide her peace also, if ever so impatiently. She’d hold her tongue and see which way this conversation uncoiled.

Well, but it seemed his lordship was being direct, and what did that mean?

Shaldon cleared his throat. Bakeley remained mum.

Oh, good Lord. ’Twould be left to her to spur the talking. “And who would you be looking for, Lord Shaldon?”

His lordship’s hard eyes turned on her. “Father.”

The hair on her neck rose. “I beg your pardon?”

“I should very much like for you to call me ‘Father’, Lady Sirena.”

Heat swamped her. What was the old man about?

Bakeley’s face slipped into a confounded frown. “Who is the man you’re looking for?”

“Would it be possible for you to call me ‘Father’? I know your own father is deceased. A fine horseman he was.” His fingers thumped the chair arm. “It was a bad day when your brother disappeared, but that is the pity and the foolishness of war.”

Her heart quaked within her and sudden anger sparked her tongue.

She bit it back. He thought the Irish were fools, including the Hollisters.

Certainly her father had been foolish, spending all on his horses and drinking himself to death. Perhaps if he’d sold the rest of the horses she’d helped build up after Bakeley’s purchase, perhaps he’d have lived longer instead of succumbing to the black bile. Or perhaps his daughter wouldn’t have been left to live as a pauper with Lady Jane.

Shaldon couldn’t be any worse of a father than that. Well, except that she still didn’t know what his tie was to her brother. If there was a tie.

Her chest quaked like a cauldron boiling. She blinked hard and cleared her throat. “Certainly I’m without a father now, and if you wish me to call you that, then I will.”

“It’s very hard for a man to lose a son and a wife. Very hard indeed.” He looked away, ruminating on something that hadn’t happened to him. He’d lost a wife, but not a son. And surely a man this hard wouldn’t be sentimental.

She felt the press of Bakeley's hand on hers.

“I count myself quite fortunate to have three sons and a daughter, and now two daughters by marriage.”

She held her breath. Fortunate to have her?

“Father, who’s the man you’re looking for, and what does that have to do with Sirena and me?” Bakeley’s frown had been a momentary wrinkle. He’d turned back into a standing stone—the bored aristocrat, the dispassionate Englishman—these men all played so well.

That, in truth, was much of what James Everly, Lord Bakeley was. Queen Brighid, help her.

Ah, but she’d learn how to spike his cannon. And she knew, at least on the topic of breeding, that a passionate man hid beneath all that aplomb. When they returned to his townhouse tonight, she’d get his eyes dancing and his blood racing, and once she got through that, he’d damn well help her search for her brother.

Shaldon’s gaze narrowed on them. “Yes, of course, it is your wedding day. You are impatient to get away. I am looking for a man named Donegal.”

Her hair prickled. “Donegal?” Donegal was the man the O’Brian boys were looking for, the man she was supposed to meet.

“You are not going to use my wife as a lure. I will not have Sirena placed in danger.” Bakeley might have been describing the weather.

Shaldon steepled his hands.

“Come, Sirena.” Bakeley planted his feet as if to rise.

“Donegal may have information on your brother,” Shaldon said.

Her new husband never so much as twitched, yet she sensed his rising anger. Her own heart had quickened to a mad race. He took her hands in his.

“’Tis what I hoped for,” she whispered.

“What do you want from us, Father?” Bakeley asked, but his eyes never left her face.

She was trembling, she knew, and it irritated her. The old lord was playing with her, she knew that also, in the way a cat played with a broken beetle as it died.

She was not broken, nor would she die for him.

Shaldon folded his hands in his lap. “Donegal might be willing to speak to the sister of Roland James Hollister.”

“Aye, but will he share secrets with Lord Shaldon’s daughter-in-law?” Her cheeks were on fire. She could never match this English coolness.

“Speak plainly, Father. What do you know of Sirena’s brother?”

“Only what you know. His body has not been found.”

Her head buzzed with the vision of that day—the rider, the note, the chain, Mama’s head hitting the heavy table.

Mama had died the next day.

“But it was,” she whispered. “It was.”

Shaldon’s gaze softened. “A body was pulled from the sea, so badly…well, I’m not convinced it was his.” One long, strong finger tapped the arm of his chair. “Nor are you, Sirena.”

The rush of emotion confused her—gratitude, vindication, more anger. How could he reach into her heart and pull out that knowledge?

“And why do you seek this Donegal?” Bakeley asked.

Shaldon glanced at Kincaid.

“She is family now,” Shaldon said.

A chill went through her. She was family to this man who was part of the machine that spread such sorrow through her land.

“You’ve heard of the Cato Street Conspiracy, and the actions of the radicals last year in Scotland?” Kincaid asked.

When Kincaid spoke, she noticed the burr. “You’re…Scottish?”

“I am. But Lord Shaldon and I spent many years on the Continent seeing what happens when radicals rip apart the social order. They promise change and then install their own despots.”

“But all the radical conspirators were executed last year.”

“There is always a conspiracy afoot.” Bakeley’s voice sounded leaden. “I will not allow my wife to be placed in danger.”

Rebellion stirred in her. This was how it was when one was married. The husband decided what one would and would not do.

She would, of course, try again to find Donegal, though whether she was willing to lead him to Shaldon and Kincaid was an open question. Perhaps not. If he was but an Irishman seeking freedom, she couldn’t wholly condemn him to the English Secret Service. And she wouldn’t discuss any of this with Shaldon, not without speaking first to Bakeley.

If she decided to discuss the matter with Bakeley at all. Wife or not, he wouldn’t control her in that way.

“Perhaps you could tell us something about this Donegal,” she said.

Kincaid jumped into the breach again. “He’s said to be Irish. Believed to have left Ireland about the same time as your brother, possibly on the same ship. Where he went then, we don’t know, but he resurfaced in Scotland two years ago.”

Her brain muddled through the calculations. “That’s more than ten years since he vanished.” And on the same ship as Jamie? The one that sunk? Was he tied up in Jamie’s supposed death?

A chill went through her. Donegal had promised a meeting and not shown up, and perhaps sent that crowd of ruffians after her. “Is he…do you believe he’s dangerous?”

“Yes.” Shaldon spoke. “And quite elusive.”

She wanted to ask what he had in mind. She wanted to say more.

Bakeley gripped her hand like she was sliding off the side of the Honey Bee herself and about to fall into roiling waters, which she would, if she loosened her tongue and spoke her mind.

She hadn’t survived the years of her father’s drunkenness, or the assault by the new Lord of Glenmorrow, or her months of serving Lady Jane without being able to hold her tongue a little. Aye, and wouldn’t marriage and the care and feeding of a titled husband and his treacherous father present new opportunities for keeping silent?

Perhaps Shaldon would say more without her there. She wouldn’t work for the Spy Lord, not against good Irish people, and she didn’t know just what Donegal was yet.

But she knew what she was. ’Twas the sad truth, no matter how many horses she’d bred and trained, she was but a woman, made specially valueless by her lack of a dowry.

Bakeley turned his gaze on her, and her heart did a jig. Valueless, she was, but he’d taken her anyway. Perhaps…perhaps if she handled this husband correctly, he truly would help her.

“Well, then. I’ll go and say my thanks to Lord and Lady Hackwell, and leave you to discuss this matter with your father.” She stood, and so did Bakeley and her new father-in-law.

Her husband moved by her side to the door. “I shall be along directly,” he murmured.

She nodded. “Counting on it, I am.” She leaned in and dropped a kiss on his cheek. “Find out everything.”