“You have heard of the Cato Street Conspiracy?”

“The plot against the Prime Minister,” Sirena said.

“Indeed. Those were not the only plotters against the Prime Minister and the King. It’s been reported that a man believed to be Donegal has met with some of the men we’re watching.”

“Perhaps that’s another man.”

“That is always the unfortunate possibility. Operatives can be...” Shaldon picked over his words. “Imprecise. When they are led by money, they will always go to the higher bidder. When they are led by passion, well, one impassioned speech can turn them on their head and find them working for the other side.”

Sirena stared into the dwindling fire. “Like Jamie. Could he still be alive?”

Bakeley sensed it had been a question for herself, not for him or his father. She couldn’t focus on Donegal. She couldn’t connect the dots between Donegal, Sterling Hollister, and her brother. Hell, he couldn’t yet either, but while she stewed about her worry, it was his job to work out how all three men tied together.

She sighed deeply. “I’m not willing to give up, Lord Shaldon. If catching this Donegal for you will tell me something, I’ll do it, but in exchange, there is something I want from you.”

Bakeley watched her stand and pace, his unease growing. She was intense, passionate, determined. She’d take information given and act on it, with or without him.

“Or rather I want to help you with something else that will bring me great satisfaction. If ’tis at all possible, I want Sterling Hollister. I want his head on a platter. I want a stake through his heart.” She braced her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “And if he is truly a traitor, I want to help you prove it.”

Alarm bells went off in Bakeley’s head. He’d thought to handle the vengeance himself, in his own way, stripping the man of his title. But Shaldon’s eyes had lit up in that way they’d done when his brother Bink had finally been lured to his bait. Shaldon would be ruthless, careless.

Sirena might be equally as ruthless and as careless, but she would also be defenseless.

Still, telling either of them absolutely not was the sure way to find himself locked out of the plotting, as he had been with Bink.

Sirena sat again on the edge of the chair. “Bakeley said my cousin has given up the privileges of his title, and that perhaps he’s not yet officially recognized as Glenmorrow. Could we catch him in a crime and perhaps, um, put him in your dungeon?”

Shaldon’s eyes had not ceased to glitter and now his lips quirked. The old man would live another fifty years with Sirena as a daughter.

Of that, he was glad, but keeping her from danger would keep Bakeley on his toes. He must think.

“We do not have a dungeon, my dear,” Shaldon said.

“Not here anyway.” Bakeley snatched the file and opened it, flipping through pages. “The list. He was going to bring a list and the name of the man he was pursuing. Perhaps we can let it be known that we have found that list, and that his name is upon it.”

Her eyes flitted back and forth. “Would it matter, so many years later?”

“Father? Would Liverpool’s government be interested in a list of old traitors?”

“Indeed.” Shaldon steepled his fingers. “We might also find reports from Waterloo survivors, men who have come forward wanting to tell the story of an officer shooting his own brother.”

Sirena’s mouth dropped open. “Are there such reports?”

He shook his head. “God knows, I have tried to find them. Battle is such that brother shooting brother is not so unfathomable. Soldiers would rather forget.”

“It is chaos, Sirena, so Bink says. Brothers in arms can accidentally shoot each other.” And that was all Bink would say about battle.

“I see.” She nodded. “But he won’t know that, and perhaps it will rattle him. If he’s the one who attacked Mr. Gibson and the O’Brians, perhaps we should take a journey to the country and lure him that way.”

“No.” Bink’s journey with Paulette had involved an invasion of her inn room and two killings—and he’d seen one of those bodies. No, Sirena would not be put through that.

Her face settled into a stubborn frown, while Shaldon watched, no doubt enjoying the potential for an argument.

She would not go on a journey. Whatever trap they set, it would have to be in town, where he could keep her close, and even then...to keep her at home was better, but that was tricky, unless...

“We’ll hold a ball.” He sat up in his chair, the genius of it flooding him. She and Perry would spend hours planning menus, writing invitations. “A wedding ball, to celebrate our nuptials. In one week, or perhaps ten days. We’ll invite Hollister, of course, as your nearest relative. Don’t frown so, Sirena, Father will have men ready to snatch him up and take his head off.”

“But a week—“

“It may be too much for you and Perry alone.” He snapped his fingers. “Lady Jane Monthorpe. We shall ask her to move in here and help with preparations.”

“But—“

“Yes, I know, you’ll need a dress. You may spend as much as you want, my dear. Take Perry and Lady Jane and buy yourself a wardrobe, everything you need. Feathers, flounces, some of those bloody pleats.”

“And she’ll need your mother’s jewels, Bakeley.”

He stared at his father. His mother’s exquisite diamonds had been stored away so long they’d slipped from his memory.

He nodded. “Our marriage has been a whirlwind, and I had forgotten. They’re yours now. I shall show you them tomorrow, Sirena.”

She waved a hand as if the jewels didn’t matter. “How shall we lure him? What if he doesn’t come?”

“He’s here, taking a seat in the Commons, so he’s ambitious. Father, can you muster up some influential guests?”

Shaldon nodded. “Most certainly. We’ll make sure he won’t want to miss it.”

Sirena’s breath quickened. “Shall I write him a note? I can tell him I’ve found something among...” she tapped her chin “among my father’s personal papers? Something my brother gave father that concerns him?”

“That may be too obvious,” Shaldon said. “Perhaps we’ll have a dinner before the ball, with select guests. He’ll be one of them. Let me think on this and we’ll talk again. We know your cousin is dangerous. We must be crafty.”

“And what of Donegal?” she asked.

“He’ll be back. We have a man who can drop a story around the East End, where he turned up before.”

“You’ll need to be careful on any excursions, Sirena,” Bakeley said.

“I’ll bring my dagger.”

“And several body guards.”

“They’ll discourage him from making contact.”

“If he’s clever, he’ll find a way. We’ll need to be on our toes to look out for him.”

“How nice if we could invite him to the ball also, and kill two birds with one stone.”

“I believe Father does not want Donegal dead. I believe he wants to talk to him.”

She smiled, and he felt a rush of...blast it, he was about to say love. Such a trite emotion. What he was feeling was lust. They’d been here quite long enough.

His father scowled. “You’re quite right. We want Donegal alive and talking.”

He made no mention of keeping Sterling Hollister alive.

“And the new Earl of Glenmorrow?” Bakeley asked. “Does he have much to say of interest, or...”

Sirena paled. Perhaps she was not so bloodthirsty after all. Which meant that after the inevitable marital disagreements, he would be able to sleep with both eyes closed.

“If there are charges we choose to file, he shall be tried,” Shaldon said. “Perhaps.”

And perhaps he’d be too dead for a public trial. He caught Sirena’s eye and she nodded grimly, no doubt picking the platter for Sterling’s head.

“So, a ball,” she said. “Seven days hence.”

“Or perhaps ten. Make it a fortnight if you must.”

She shook her head. “The housekeeper will have an apoplexy.”

“Then we’ll hire a new one, love.”

Love. Sirena’s heart squeezed around the word that Bakeley blathered so easily. An endearment that tripped from his lips, so he’d probably used it before on a horse, or a hound, or a harlot.

She would have mere days to arrange a fashionable ball, a thing of which she had no experience. ’Twould all be done for people who held his Paddy bride in abject contempt.

And sure, they’d hire someone for the planning. Several someones if she truly had any say in the matter. They’d need more footmen and maids as well.

A scratching at the door roused Bakeley from his chair, and the butler entered.

“Beg pardon, my lords,” he said. “The cellar is seeping again. You did ask me to tell you, Lord Bakeley.”

Bakeley swiped a hand through his hair. What had Perry said? He’d designed all the drainage himself.

Well, and perhaps he’d not done a good job of it, a lord dabbling in a working man’s trade.

And…hadn’t she been lolling around in a great bloody tub all afternoon? That would be her bathwater seeping out in the cellar.

“I have some of the men seeing to it.”

“Thank you, Lloyd. I’ll be right down.” Bakeley closed the door on the man.

“The sewer,” Shaldon said. “Threats to the Crown, and you worry about sewers.”

Bakeley scowled. “Miasma fevers and marsh gas explosions are also threats to the Crown.”

Sirena stood. “Twas my bath—”

“No,” Bakeley said. “The public sewer is backing up again. Come.” He reached for her hand. “I’ll take you back to your chamber. Shall I send Perry up so you can begin organizing the ball?”

Her heart trembled within her. Dump her he would, after all she’d discovered, and go and deal with his shite.

She forced a light tone. “Lady Perry will be abed, or near to it. You’re going down to your dungeons?”

“The cellars, yes.”

A part of the Shaldon House tour she’d missed. “Then I’ll find my own way.” She nodded to Shaldon. “Good night, then…Father, Bakeley.”

She rushed out, but Bakeley caught up with her in the corridor outside her bedchamber, touching her waist. Blast him.

“Sirena—”

“Go,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

“Go to bed then. I’ll be right along.”

“To join me?”

“If you wish.”

If she wished? Anger bubbled up in her, like Bakeley’s seeping sewage.

She pasted on a smile and faced him.

A lamp had been lit in the corridor. Surely the dim light would hide her falseness.

“Twas truly not the bath?” she asked.

“No. I’ve been after the sewer commissioners to clean up the lines. London is growing and…” He shook his head. “Shall I send your maid to tuck you in?”

Tuck her in? Bakeley thought he’d married a meek soul who needed a maid to fetch and carry for her. An Irish lady who’d blithely forget all her countrymen and open her arms to the English at a fancy London ball.

It made her head spin, it did.

She patted his arm. “Go on with you, then.”

He dropped a kiss on her forehead and she watched him hurry off.

Inside, all was quiet. Outside, carriages clacked and rattled, rich people off to their parties and balls. And the night stink did indeed seep through the windows.

A year earlier, she’d have run the fields in brisk, chilly air on a night like this. Even two days ago, she’d been free to go out at the crack of dawn.

She pounded a fist on the door frame. They’d trapped her, these English, as surely as Jamie must have been trapped.

She found the same servants’ staircase she’d climbed with Bakeley that first night and groped her way down to the back door.