Sirena watched her husband assembling his answer from the bits and pieces of what he was willing to share. Galling it was, and she was a far way toward a hammering anger.

Part of his attention was on the wee horse behind her, and part on the twitchy mount waiting to take him away, and the groom who surely must be trying to eavesdrop.

Kiss her he would, and it would lead to nothing—his mind was not on amorous activities, nor on telling her the truth. What it was on, she wasn’t sure, because he wasn’t tipping his hand, nor were her fey senses working on him. Had he come to her in the morning—or had she smothered her pride and gone looking for him, she might have coaxed it out of him by her great skills at lovemaking.

For it was the truth—married less than a fortnight, and she’d been pining for him.

And perhaps that was why he’d avoided her bed. Men didn’t like a clinging woman, even when they didn’t have something to hide.

She must try anyway. She turned her head so their lips were in proximity, and after a moment, little sparks like fairy arrows began to play between them.

He stared down through heavy-lidded eyes, and her heart took a giant leap. This was a kind of power like her mother’s and Gram’s, and whether he had it over her or the other way around, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. She touched her lips to his and pressed her breasts into his chest, and the kiss was sweet and then sultry, and then smoking in the tiny gaps of air between them. It hurt to think how much she’d missed him in her bed, and to wonder if he was angry with her or if he even knew they’d had a wee falling out.

She broke the kiss and leaned around him. “Take Lightning outside,” she told the groom.

When the boy led the horse off, she looked at Bakeley. “You didn’t come to me last night.”

“I didn’t want to wake you when I came in.”

The tenseness round his mouth told her he was skirting a secret. Very well. She’d try to draw it out of him. “That may be, but I think you were angry with me. I think you discovered a...a decision I made and were unhappy.”

The glint that flashed told her she was right.

“What decision would that be?”

Anger sparked in her. “Don’t play the dunderhead. I’m sure one of your whispering men told you I invited Lady Arbrough to the ball. I saw her at the dress shop and she seemed—well, she hasn’t been unkind to me, and I won’t be unkind to her.”

“You’re that confident in me?”

The irritation that laced his tone surprised her.

“You said your arrangement was over, and I believed you. She said the same thing, and I believed her. And no. I don’t wish to share you with her, Bakeley.” Or anyone else, but of course that was a fairy dream if ever there was one.

She sucked in a great breath and blinked hard. He’d married to spite his father, hadn’t he? She’d married to have a roof and to find her brother. “Perry said your father would be shocked, but I don’t think there’s much will shock him, and I don’t think he cares a hare’s bottom what the ton thinks. Do you care? Or is that why you’re upset?”

His eyes clouded and he lifted the comb from her hand. “I’ll bring Pooka up for you to ride. But only when I’m around.”

The great bloody fool. He was taking charge again.

Or thinking to.

“Very well, then.” She forced a smile.

He took her elbow and marched her outside, where she watched him ride off, one of the Shaldon grooms mounted and following him.

And her heart twisted inside. At least he wasn’t going off alone. She would count the hours until his return, whether to battle out their disagreement or to make peace, she wasn’t sure.

And what battle, really, would they be fighting?

Madame La Fanelle herself, serene, and tight-lipped, and exquisitely polite, opened the shop door for Bakeley and ushered him in.

He would have to pursue his investment in Barton’s enterprise more aggressively.

Madame curtsied. “This way. She waits in my office, as you requested.”

He followed her down a narrow corridor to a small cluttered room.

Jocelyn sat at a desk, thumbing through fashion plates. The gaze she lifted to him was coldly amused.

Damnation. He had the ire of three women on him this morning.

He bowed. “I do apologize. Thank you for waiting.”

“I hope it was due to pleasant reasons.”

The insinuation was clear, but he would be damned if he’d give her intimate details of his married life.

“The wedding ball is requiring more preparations than anyone expected.”

She smiled back tightly. “I’ll decline the invitation if you wish.”

He took Madame’s chair behind the desk and looked around, wondering at the contents of this room. There were drawings and fashion plates, ribbons and trims, scraps of fabric and measuring tapes, but no lists of ordered ribbons and trims and textiles, no accounting books, no delivery schedules. Madame might bring clients here but her real work was done elsewhere.

How private it was, he wasn’t sure. He lowered his voice. “My only consideration would be my new wife’s feelings, but since she wishes you to come, that consideration is moot.”

She blinked and he could not tell if she was hiding some sadness or plotting some mischief.

“Do not fear, Jocelyn. I shall not importune you in that way.”

One eyebrow shot up. “In some other way then?” She studied him and laughed. “What are you up to, Bakeley?”

The tension eased, and he settled back as if he was talking to one of his friends at the club and not a woman who’d been in his bed.

“We need your help,” he whispered.

“We?”

It was the we that had given her pause, not the issue of helping.

“Sirena needs your help.”

“With what?”

He thrummed his fingers on the desk. Jocelyn gossiped like everyone else, and Sirena’s past was none of the ton’s business.

“I won’t bandy her secrets about, if that’s what has you suddenly tongue-tied.”

His face heated. “I must have your word on that. Not for my sake, but hers.”

She nodded. “You have it.”

He told her about Sterling Hollister’s treatment of Sirena.

“So you rescued her from not just poverty, but disgrace should he choose to make the story known.” Her voice had softened with a sentimentality he’d never seen in her. “She is safe now. No one can touch her if she is under yours and Shaldon’s protection.”

“Yes, she has protection, but what we would like for her is—“

“Revenge?”

He paused, remembering the wedding night conversation.

“Justice.”

Her face froze and she sat up straighter. “Do not expect me to sleep with the man.”

“If he lays but a finger on you, he’ll answer to me and my brothers. But I’ve heard some tales recently that Lady Arbrough is capable of taking care of herself even in matters of combat.”

“Have you?” Her dark eyes sparkled. “His lordship has been talking.”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t approve of my marriage. One doesn’t marry one’s mark, he said. Had he been in town then, I might have exercised those combat capabilities on his person.”

“Is that why you agreed to be my—“

“Bakeley. Stop. The possibility of inflicting pain on the old man by toying with his heir sweetened the chase for me, but do not fear that was the only reason I pursued you.”

“You pursued me?”

She waved the question away. “My marriage was practical and friendly, but my husband’s health issues... Ah, well, in spite of my services to His Majesty’s Government, I went to Arbrough as a maiden and we both did our duty. However, after his death, I wanted to experience...the virility of a handsome young man. And I knew you would be safe. Sensible.”

“Safe and sensible.” His jaw ached with clenching it. Why not add boring.

“Safe and sensible with me, a woman you didn’t love, and would never love. That is a compliment, Bakeley. I am sure you are reckless and feckless with Lady Sirena, which is how it must be when a man is head over ears with a woman. It’s good you came to me to help her achieve justice. What is it you’d have me do?”

He was head over ears in love with Sirena?

He scratched a spot on his jaw that he’d missed with his hurried shaving.

Love? Was that what this was?

Lady Arbrough laughed. “Clever girl. The seduction has not all been one way, I see. Now, I have another engagement this morning, so if there’s something you wish—”

“Yes.” He blinked away the muddling thoughts—Jocelyn pursuing him, Sirena seducing him. “Yes, there is something I wish.”

A while later Bakeley rose to escort Lady Arbrough out.

“Go ahead, Bakeley. I shall find my own way. It’s not wise for us to be seen together.”

“Perhaps.” He took her hand and tucked it under his arm. “But come. Let us brave Madame together.”

They’d talked long enough that the modiste had opened her shop to at least one customer, a plainly dressed lady, a maid surely, who she chatted with at the ribbon counter.

Madame left her and hurried to the rich viscount and wealthy widow. “May I help you with anything else, my lord, my lady?”

Just then the dark figure at the counter turned and shock spread across the maid’s face.

Bakeley’s breath froze. It was Barton, his future business partner.

He nodded to her and turned back to Madame. “Thank you for allowing us the use of your office.” Then he bowed to Lady Arbrough. “Good day, my lady.”

As he trotted down the steps and called for his horse, he calculated how long his next business with his father would take, and how long it would take Barton to return to Shaldon House.

An unmarked carriage waited a few doors down, for Jocelyn perhaps, though the rig must be a new one. The Shaldon coach was not around. Barton must have come alone and walked.

Blast it, he needed to get home to Sirena before Barton reached her with the tale.

Sirena washed and breakfasted in her chamber. Lady Jane and Barton had gone out on errands, so she’d have to fend off visitors with no more than the aid of Lady Perry.

In no hurry to meet callers, she let Jenny help her into one of her new gowns and dress her hair in an elaborate, time-consuming coif of small braids and curls.

She eyed herself in the looking glass. “Put a daisy chain around my neck, and I’ll look like the pony for the May crowning cart.”

Jenny’s lips firmed, and Sirena touched the girl’s hand.

“Oh, this mouth of mine—don’t be offended. It’s lovely, it is, Jenny. You’ve a knack for turning me into a thing of beauty. It’s only that I’m not used to it.”

“You didn’t ’ave a maid at ’ome?”

“Not one so skilled as you.”

There. That had brought a smile.

“I took no offense, my lady. I should like it if ye be honest, and if it be that you don’t like the ’air, or the dress, you must tell me. I’m not really Mrs. Gibson’s lady’s maid, you know.”

“No?” Even so, surely Paulette would be wanting her back, wouldn’t she? She drew the girl to the settee and sat next to her. “We haven’t talked about this.” She hadn’t even thought about it. It had been selfish of her. “I’ve ever so much appreciated your help. If Paulette would allow it, and if you would be willing, would you stay with me? As my lady’s maid?”

Jenny flashed a smile and then her brow wrinkled. “I’ll ask her. She ’elped me out, she did. And, you should ask after me, what my background is, my lady. It’s the way of it.”

“All right then. Where are you from, Jenny?”

“From Seven Dials, madam. Lady ’Ackwell took me to live with her when she was still Miss ’Arris. And then I went to the ’ome in the country. And then she took me into service. And then...”

She stood and gripped her hands together. “I was attacked by the valet of one of the guests, and Miss Paulette insisted I leave with ’er.”

“Attacked? At the home of Lord Hackwell?” Sirena could not keep the shock from her voice.

She nodded. “It wasn’t ’is lordship’s fault. ’Is lordship and Mr. Gibson stopped ’im, and locked ’im up, but his master got ’im released and ’e chased after us on the road.”

Panic flickered within her. It was the thing she herself had feared that day running from her cousin. “He came after you?” She heard her own breathlessness.

Jenny shook her head. “It was Mrs. Gibson ’e was after. Mr. Kincaid chased ’im over a cliff. The man broke ’is neck and died.”

Why was he after Paulette? She bit back the question. She wouldn’t begin Jenny’s service with gossiping. She would rather hear the answer from her husband, if he knew, and if he’d tell her. She couldn’t ask Paulette until they’d become much better acquainted.

But, blast it, she needed to know. “If it’s in the nature of gossip, you need not speak of it, Jenny, but I know so little of this family I’ve joined.”

“The man’s master spied for the French, and Paulette’s father spied for the English. It went back to that, and Lord Shaldon trying to catch ’im up so he could be arrested.”

“I see.” She did. And now Shaldon was after another spy, the man Donegal, as well as Sterling Hollister. Someday she’d like to hear Paulette’s side of the story. There would be a someday. If Hollister or Donegal didn’t murder her.

The thought left her shaken. After a moment, she noticed Jenny’s intense gaze.

She plastered on a smile and rose. “We shall talk to Mrs. Gibson. If she’s agreeable, and you’re willing, I should like to hire you.”

Leaving Jenny all aglow, she went downstairs. A footman stopped her by the stairs and said the artist needed to speak with someone and he couldn’t find Lady Perpetua.

At the ballroom door she paused, and let her heart fill with the pleasure.

It was a guilty pleasure, since she’d promised Perry she wouldn’t have an early peek at this special gift.

It was a mad idea, this plan to chalk a drawing on the floor. It seemed daft in any space of time, but certainly so in less than one week.

At the first sight of it, her heart lifted. Spring burst upon the floor. Horses pranced about in a field of fanciful shamrocks and blossoming flowers.

In the far corner, a man was on his knees, a white-haired man standing over him. She recognized the older one as Old Nate, the man Perry said they called when there were walls to be painted or paper to be hung, or in this case, floors to be chalked.

He looked up and came to greet her, limping. Ah, so that was why he’d hired others for a kneeling task.

“Does it please you, my lady?” he asked.

“’Tis a marvel, it is. It seems a pity to dance upon it.”

The dancing would erase the design. This truly would be fleeting beauty, like her brief honeymoon with Bakeley.

He nodded in agreement, and her heart hurt a bit more.

She pulled herself together. “And ’tis also a marvel that you’ve finished it in less than seven days. Even the Lord’s creation could not proceed so quickly.”

He smiled at that. “I need to ask about that, my lady. To complete the last part, my man here will need to work quite late tonight, perhaps through the night, as you will want him done before the flowers and the candles are arranged.”

“Only one man? Cannot you send the others to help?”

“’Tis a special design he’s adding to the corners, and he’s faster than the others.”

She craned her neck but could not see the drawing. Nor did the man look up. From here he seemed a man of middle age, fair-haired and built more for strength than for art, though his hand worked away. His attire was clean, his boot soles sturdy with no signs of holes. He seemed an entirely respectable working man.

Someone on Shaldon’s staff could keep an eye on him. “Very well. I’ll send along the butler to make the arrangements.”

The man looked up then, and her breath quickened.

“But first, I’ll just have a wee look at what he’s doing.”

She raised her hem and tiptoed along the wall, careful to step over the chalked lines. Her pulse built and clanged, stirring up memories from the deepest parts of her confused mind. The artist pushed up to his feet, and she could see, he was quite tall, his handsome face scarred on one side, from cheek to jaw. Blue eyes studied her with too much interest.

Had Jamie’s eyes been that blue? Where, oh, where were her fey senses now?

She stopped outside his reach and angled her head to view the work.

’Tis Queen Brighid’s quaternary Celtic knot, Sirena. Can you say it for me?

Her eyes started to fill. The outline on the floor was clear, and the man so like, but she couldn’t be certain. She’d been but a child when Jamie left.

She took a breath and glanced back at the overseer who’d followed her. “Please go and find Lloyd. Tell him your request and that we’ve talked.”

The old man nodded and left.

“And a good day to you, my lady.”

Her nerves jangled more.

“And what would be your name?” she asked. “Donegal?”

His smile seemed kind, and she saw that a tooth was chipped. Kind or not, he’d had a violent life.

“It’s as good an Irish name as anything to call me, Lady Sirena.”

She swallowed the tears that threatened to form. He knew her name. Was this Donegal, or was it...him?

The quaternary cross—it must be him, and not some wishful thinking.

Except…Perry had spotted Gram’s good luck charm in Sirena’s room and asked to borrow it. She must have drawn the design for the artist.

Or perhaps, this was the man Donegal, and he’d seen Gram’s charm round Jamie’s neck before he’d murdered him.

Or tried to. She must keep faith that Jamie lived. And she must test this one.

“Why didn’t you come forth to talk to me?” she asked.

“I could not. An Irishman can’t be too careful, innocent though he be. I think you know that.”

The words sent a chill through her. Did she know that?

And if he wasn’t innocent, a traitor had found his way into Shaldon’s abode.

He looked over her shoulder and then she heard the soft footfalls.

“What are you doing here, Sirena? It was to be a surprise.”

“Keep my secret, I beg you, my lady.”

She still wanted answers. “We shall talk later,” she whispered and then said more loudly, “I’ll leave you to go back to your work, sir.”

He bowed and went back to his chalking.

Sirena caught up with Perry near the door and hustled her out. Whether Perry knew about the search for Donegal, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to inspire a visit from Shaldon, not yet, not until she’d had a chance to ask questions of her own. If her husband could keep secrets, so could she.

“I’m sorry. It was temptation’s evil bite that made me do it. I just had to see.”

“You were talking to that man.”

Aye, Perry was Shaldon’s daughter. She would need to tread carefully. “I interrupted him and he was being polite only. I don’t even know his name. I was not being unfaithful to Bakeley.”

That brought a smile.

“Old Nate said he’s called Desmond. Come,” Perry said. “I heard the front knocker moments ago. We’ll have a visitor.”

Her mind was jumbled with thoughts of the artist in that room and the earlier spat with her new husband. She needed to find out Bakeley’s plan. She needed to find her way back to the ballroom and see what the man there was plotting.

And now to be poked and prodded by visitors coming to see Bakeley’s scandalous new bride while she was tossed and scattered on the inside. It was a trial, it was.

She straightened her skirts. “Will I do?”

Perry squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Like this.”

A laugh bubbled out and Perry joined in, linking arms. “Don’t worry, Sirena.”

In the corridor, a footman stopped them with news that the florist had come with the racks and vases for the next night’s ball.

Sirena saw Perry’s consternation. Perry was one to keep a firm grip on all phases of the planning, so much like her father and Bakeley.

“Go, Perry, and see to it. I shall brave this tiresome visitor alone.”

“Are you sure? Oh, you’ll be fine. It may be Lady Hackwell. She did say she would visit.”

Outside the drawing room a footman handed her a salver with a card.

Her heart sank all the way to the leather heels of her new shoes and then rose again sweeping up every morsel of anger in her. Her hand shook with it, her lungs squeezing tight.

“Just the one caller, my lady.”

She eased in a breath. The footman watched the door to the drawing room. And though his gaze had not lighted directly upon her once, she sensed he’d seen her discontent.

That wasn’t good. She was supposed to play an English lady, not an Irish milkmaid. She set her face and entered.

The door, she noted, did not snick closed behind her and some of her tension eased. The footman was keeping watch.

Across the room, Sterling Hollister studied a fine piece of Sevres porcelain on the mantel. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, dark hair. It could have been Bakeley, but there was so much more true strength in her husband.

The oiled hinges of Shaldon House did not creak, nor did her heels clack on the polished floor, yet Hollister turned.

She stopped a few paces inside the door and curtsied. “Lord Glenmorrow.”

He approached, too eagerly she thought, and came close enough to bow over the hand she put out to keep him away.

“Cousin Sirena.” His beady eyes traveled up and down her person too boldly. “I must congratulate you on your marriage. You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Won’t you be seated?” She went to a narrow chair within view of that open door and waited for him to choose the more comfortable armchair. Instead, he pulled another chair from the round table and placed it near her.

Anxiety locked her knees together and an ache started in the back of her neck. “It is kind of you to visit,” she lied. “Bakeley and I hope you have received the invitation to our ball tomorrow night and are planning to celebrate with us.”

He smiled that oily smile that had preceded his first hint of an offer so many months ago. It took all her strength of will to keep her fists unfurled.

“Ah, so your husband is the generous sort and does not mind.”

Her breath caught. Bakeley minded plenty, but his plans, she did not know, and that spiked a bit of anger.

And just how was she to respond?

He reached across and touched her hand. “You did not tell him.” That smile grew more sinister. “Well, it shall be our secret.”

She pulled her hand away, rose, and moved behind the chair. “I have no secrets from my husband.”

Well, except for the man who was, even now, working away on the ballroom floor.

A thought flashed to run and get him, but she quickly tossed it away. Shaldon would only arrest him, before she could truly speak with him on her own.

“But Bakeley understands you are my only living relative.”

He was on his feet again, moving closer, frowning. “What have you told him, Sirena?” He put a hand on her arm, his grip too tight.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. He dropped her arm and moved away.

I told him everything, she wanted to shout. Yet the truth might keep him away, and it might be essential for Hollister to attend the ball. If only she knew the plans.

“Do not worry,” she said. “My husband is a sensible man.”

The footsteps were drawing closer. “Not so sensible. He married you,” he whispered.

“Lord Glenmorrow.” The voice boomed across the room and her heart lifted. Bakeley entered, all stone-faced courtesy, and behind him was the Earl of Shaldon himself.

The gentlemen exchanged stiff greetings, and Bakeley made a show of kissing her warmly on the cheek. The way his dark eyes glittered, he was riled, yet she doubted Hollister could see it.

She smiled at the new arrivals. “Father, Bakeley, I am honored that you have come in time to meet my cousin.”

Bakeley noted the tension in her. How could he not—it rolled off her in great waves. The ass had insulted her, or threatened her somehow.

Thank God, they’d made it in time. When Lloyd saw the visitor’s card, he’d sent a footman running to get Bakeley who’d just picked up his father. Bakeley wanted to drive a fist into Hollister’s smirking mouth, or put a sharp crease in his arse with the toe of his boot.

He leaned in to drop a kiss on her other cheek. “The footman said Perry deserted you.” And what were you doing alone with this man? He led her to a settee and plopped next to her.

“Perry’s gone to check a delivery. There’s much to-do in setting up a ball, husband.” She curved her lips up again in that approximation of a smile and he squeezed her hand, battling the rage that was threatening to choke him.

His father laid his cane upon a table—within reach of his hand—and settled into a large armchair. “Sit, Glenmorrow. Tell us, will we see you at this ball? My daughters tell me all the best are coming.”

“I will be honored to attend, my lord.”

“Though I don’t recall that you and I have met before, I knew your brother.”

“His death was a great loss.” Hollister dipped his head sorrowfully.

A great loss to him, since he is dead. Bakeley felt Sirena’s hand jump under his grip and he relaxed his hold.

Father’s eyes tightened. “So you’re Glenmorrow now, and yet I hear you’re entering the Commons.”

“Indeed. Happy to serve king and country.”

Shaldon nodded. “Tell me, how do you find London?”

The conversation that followed diverted Hollister, yet Bakeley could see the man bending one ear to eavesdrop on them. Best to make the most of that.

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “Have I told you today how lovely you look? That dress is very becoming.”

“Thank you. Did your morning’s business go as expected?”

“Yes, it did. And how was your morning?”

“Delightful. Your head groom—”

“Our head groom.”

Her face broke into a smile, some of the tension easing. “Yes, oh, thank you. He does seem a competent man. Well, and we were discussing taking the new mare up to Cransdall a little later in the spring and see how her temper fares. Plus, ’twill be the proper time for most of the mares, he said, perhaps her also. Spirited she is, but your man thinks she’ll do well, Bakeley, and so do I.”

Hollister broke mid-sentence and turned his head their way. “You mean to allow her to take an active hand with your equine business?”

Bakeley gripped Sirena’s trembling hand and channeled his own anger into cold boredom, or at least tried. It would be his sincerest pleasure to wrench the Glenmorrow title from this wretch. He managed a smile. “What say you, Father?”

Shaldon answered with his own rare smile. “The world is not aware, Glenmorrow, that it was Lady Shaldon who managed that enterprise, most ably, I may say, and Bakeley here after her. I heard tell you had that mad horse eating out of your hand today, daughter.”

Her mouth softened and she blinked, eyes shining. “She reminds me of one my father’s more recent mares and two of her foals. Have you sold all of the horses, Lord Glenmorrow?”

“I fear that I had to.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “That was probably wise. Especially if you won’t be there to manage.”

Perry came in then, followed by Lady Hackwell and two other ladies of their acquaintance, and Hollister took his leave.

While Shaldon made polite conversation with the ladies, Bakeley drew Sirena aside. “Good God, Sirena. After I picked up Father, Lloyd had sent a footman to tell us Hollister was here. But now we must leave. I’ll explain everything later.”

“Will you be back by dinner?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You weren’t back yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. I told you, I was out with Charley, trying to run into that ass.”

“And where are you off to now?”

“I’m off with Father for another meeting. All is shaping up. We’ll talk tonight.”

She frowned, studying him. “Will we then?”

He towed her out into the hall into a dim corner and locked her against him.

“Yes,” he said, bending in close. “We’ll make up for last night. And here’s the proof of my good faith.” He tugged her closer and kissed her until both of them were out of breath.

“There. Now, please trust me.”

Her glassy-eyed look cleared and darkened. “I’m to go on kisses and good faith, then? And share information later?”

He heard Shaldon’s voice speaking with the footman, and he stepped back, cupping her shoulders. “Yes. Keep the ladies nearby.”

“Very well then, Bakeley.”

Minutes later Shaldon sat frowning at him from the front-facing seat of the coach. “What do you suppose Hollister told Sirena before we arrived?” Shaldon asked.

Bakeley glanced out the window, his nerves prickling. And we’ll share information later? All he’d been able to think about was comforting her, protecting her, kissing her. He’d not thought to ask her what she’d learned.

And, good God, he’d not taken the opportunity to talk to her about Jocelyn before Barton got to her.

He swiped a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

A long silence followed, and finally Shaldon spoke. “We shall fix him, my son.”

He let out a long breath. “Indeed we shall, Father. And where are we going today?”

“Today we visit the Home Office.”

And, he prayed, they’d make quick work of it.

Sirena picked her way through the dinner courses, barely listening to Perry and Lady Jane as they discussed the preparations for the ball.

“I suppose we should have a look,” Perry said. “What do you think, Sirena?”

She lifted her gaze from her plate and sighed. “It’s sorry I am. My thoughts were diverted by this excellent cheese.”

Lady Jane reached over and patted her hand. “Bakeley is out on Lord Shaldon’s business, else he would be home.”

She hated to admit it—she was worried. Why had he not sent a message, after all his promises? This would make two nights’ separation.

Perry smiled and glanced at Lady Jane. “He’s completely besotted, so you have no worries. And the matter we were discussing was the floor. You’ve already snooped on my surprise, so we might as well all go and have a look at it. The artist is at work, I hear, and if we bring these candles we’ll have enough light. And I know you’re finished since you stopped eating at the first course.”

Her hands tingled. She wanted more than anything to get into that ballroom and speak to the man at work there.

But if Perry was suspicious—no. He could stand in the shadows while they perused the art, and she would divert her friends. She would go back later and speak privately with this man who might know where Jamie was. Irish traitor, radical, what did she care? In Shaldon’s home, there were plenty of servants to protect her.

She rose, took a sconce of candles, and followed Perry.

As they rounded a corner, the footman straightened up from his tired slouch.

“How goes it, Phillip?” Perry asked. “Did you draw the short stick over one of the new men?

“He’s still at work, my lady,” he said. “Lloyd wanted one of the old staff here, so I offered.”

The doors to the ballroom were open, the light pooling in another corner of the room where a figure knelt.

In the dim light, the designs were mere lines and sweeps of shadings.

“The chandeliers and girandoles will brighten this entire room, you will see.” Perry had read her concern, as usual. She was a cagey one.

Perry held out her branch of candles and Lady Jane peered closer. “Oh, I do see.”

“It was beautiful in the daylight,” Sirena said.

“However will they ready the chandeliers?” Lady Jane tiptoed around a white horse in full gallop and paused to study the dark center of the ceiling.

Sirena traced her path and sucked in a sharp breath. It wasn’t a white horse galloping through the ballroom—’Twas a white unicorn, its yellow horn catching a glint of the candle flame. Had she had her hands free, she would have clapped them together and shrieked.

The artist had come to his feet and was waiting for them. He stood in front of his lamp, casting his own face in shadows.

“We’ve come to inspect your work.” Perry advanced on him, her candles lighting his face. She stopped a good several feet away. “What is that you’re working on there?”

Sirena’s pulse quickened. Perry’s voice crackled with an edge that said something had gone amiss.

“It is a special Irish design, your ladyship. As you requested.”

The smug tone of those otherwise servile words, the lack of his earlier accent, sent the pounding of her heart higher into her ears.

“And quite a lovely one.” Perry angled her head only slightly to call over her shoulder. “Will you tell us what it means, Sirena?”

An ache started in her chest and swelled into her throat.

Tell us then, wee Sirena. Tell us the story of the four points of this knot.

’Tis the four seasons, winter, spring, summer, and autumn, Jamie.

No, ’tis not that. Now tell us, iora.

’Tis east, west, north and south.

No.

The four gospels then.

Bah, you leave it again to me to tell, Sirena. Is it not then the sign of Brighid—hand, hearth, head and heart? Brighid, Queen of the Four Fires, Goddess of heaven, bringer of light, ruler of birth and new beginnings.

She eased in a breath and steadied her voice. “It is for you to tell, sir, what the design means.”

He shook his head, eying her warily. “It is Irish, connected to some legend or other. I was given it to draw by the master.”

Was this then the same man she’d spoken with today? Aye, the scar still carved a path down his cheek, his tooth was still chipped, but the way his mouth firmed sharpened the pain in her chest. Jamie’s face had never been so hard. This was Donegal, and there was no softness in him.

“Come then,” Perry said, “we hold the Irish in some esteem in this house. You must have some idea of the meaning.”

He rubbed at his jaw, streaking it the white of the chalk. “Well then, ’tis a symbol of luck. A fancied-up, four-leaf clover.”

Sirena’s heart fell. The dark room seemed to swallow the light, and fear filled her as it had that day at the docks. Though this was but one man, the odds seemed much worse than that day. And she couldn’t let Perry or Lady Jane be hurt.

She made herself chuckle. “And ’tis luck we will be needing to get everything ready in time for the ball. Best let him get back to his work. Will you be much later then, sir? It appears you’re finished.”

“I’m touching up where needed. It will be a while longer.”

“Very well then.” Perry herded them toward the doors.

Outside the room, while Perry spoke with the footman, Lady Jane linked arms with Sirena. Oy, but she was dying to hear what Perry was saying, impossible with Lady Jane drawing her attention away.

The three went up together, parting ways with Perry at her bedchamber door. Sirena escorted her former benefactor to her room, bade her goodnight, and went back down the stairs, a sick rage building within her.

The library, she had noted, was often Shaldon’s last stop of the day. She would wait there for him, and for Bakeley. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed their help. Lady Bakeley she was, a weak English thing.

She found the butler and two footmen silently roaming the halls.

She pulled the butler, Lloyd, aside. “What are you doing?”

“We are just making some extra preparations for the ball tomorrow night. Do you not wish to retire, my lady?”

That was a bit cheeky and quite out of character for Lloyd. She looked past his shoulder. “You have extra men in the ballroom?” she whispered.

He blinked.

“That is a capital idea. I shall retire to the library to await my husband.” He trailed behind her to the door, and she saw a glint of concern in his weathered face.

“I’ll just add more coals to the hearth, my lady.” He entered and closed the door behind him.

The butler himself feeding coal. Not the usual sort of servants.

Perhaps she could impose a bit more. “I should very much like it if my husband and his father come home soon. I should send a note, if I but knew the destination. I am not at all at ease tonight.”

“Yes, my lady. And perhaps we should send the artist home?”

Send him home? Whoever he was, that would not serve Shaldon and Bakeley’s needs, nor, she feared, her own. How had her goals become aligned so much with theirs that she would trap a fellow Irishman in the web of this English spymaster?

Only, perhaps he was not truly her sort of Irishman.

“And incur Lady Perry’s disappointment? Let him work. Perhaps an extra footman on the door if any are still awake.”

“As you wish.” He bowed and left.

At the writing table, Sirena found a sheet of parchment and a pencil. Her hand began to trace the soothing form of the knot. Hand, hearth, head, heart. Every time her brother had come home from school or his travels, he’d told her the tale of it. And if the man in the next room did not know it, he was not Jamie.

She took in a ragged breath. If he was someone sent here to hurt them, Shaldon and Bakeley would take care of him, of that she was certain.

Perhaps being protected was not so bad.

And if he had information about her brother, Shaldon and Bakeley would thrash it out of him.

She squeezed her eyes shut. What had truly happened to her brother? And was he alive or dead?

A breeze ruffled her paper and sparked the fire. The window was open.

Fear galloped through her. She braced her fists on the edge of the desk. Too late, too late.

“You liked my design?”

The man with the scar, the man who was not Jamie, was looking over her shoulder.