Panic raced through him. He scanned the crowd. Kincaid hurried toward him, Bink on his heels, footmen handing their trays off and scattering to get out of their way.

“Out the door,” Kincaid mouthed, flying past him toward the flapping French door near where Sirena and Hollister had been standing.

They sped out to the small terrace and down the steps to the back garden, and stumbled over a man on the ground.

The footman who’d signaled to him.

“The stables,” the man groaned. “Hurry.”

This should not be happening. It was Jocelyn’s job to lure Sterling Hollister, not Sirena’s.

A streak of gold flashed in the lamplight. Bakeley vaulted the concrete railing and raced toward her. Someone burst out from the shadows, but another body tackled that one.

Shaldon had men all throughout the garden, but so did Hollister.

The golden streak stopped and he caught up with them.

“I’ve got your back,” Kincaid whispered.

Hollister had a hand clamped over Sirena’s mouth and a knife to her neck.

Behind them, the music played on, the orchestra striking up a brisk Scottish reel. Whether the attendees noticed the commotion and poured out of the door, he didn’t know. He couldn’t take his eyes off the pair in front of him.

In the dim light from a garden lamp, Hollister’s eyes glinted wildly, sending Bakeley’s pulse racing. Sirena groped at the hand gagging her, her eyes wide as two pale gray moons. His own heart had climbed high into his throat.

Bink trundled up with a liveried man in tow, an older fellow whose face had been battered into a pulp. “Not one of your servants, I think, Bakeley.”

“No, indeed.” He made himself drawl the words. Hollister’s blade was too close to that lovely neck. “I see you still have a way with your fists, brother.”

“As needed, Bakeley. As needed.”

He had a pistol tucked away, but there were other men here in the shadows, surer shots than he. Especially Kincaid. He needed to get Hollister talking.

“Are you all right, my love?”

Sirena blinked determinedly several times. In the corner of his eye, he saw her hand slip to the hidden pocket she had whispered to him about.

“Lord Glenmorrow,” he said, “uncover her mouth. She won’t scream, will you, my dear? What would be the point?”

She shook her head. Hollister released her mouth but slipped the hand down to fondle her breast. “Let her scream if she will.”

She writhed and unleashed a stream of epithets that would have burned the ears of a stable lad. Her cousin jerked her in tighter, his hand now at her waist.

“Ah, what a fine lady she is, with a mouth like a guttersnipe.”

The lamplight around him was charged with red. Bakeley took a step closer.

“No.” Hollister slipped the point of his blade under the ribbon. “This brown is a good color, Sirena. It will not show the blood.”

“You have no honor, Sterling,” Sirena said.

The knife pressed and sweat poured down Bakeley’s back. “Ignore the chit,” Bakeley said. “What do you want, Hollister?”

“What I want? You shall soon see. You with your muck men. There’s enough powder under your ballroom to take out both your near neighbors and the mews in back.”

“You would kill our horses?” he drawled.

The villain laughed harshly. “Everyone knows your horses are stabled elsewhere. But who cares about bloody horses? All the best of London, even the Prime Minister, will be killed in the blast and the fire that will follow. Except me. I’ll survive. And the King will come looking for people to run his government and I’ll be there.”

Bloody fool. “You’ve enough powder to blow up all the witnesses, do you?”

“Where I don’t have powder, I have men to finish them off. Except for this one. She shall give me what she wouldn’t surrender at Glenmorrow, before she’s rendered speechless. I’ll take care of her myself.”

“Everyone will wonder at your miraculous survival after attending the ball.”

“I’ll have left early. Everyone else will be dead.”

“I think not,” Bakeley said. “Why not put down the knife?”

While Hollister talked, Sirena was drawing her needle-thin blade.

“What of this man?” Bink tossed the battered footman face-first to the ground and put a foot on his neck.

Bink had seen Sirena’s blade and was making sure the man didn’t shout a warning. God, he loved his big brother.

Hollister shrugged. “Just kill him.”

“You bastard,” the man on the ground shouted.

Hollister’s low chuckle sent more chills through Bakeley. Sirena’s mouth had firmed, her hand clenching.

“Soon,” Kincaid mumbled. “Keep talking.”

Sirena willed her heart to stop clanging and captured the knife in the folds of her gown, grasping for Madame’s instructions. Up. No Bone. Courage.

Pain jabbed at her and she took in a sharp breath. The bastard’s knife pierced like a deep needle prick, and she could feel a trickle of moisture. Please God, let her not pass out.

Her husband went on, his voice smooth and measured, with a crisp edge that threatened damnation. Perhaps only she heard that. Perhaps Hollister was too stupid.

“Hollister,” a gruff voice shouted. “Look what I’ve found.”

Her heart dropped. A big man in a workman’s kit shuffled out, Lady Arbrough trapped in his arms. His hat was drawn low, but even in the dark she could see the scar that traced a muddled path down his cheek. “Here’s your blackmailer.”

No. Her breath caught. Jamie was supposed to show up. Lady Arbrough was to set the trap, but Jamie would bring the letter. They’d talked about it the night before.

Their plan had failed. Donegal had returned, Hollister had not fallen for the ruse, and where was Jamie?

Bakeley’s gaze caught her, his tension lighting up the air around him. He gave a little shake of his head. What the devil he meant by it, she didn’t know, but at least Hollister was too distracted to notice.

“Donegal,” Hollister growled. “She was to stay in the ballroom with the rest. What are you about, you fool?”

“Hedging my bets,” the man holding Lady Arbrough said.

“Damn you, Hollister,” Lady Arbrough spat out. “You’ll both be sorry. If I die, or if I disappear, a copy of the list will be delivered to the Home Office tomorrow.”

“The Home Office will be a shambles tomorrow,” Hollister said. “Is your fuse lit, man?”

“Aye, minutes to blow,” the other man said darkly.

Hollister’s arm tightened around her, his arm shaking with the tension.

“Let the women go.” Bakeley had moved a step to the side.

“You may have that whore, Donegal, and I’ll take this one. And before we’re done, I’ll show you the horsewhip, Lady Bakeley.”

A trembling overtook her, but her fingers worked the blade out of its sheath, her hand stiffening upon the hilt.

Bakeley leaned closer. “Your quarrel is not with Sirena. Let her go.”

His eerie calm floated out, surrounding her. Her breathing steadied.

“Let her go? No. She has a debt to pay. But if you keep moving this way, I’ll gut her in front of you.”

Hollister took a step back, his arm at her waist firming, her feet skidding. The heels of her dance slippers scraped the sharp edge of bricks and hot moisture trickled down her chest.

Bakeley stepped forward and stopped, constrained as if a force was pulling him back.

She gasped. Someone had come up in the dark behind him. They needed more time.

She writhed and squirmed and the sharp knife poked her. “Ow,” she cried. “Leave off the pricking and stop dragging me. I can walk.”

“How long is your fuse, Donegal?” Bakeley asked.

“It’s a short one, then, isn’t it? Should’ve blown by now.”

Her heart lurched again and behind her Hollister froze.

He’d heard it too. This was not Donegal.

Bakeley’s gaze stayed firmly upon her—he wasn’t surprised. He’d known.

In the moment Hollister turned to look, she jerked away from his blade and swung round, driving her dagger into his waist. His hand flailed and struck her, and an explosion ripped through the air.

She was suddenly free. Floating.

Strong hands caught her.

“Sirena.” That was Bakeley’s voice, close to her ear, and it was the last thing she remembered.

“Up the backstairs, Bakeley.” Charley was clearing a path, scooting servants out of the way. “Sure you don’t need a hand?”

“Shut up.” His heart was about to burst, not from the load in his arms but the load of almost having lost her. He’d promised to protect her and he’d failed.

She’d had to protect herself. Jenny met them in the kitchen and ran up ahead of them, opening the door to Sirena’s bedchamber.

He laid her carefully upon the bed, and Jenny waved the vinaigrette under her nose. She didn’t respond.

He snatched the vial from the maid and clamped a hand over Sirena’s mouth. She sputtered, opened her eyes, and tried to sit up.

“Shhh.” He stroked her cheek. “I’m afraid you fainted.”

“Oh, no. I don’t—”

“I know. But this time you did.”

“Aye, milady,” Jenny said. “You were out cold.”

She collapsed against the pillow, dislodging a braid.

“It is these blasted stays. Hollister?”

“Is dead. Or wishes he was.”

Her eyes clouded. “I k-killed him?”

“No. Kincaid shot him.”

“And what of the gunpowder?” Her voice shook.

“Was discovered and defused hours ago.”

She bolted up. “You knew? And you didn’t tell me?”

“I…I…” He bit his lip. “In truth, I’d all but forgotten. We learned of missing gunpowder yesterday, in the meeting at the Home Office. Father had everything well in hand. I didn’t want to worry you.”

She mumbled something and fell back again.

“Is the Prime Minister safe?” Jenny asked.

“He’s been at home reading reports all evening. The man in the ballroom is an actor. Well paid for this performance.”

Sirena’s eyes narrowed on him. “You didn’t tell me that, either.”

He swiped a hand through his hair. “No.” Guilt gnawed at him. “But you are safe, and you were spared the worry.”

She huffed out a breath. “Was I correct that the man holding Lady Arbrough—”

“Is your brother. Yes.”

“And Donegal?”

“I don’t know.”

A red flush spread over her. “Or you’re not wishing to tell me. You want to spare me the worry.”

“As of a few minutes before the ball, we didn’t have him, and we don’t know where he is. Word is he may be looking for a ship. We have men on the docks.”

She pushed herself up. “Well, and I thank you for sharing that bit of bad news.”

“And I regret it already. You’re going pale again.”

In fact, her cheeks had gone redder.

“We’ll find him, Sirena. Meanwhile, your brother is donning his dress clothes to make a grand appearance. We need to complete the last part of this spectacle.”

“The last part that you also forgot to tell me about?”

“Your brother is coming back to life tonight. Do you not want to be there?”

She extended her hand. “Help me up. Jenny, you must fix my hair.”

“I must change your gown also, my lady. You have a gash here at the side, but the blood is on the bodice. Did you cut him then?”

Bakeley fell to his knees and smoothed his hand over the long cut in the gown. “Dear God,” he muttered. Jenny was right, the speckles of blood were just under the neckline, and the ribbon she’d worn earlier was missing, revealing the bruise where Donegal’s hands had squeezed.

Skirts rustled nearby, and he looked up into Madame’s dark eyes. Barton had entered also.

“The corset worked,” Barton said.

“It is like armor,” Madam answered.

“Avoid bone. Slash up,” Sirena said in a shaky voice. She reached for him and he stood, gathering her up with him into his arms. “Oh, Bakeley. Never keep secrets from me again.”

His heart almost burst. “I should haul you off to bed right now,” he whispered.

She took a deep breath and shook her head. “If Jamie is making a grand appearance, I must be there.”

Madam stepped up. “My Lord. Your neck cloth is ruined. Will you go now and change it?” Her eyes swept over him. “And perhaps your coats and shirt. Your valet is just in the other room. Madame Barton, please bring out your lovely golden dress. These blood stains are fresh. If Mademoiselle Jenny starts on them tonight, perhaps they may be removed. The slash we shall mend, as though it never happened, you will see. Bring a wet cloth for these new cuts, Jenny and another length of that ribbon. Please to stand now, and turn around, my lady.”

He left her in good hands and went down the hall to where the new, true heir of Glenmorrow was dressing.

Jocelyn had been lolling in a chair near the fire. She sat up when they entered.

“Is Hollister dead?” Bakeley asked.

“Yes.” She lifted her glass in a toast. “He’ll be discovered tomorrow, right after his treason is publicized. A suicide, don’t you know, though I’m not sure how they’ll explain the knife wound.”

“He fell backwards onto his sword while shooting himself in the head," Sirena’s brother said as he tied his neck cloth.

He did not entirely like Roland James Hollister, nor, he decided, Lady Arbrough. They were well matched.

"This was very troubling for Sirena,” he said. “I doubt she’s ever stabbed a man before.”

“Of course.” Jocelyn set down her glass. “Roland, we’re both too hard. We’ve seen too much. We’re sorry, Bakeley.”

“We?”

She pursed her lips and looked at Sirena’s brother.

“So, Glenmorrow, have you a wife somewhere in the Americas? It does matter to your sister.”

A glint of humor entered the man’s eyes. “You do love her. I’m happy for that. And no, I have no wife.”

“That will please Sirena.” It didn’t matter a whit to him, but he wanted Sirena’s happiness. “A wedding would please her even more. I’ll see you in the ballroom.”

He found his way back to his chamber where his valet was waiting and groaned. A wedding would make Lady Arbrough his sister-in-law.

Roland Hollister could take Jocelyn to America and keep her there. He and Sirena could find a good steward to run Glenmorrow for the man.

Sirena had finished changing her gown, freshening her face and tidying her hair when Bakeley barged in to retrieve her. He seemed angry. She was shaking with it herself.

After all they’d gone through, he’d held things from her.

“Here it is my lady.” Barton held the length of new ribbon for her to see. She’d stitched Gram’s Queen Brighid’s knot to the ribbon.

Her stomach fluttered as Barton fixed it around her neck, and she pressed a hand to her waist, the steel stays still firmly in place. Surely the good luck had been restored and ’twas safe to wear Gram’s charm.

“Are you well, Sirena?” Bakeley asked.

She fingered the quaternary knot. “I’ve lost your mother’s diamond brooch.”

“To hell with the brooch. At least I didn’t lose you.”

She let out a breath. “You’ve no need to shout at me.”

He looked at Barton and she hurried out.

“I’m not angry with you,” he said.

“What else are you not telling me?”

He led her into the corridor and stopped on the landing, pulling her to him in a fierce, too short kiss. “I’m not angry with you. Blast this ball. I want it to be over. I want to well and truly ravage you tonight, Sirena, if you’ll allow it.”

A giggle bubbled up in her. She couldn’t hold onto the anger. Not tonight. She could still hear the music below, the orchestra blaring, the jumble of voices carrying up the stairs. Had they been back at Glenmorrow, the ballroom would have emptied and the guests would have been wagering about her survival. These English had gone on as if nothing had happened in the garden. “To hell with Jamie. Let’s go back to the bedchamber,” she whispered.

He kissed her then, a long passionate melding like he was taking her into his soul.

And then he stopped and set her back.

“Another promise for later?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes. For now, we must see this through.”

And what else was to happen that he hadn’t told her about?

Lord Shaldon’s face transformed when he spotted them, a look of relief sweeping away tension. She was starting to be able to see his moods.

He left the imposter prime minister and came to greet them.

He took Sirena’s hand. “You’re well?”

She nodded.

“Good. The supper dance can now start.”

He waved to the musicians.

Bakeley led her onto the dance floor. The violinist pulled a note.

Lloyd’s voice rang out over the crowd announcing an arrival. “Lord Glenmorrow,” he intoned.

The crowd murmured, of course they did, having listened to Hollister droning at the start of the ball.

She teetered against Bakeley. Her cousin was dead. Donegal was missing, but what of that? With the full force of the English government, they’d find him. They must get this evening over, before all her loose threads unraveled.

She needed Bakeley’s arms holding her, tonight and every night. Forever.

She was in love with this English lord.

The murmuring all around them turned to stunned amazement when Jamie appeared, looking magnificent in his coats, his hair brushed into fashionable disarray, the ugly fake scar washed away.

Whether he was true, or whether he was black of heart, she didn’t know. He was her brother, and Bakeley was right—they must see this through.

Whispers started, the guests looking around, for Sterling Hollister perhaps, the other Lord Glenmorrow. Sirena latched onto Bakeley’s arm and tugged him across the floor, pushing through the hushed conversations.

The talk of the Season they would continue to be, at least in the scandal sheets.

Jamie stood alone when they reached him. She reached for his hands, and then wrapped her arms around him. Shorter than Bakeley, he was, but still taller than her own self.

The gasping and whispers took her own breath away.

She released him and stepped back, next to Bakeley. “One for the ages, you are, brother,” she said.

He smiled, and she saw her father before the drink had got to him. She squeezed back a tear.

“’Tis a warm welcome home, sister. Lord Bakeley, I am most pleased to meet you.” They shook hands. “And, ah.” He bowed. “Lord Shaldon. We meet again.”

She stepped back and let Jamie be introduced to Lord Liverpool, and couldn’t help but grin like a ninny.

Bakeley signaled and footmen scurried with trays, passing glasses all around.

Shaldon raised a glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, a toast. A brief toast.”

The crowd tittered.

“A toast to my heir, Bakeley, and his new bride, the next Lady Shaldon.”

“Here, here,” Charley said.

Shaldon fixed him with a look, and he took the glass away from his lips.

“And,” Shaldon said, “We’re not only celebrating an heir’s wedding. We are celebrating an heir’s restoration. Raise a glass with me to the true heir of Glenmorrow, Roland James Hollister. God save the King.”

Around her the room buzzed, and she found herself squeezed amongst these men, her husband, his brother, his father, and Jamie.

Bakeley handed off both their glasses and his arm came around her.

“No swooning,” he said. “We shall leave that to Father.”

She laughed heartily and looked up. Shaldon was laughing too.

Sirena stifled a yawn, as she and Bakeley saw the last guest out.

“Finally,” she whispered. The rest of the family and Lady Jane had already gone up. “I thought they would never leave.”

Bakeley bent for a kiss, and a throat cleared near by. Kincaid stood in the door, now dressed in shabby dark coats.

“What news?” Sirena asked.

A footman passed by within hearing distance. Kincaid’s gaze tracking him sent a shiver up her spine until she recognized him. Phillip was one of the Shaldon regulars. The man passed down the corridor and she pressed a hand to her neck where the knot rested, where the bruising had begun to ache.

“Father is in the study,” Bakeley told Kincaid. He held out his arm to her. “We’ll follow you there.”

“My lady.” Phillip appeared again. “One of the grooms thinks he’s found your brooch.”

Lady Shaldon’s diamond brooch. She pulled away from Bakeley. “In the garden?” she asked.

“I don’t know. He’s waiting by the ballroom terrace door.”

“Get it from him, Phillip, and give it to Lloyd,” Bakeley said. “Come with me, Lady Sirena.”

Order her around, would he?

“No,” she told the footman. “I’ll be right along.” The man nodded and stepped back.

Bakeley cupped her shoulder in his big gloved hand. “You want to be included.”

She fingered the ribbon. She did.

And yet, she’d lost a brooch with diamonds that would feed all the Glenmorrow tenants for five years, one that had belonged to her husband’s mother. She couldn’t just let that go. What if the groom ran off with it?

“Will Shaldon and Kincaid talk freely in front of me, Bakeley? No. Not likely. Can I count on my husband to tell me the news?”

His brows furrowed, his lids worn down by fatigue. “Of course.”

Truth to tell, she was just as tired, and with her cousin dead she wasn’t sure she wanted to sit through Kincaid’s blathering about Donegal. Find the man and be done with it.

“You go. Lloyd has a crew at work in the ballroom. I won’t be alone. I’ll just get that brooch and meet you in the bedchamber.”

His eyes darkened. “Hurry then.”

“I will. You do the same, or I’ll come fetch you in my nightrail.”

He leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

Her breath froze. Fear laced through her, and a vision of Bakeley, trapped.

Her hand went to the knot and she steadied herself.

“Are you well?” he asked.

Was she? She fingered the knot. The vision was gone.

She was tired. The evening’s events were working on her. Bakeley would be with his father and Kincaid. He’d be safe.

“Yes,” she said. “But, Bakeley, no more secrets. No more surprises.”

“None,” he said. “You’ll know everything.”

“You there. Phillip,” he said. “Stay with her.”

He kissed her again and hurried up the stairs.

She followed the footman through the ballroom, where lanterns had been brought in for the servants tending to spent candles.

The groom waiting at the terrace door was none other than the slender young man who’d saddled Lightning for Bakeley the morning before.

How had he fared in the wild melee earlier? An uneasy feeling settled over her. Her neck ached under the Brighid’s knot. She didn’t remember seeing this lad among the crowd outside, but then of course, she’d fainted, hadn’t she?

“You’ve my brooch?” she asked.

“Aye, miss. That is, er, one of the boys from Kent found it when they were bringing the…er…new horse in.” He reached a hand into his pocket and pulled it out empty, a look of consternation on this face. “Beg pardon, my lady. In all the excitement, I must have set it down and left it there. As bad as that Banshee, is this new mare—”

“Mare? From Kent?” She looked back. The footman had disappeared. She should tell someone she’d be in the mews.

But…a new mare from Kent with a wild disposition. That could only be Pooka.

Her heart filled with love. Bakeley had brought Pooka up as a surprise.

And her cousin was dead. She shoved past the boy and headed down the walk, heart pounding.

No more secrets she’d told him. No surprises. And all the while he’d had this one up his sleeve, and the joy of it bubbled up in her, making her laugh out loud.

She was going to visit a hobgoblin.