Kincaid was already reporting when Bakeley entered the study. Farnsworth was there also.

“Dunchatel,” Kincaid said.

Farnsworth nodded to Bakeley. “The brigand’s true name. Not Irish at all.”

Father’s face was grim. “Swiss. Had an English mother.”

A chill went through him. “You know him.”

“Yes.”

“A cagey, traitorous weasel who’d go to the highest bidder,” Kincaid said. “Worked with the Royalists in France until he started working against them. Ran off to Ireland when things got too hot.”

“A wizard with explosives,” Shaldon said. “Cadoudel employed him to build a bomb, a barrel packed with gunpowder and metal fragments that almost killed Napoleon.” His mouth firmed. “And didn’t.”

He let out a breath. “The Infernal Machine.”

“Yes,” Kincaid answered. “And didn’t kill us tonight, either, thanks to Bakeley’s attention to the sewers. Nice and clean for the boys who crawled in there to remove Dunchatel’s barrels.”

“Where is he now?” he asked.

Kincaid frowned. “Still missing. We have men down at the—”

A sharp knock at the door silenced him. Bakeley opened it and recognized the footman they’d seen in the hall downstairs.

“Yes,” Bakeley barked.

“It’s Lady Bakeley, my lord.”

Fear slithered up his spine. “What then, Phillip? I told you to stay with her.”

“I’m sorry. She…she ran off to the mews with the groom who found the brooch.”

He swiped a hand through his hair. “Go and see that she’s all right.”

“Yes, my lord, but she was going to see a horse just brought up from Kent. Pooka.”

Pooka?

Pooka was in Kent. He hadn’t sent for her. “Father, did you—”

“No.”

He grabbed the man’s arm, startling him, hauling him into the study.

Close set eyes, and a spark of fear.

His heart pounded inside his chest. He pulled the man up by his neck cloth. “How many years have you served us? That horse is in Kent.” He shoved him to Farnsworth. “Find out what he knows. Kincaid, bring your pistol. Dunchatel is in the stables, and this traitor is one of his men.”

He took the pistol Shaldon passed him and ran.

Sirena held her breath as she passed the place where Sterling Hollister had held her, heart buzzing, feet dragging, as if walking through a sucking bog, all of her lightness gone.

Something was wrong.

The groom came up beside her. “M-my lady?”

Twitchy, he was. Perhaps he’d seen the troubles with Hollister earlier.

She stopped and caught her breath. Her cousin was dead, Bakeley had said so. She’d slipped his noose. She needn’t fear him.

And her husband had brought up her horse, her own horse, her Pooka.

She pushed through the stable door, and the quiet alarmed her. The stalls were empty, except for the wild black mare who poked her nose through the gate of the loose box. The fear that had slithered within began to pound through Sirena’s veins. She touched Gram’s good luck knot and let her senses roll out in all directions.

Pressure built in her nerves. Evil was here.

Banshee squealed and kicked at the slats, fear echoing.

She needed out. They both needed out.

She lifted the latch, pulled at the gate to free the horse, but a hand came up and banged the gate on Banshee’s great nose, and Sirena found herself locked in a man’s grip.

Fear choked her. Oh, God, his smell. Two nights in a row. This couldn’t be happening.

Bam. Let me go let me go let me go.

Bakeley? Where are you Bakeley?

Banshee whinnied and thumped on the wood again.

She took a deep breath. “Let us go.”

A chuckle. “Us? The groom who fetched you is mine. He’s long gone.”

Fool. She’d meant the horse.

Bam.

Banshee’s eyes rolled wildly. She couldn’t calm the mare if she couldn’t calm herself.

Mid-breath, he jerked her hands back making her gasp. Ropes cut her wrists as he cinched them together.

Bam, bam, bam.

Bakeley. I need you, Bakeley.

Her cheek hit the box’s gate and mashed against the wood, and another rope laced her waist through the slats until she was firmly tied. Chest heaving, she opened her eyes.

Banshee stared back at her, nostrils flared, ears and lips pulled back.

She closed her eyes and breathed out a moan. “We’ll get out.”

The mare lowered her head and pawed the scattered straw, fear momentarily calmed, and Sirena’s with it.

“What do you want, Donegal? Sterling Hollister is dead. Why not go home to Ireland? Run away now, I’ll not turn you in.”

“Ireland is not my home. The Irish are pigs.”

She heard the sharp scrape of a flint striking.

A fire. The words shrieked in her. Banshee raised her head, ears twirling and squealed.

A pungent smell sent the horse’s nostrils flaring. Sirena craned her head around and spotted the lit end of a long piece of string that coiled in a wide circle around a barrel.

Terror washed through her and the mare. They were drowning in it together.

Bam. The wood slat burned her cheek. She tugged at the ropes, tied through the horizontal slot and tried to slide away from the latch.

Again. Strike it again. We’ll leave together. Strike it again.

Bakeley, I need you.

A door crashed and a shot rang out, sending the horse into a frenzy. She felt a sharp pressure at her waist at the back.

Another knife.

“Let her go.”

That low growl was Bakeley’s.

“Try that again and I’ll cut her.”

Bam. Bam, bam, bam, bam.

“There’s a fuse, Bakeley,” she called. “Put it out.”

The knife jabbed in deeper.

The stays were like armor, Madame said. Like armor.

Queen Brighid protect me.

Bam, bam, bam. The pounding rattled her teeth.

Her gaze focused on the latch of the gate. With each strike of Banshee’s shod hoof, the screws of the mechanism loosened. With each crash, pain shot through her cheekbone. She didn’t care.

Get out, Banshee. Get out, get out.

Blood pounding into his hands and feet, Bakeley took in the scene. Sirena had a knife to her back, and a horse likely to strike her ribs through the gate slats. And in the aisle, in the middle of a long, snaking fuse stood a keg,

Filled with gunpowder. An Infernal Machine.

Damn, damn, damn.

His father would be clacking his way through the garden with whatever loyal men he’d gathered, and it might not be soon enough

The fuse was lit, but long. Long enough for Dunchatel to make his escape.

Unless he planned to blow himself up with them.

He steadied his breath. “Why are you doing this? My lady and I have done nothing to you.”

“But I have.”

Shaldon had entered the stables behind him with more stealth than Bakeley would ever think possible.

“Isn’t that right, Dunchatel. This is about our quarrel. Let the girl go. This is not her fight.”

The horse continued to kick. Sirena was racked between the stallion and Dunchatel. If the stallion kicked the gate open, the point of the knife would sink into Sirena’s back.

“She serves a purpose for me.”

“More revenge,” Shaldon said. “Against Roland Hollister. He got free, but you were on the ship that you sunk.”

The man spat into the stall. “Aye, and against you, Shaldon. She and your heir will go up in mere moments.”

“And you also.”

“I’ll be gone.”

Bakeley took a step and Sirena gasped.

He froze. Damn.

“I can cut through the spine right here,” Donegal said. “You might carry her out, but she will not—”

Boom.

A gunshot rent the air. Dunchatel’s head spun around, bright blood streaking across his forehead. He stumbled, and in that instant the stall gate flew open, whirling Sirena back, knocking the barrel over and rolling it closer to the flaming fuse.

There was more pounding as one of their men beat at the back door of the stable.

Dunchatel struggled to his feet, heading for Sirena, knife in hand.

Bakeley roared and lunged at him, but dodged back when the terrified mare reared, her powerful hooves striking the air mere inches from him.

“The fuse,” Sirena shouted.

The knife slashed, and Bakeley dodged again, drawing the villain away from Sirena.

Kicking and twirling, the horse reared. Bakeley ducked, just in time, but a shod hoof glanced off Dunchatel’s head. The man lashed out blindly, missed, and Banshee struck him again, iron slicing the front of his face with a sickening crunch.

The mare squealed, terror and anger and the need for escape, filling the small space. Banshee’s eyes rolled while Dunchatel’s blood gushed, the scent of it mixing with the acrid odor of smoke.

And the fuse was still burning.

“There, my girl,” Bakeley edged past the flailing horse. “Sirena, your song,” he called.

“Shhhh.” She coughed and cleared her throat, and began to croon.

All four feet plopped and Banshee danced from foot to foot, head nodding up and down. As the mare calmed, Sirena’s song smoothed into a long soothing murmur.

“The fuse,” Shaldon reminded him.

The gate and Dunchatel’s body hid the fuse’s lit end. Bakeley slid sideways past the horse and the gate holding Sirena and stopped.

Blood streamed, snaked along the seams of the brick floor, and reached the burning fuse before him, snuffing it out. He bent toward the barrel, and a hand clamped on his arm.

“Don’t touch it, son.” Shaldon emptied a bucket of water over everything.

Banshee tap-tapped on the brick floor, her nerves all ajumble, just like the humans around her. Sirena pulled up a lullaby and crooned, smoothing out the panic, settling the fear.

She couldn’t see a thing, all smashed tight as she was, but aye, from the way the men tiptoed and the hushed stillness around them, Banshee knew, and so did Sirena. Death had paid them a visit.

Someone came up behind her.

“Keep singing, love.”

Her heart lifted and began to fill. She held still while Bakeley sawed at her ropes, and she sang. Banshee settled more, taking a step back, and then another, into the stall, and she sang. Not calm yet. ’Twould be a long while until either of them truly calmed down.

The ropes slipped away and she fell back into her husband’s arms. “You came for me.”

“Shhh.” He pushed the stall gate, walking her forward, walking Banshee back and closing the gate.

Two other men entered the stable, a liveried footman and a well-dressed man who must be another one of her new father’s spies.

“That gate latch is broken,” Kincaid said. “Farnsworth, come see to that mad horse. I’m out of powder.”

The well-dressed man raised a pistol.

Sirena gasped. “No.” She jerked free, one hand extended, and moved in front of the pistol. “You’ll not put her down.”

“My lady, that horse just killed a man.” Kincaid spoke soothingly, like she was mad also.

She felt Bakeley’s strength next to her.

“She was frightened,” she said, “and rightly so. As was I. She did it because…because I asked it of her.”

Kincaid exchanged looks with Shaldon, and the third man. Aye, ’twas certain they thought she was as mad as the mare.

“Rather like a medieval destrier, Kincaid.” Bakeley pulled her close. “We won’t put the horse down, but we need to move her, love. There’s a barrel of gunpowder in the middle of the stables.”

“I’ll do it my lady.” The footman slid around the man called Farnsworth, and she recognized Johnny, Mr. Gibson’s groom, all done up in fancy livery for their ball.

“She’s been letting me handle her. Upset about all that’s happened she is, and the blood’s abothering her. I’ll get her away from the smell and find her a place with the others. I’ll take good care of her.”

Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away, pulling open the gate. Banshee nosed her skirt, and she stroked her head. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ll go with Johnny, and he’ll take good care of you.”

She talked and soothed, while Bakeley helped the groom gather the tack and lead Banshee out through the garden instead of the door at the back of the stables.

Donegal’s body blocked that way.

“It’s a pity,” Shaldon said from behind her. “We wanted to question him.”

She sucked in a breath and made herself look.

Bile rose in her. Donegal’s ugly scar was a red, furrowed crater.

“We’ll get that footman to talk,” Kincaid said.

“There was a groom, also,” Sirena said. “If you can find him. He lured me out here.” Her eyes shot open. “But wait, what did the footman do?”

“He made sure Bakeley came out,” Shaldon said.

Dear God.

She touched her Gram’s knot. What a fool she’d been. The vision had warned her, yet she’d fallen straight into the trap over a horse and a diamond brooch. Bakeley might have been killed.

“I’ll deal with this mess,” Kincaid said.

The brooch. Perhaps it didn’t truly matter, as Bakeley said. And yet…it would feed all of Glenmorrow for a long time.

“If you find the diamond brooch, Kincaid, you must let me know.”

“Aye, I will, Lady Sirena.”

Bakeley returned just then and pulled her close. “Come. Let’s go in. Father will see to this.”

“Kincaid will see to it,” Shaldon said. “Don’t blow yourself up, Kincaid.” He followed them out.

“Is it really so dangerous?” she whispered.

“A keg of powder? Yes.” She stumbled and he held onto her. “And that one is probably filled with bits of metal, the better to cause pain and suffering. Donegal wasn’t Irish at all. His name was Dunchatel. He’s a Swiss spy and bomb maker, and one of Father’s old enemies.”

She buried her face in his shoulder. “Oh, Bakeley. I’m sorry. The thought of him luring you out there to kill you…I did think the first time I talked to him he might truly be Irish,” she whispered. “Else I would have told you…”

He gripped her shoulders. “You knew who he was before?” He frowned. “Before he assaulted you last night?”

She choked. Nodded. Shook her head. He hadn’t understood what she’d said the night before. He hadn’t suspected her of deception. She could have gone without telling him. Perhaps now he’d never trust her. Tears flooded her eyes and clogged her throat.

She swallowed them back and lifted her chin. “I suspected. I didn’t know for sure. I talked to him one day and he was quite kind. I should have told you. It’s only that, you’re an English lord, and if he was truly an Irishman…and…and I wanted to talk to you and you didn’t come home.”

“I’m your English lord.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, you are.”

“And you were afraid to tell me about an insurrectionist working inside our home because you thought he was Irish.”

Oy, when he said it like that…

“You don’t trust me, Sirena.”

His gentle tone tore her heart to shreds, and she barely managed the breath to climb the stairs.

They stopped outside the door to her bedchamber and she took his hand. “I trust you, James. I l-love you. I was waiting in the library last night to tell you, only—”

“I didn’t come home.”

“I’ll always want justice for the Irish, but…” She searched his face. “But I believe you want that too.”

“Come.” He opened the door and Jenny looked up.

“It’s always so busy in here.” He spun Sirena around. “Jenny, you may have the rest of the night…”

Bakeley’s hands stopped moving along her laces, and tension crackled the air around them. “Jenny, bring water and towels. My love, your suit of armor failed you.”

She wriggled. “I feel nothing but metal stays poking me.”

“Good sign.” He worked on her fastenings until she was down to her chemise. With a sharp rip, he tore open the back, making her shriek.

“There was already a small tear.” Bakeley pressed a wet cloth to her back, and she gasped.

“It’s only a small cut, I think,” Jenny said. “And the bleeding stopped. I think if you—”

What transpired behind her she wasn’t sure. “That is, if you don’t need anythin’ else, good night, my lady, my lord.”

She heard the door snick closed on the maid.

And then she was floating in Bakeley’s arms.

“What are you doing?” she squealed. He kicked open doors and carried her through to his bedchamber, dumping her on the bed and ripping at his coats.

“You’re mad,” she said.

“For you. And I’m going to prove it.”