Marigold clasped a hand to her chest, her heart aching with fear. But behind the fear, a new determination was growing.

“We have to go to him,” she said, starting across the room to prove her point.

“You can’t rush into a confrontation as if we’re in a Wild West show,” Lady Stanhope said, stopping her.

Marigold whipped around to face her friend and mentor. “What do you suggest we do, then? Let Turpin or Shayles or whoever it is who has my son captive do what they’d like to him?”

Lady Stanhope pursed her lips and let out an impatient breath through her nose. “Of course not. But they far outnumber and out-power us. We cannot hope to rescue James with a direct attack.”

“Then what?” Marigold balled her fists, feeling the heat of desperation pulse through her.

A stilted silence followed her words, then Lord Malcolm let out a breath and stepped toward Marigold. “If we act fast, there’s a slim chance we might be able to get to the Black Strap Club before James arrives. If we had someone on the inside, someone already in place, it might simply be a matter of waiting until they let their guard down.

“They never let their guard down there,” Ruby spoke up from the doorway, where she still stood, pale and rigid. Her eyes had a glassy, terrified look.

A spark of inspiration lit Lord Malcolm’s face. “You’ve lived there.” He broke away from Marigold and Lady Stanhope to approach her. “You know your way around the house.”

“What are you saying?” Lady Stanhope followed him, glaring at Lord Malcolm as though he were the enemy.

“I’m saying that Ruby should sneak into the house and wait,” Lord Malcolm snapped, seemingly irritated that Lady Stanhope would question him.

“Oh, no.” Ruby shook her head and backed into the hall.

“You can’t send her in there,” Lady Stanhope said at the same time, her voice rising. “After what I assume happened to her there? What kind of a cruel tyrant are you?”

“We need someone who can slip in unnoticed, who knows the house, and who has escaped once before,” Lord Malcolm raised his voice as well.

“I couldn’t,” Ruby wept. “Please don’t make me go back there.”

“It’s the best chance we have of ending this swiftly and effectively,” Lord Malcolm said, addressing Lady Stanhope without looking at Ruby.

“Malcolm, she’s obviously too terrified to even think of it.” Lady Stanhope threw out an arm at Ruby, glaring at Lord Malcolm. “It’s about time you pulled your head out of your arse and considered the feelings of others above your own machinations for a change.”

“I could say the same about you,” Lord Malcolm said, taking a step toward her in what appeared to be an attempt to tower over her.

“I’ll do it,” Marigold shouted, if only to stop the whirlwind of tension between the two from spinning out of control.

Lady Stanhope and Lord Malcolm jerked away from each other and faced her. Lord Malcolm blinked, incredulous. Lady Stanhope narrowed her eyes as if considering the plan.

“I’ll go,” Marigold repeated. “I don’t care how dangerous it is. Dress me as a maid, and I can slip into the house.”

“You don’t know the house’s layout,” Lord Malcolm argued.

Marigold swallowed, thinking fast. “Bring Ruby some paper and a pencil. She can draw a map of the rooms for me.”

Ruby gasped, but the fear in her eyes turned to a frantic sort of agreement. “There’s not too many places they’d keep a young boy,” she said. “Not in the dungeon, and not in any of the rooms. They’d most likely put him somewhere quieter, out of the way.”

Marigold had no wish to know what Ruby meant by “dungeon” or “rooms”, but she crossed to Ruby, putting a hand on her arm. “Anything you can remember and draw, anything at all, would be helpful.”

“This is madness,” Lord Malcolm interrupted. “You can’t go into a situation like this, Mrs. Croydon. You have no training, no experience with these sorts of things. It would be like sending a lamb to the slaughter.”

“A lamb has already been sent to the slaughter,” Lady Stanhope interrupted. “James. And if we don’t hurry, everything will become far, far more complicated.”

“So you agree with this daft plan, do you?” Lord Malcolm rounded on her.

“No,” Lady Stanhope replied, incredulous. “But we don’t have any better plans or options.” She turned to Marigold. “I have several sets of eyes and ears inside and outside of the Black Strap Club.”

“You do?” Ruby blinked, shaking her head. “Where? Who?”

Lady Stanhope let out an impatient breath. “Yes, dear. I do. How do you think you were able to escape in the first place?”

Ruby clapped a hand to her heart. Marigold’s brow shot up, and her awe of Lady Stanhope doubled.

“As to who, the fewer people who know the better.” She turned back to Marigold. “There isn’t time to contact my girls on the inside, but every one of them is smart as a whip, and if they sense what you’re there to do, they’ll help, I’m sure of it.”

Lord Malcolm made a scoffing noise.

“Oh, and the brute force will be waiting outside to bungle everything a second time if you should need help,” Lady Stanhope went on, dripping with sarcasm.

Marigold nodded, turning to Ruby. “Do you have a uniform I could borrow?”

“If I don’t, I’m sure Mrs. Clifford does.”

With Lord Malcolm still grumbling in protest, they jumped into action. Ruby took Marigold downstairs to the servant’s hall, where she quickly changed her worn and dusty dress for a simple, ill-fitting maid’s uniform.

“It’s not the same as the maids at the Club,” Ruby said as she helped Marigold do up the buttons, “but it’s black, and that’s what counts.”

By the time they were done dressing and Ruby had undone Marigold’s elaborate hairstyle to braid her hair and fasten it in a bun at the back of her head, Lady Stanhope had called her carriage and driver around to the front door. Ruby had sketched out a map while Marigold dressed and thrust it into her hands.

“Are you ready?” Lady Stanhope asked as she handed Marigold up into the carriage.

“No,” Marigold answered truthfully.

“I’m going with you,” Lord Malcolm announced as Marigold rushed out the front door into the spreading dawn light.

“And I’m staying here,” Lady Stanhope said, sending Lord Malcolm a peevish look. “There are things I can do from afar that I wouldn’t be able to do right there at the Club.”

Marigold wasn’t sure what she meant, but she didn’t have time to consider it. The moment she was secure in the carriage with Lord Malcolm, the driver set off.

“This is madness,” Lord Malcolm muttered as they rolled along. “If I had time to educate you, show you how to use a weapon, that would be one thing.” He shook his head. “You’re far too good and innocent for a mission like this.”

“I will do anything to rescue my son,” Marigold said, staring at him with steely determination.

“He’s not—” He snapped his mouth shut and let out a breath through his nose, gaze stony. “Make yourself as small as possible,” he told her. “Walk normally, not too fast. Carry yourself as though you’re supposed to be there, but keep your face down. It’s early, but the other servants will be at work already. They have a steady stream of new servants coming in and out, especially maids, so it might not be as unusual as all that for a new maid to be wandering the halls. But whatever you do, do not let Mrs. Black see you.”

“Mrs. Black?” Marigold asked, her voice trembling.

“The housekeeper. She’ll know you aren’t meant to be there.”

“But how will I know which one she is?”

“The same way you know in any house, by how she’s dressed.”

The carriage rolled on, and Lord Malcolm continued to load Marigold down with advice and cautions. By the time they came to a stop at the end of the lane that contained the Black Strap Club’s mews, her head was spinning. She hadn’t slept in far too long, she hadn’t eaten more than a mouthful since her hurried supper before leaving Winterberry Park the day before. Her nerves were frayed, and she knew full well she wasn’t thinking clearly enough to do what she needed to do. But she climbed down from the carriage when Lord Malcolm said it was safe.

Marigold hadn’t had time to memorize the map Ruby had drawn for her, so as she hurried along the narrow mews toward the Black Strap Club, she took the folded bit of paper from her apron and scanned it. The house that adjoined the Club itself had been built on the same design as a hundred other houses in London, so navigating it wouldn’t be the hard part. Finding James without being seen was where things would get tricky. At least she was able to locate which kitchen door belonged to the Club, based on both Ruby’s and Lord Malcolm’s descriptions.

Anxiety prickled down her back as she approached the back of the house. A wagon waited on the cobblestones just behind the house, its horse still harnessed, hinting that it must have just arrived. There was no guarantee that it was the wagon that had brought James from Bethnal Green, but Marigold chose to think it was. Which meant James was already in the house but not deeply settled yet. She prayed it was true.

Lord Malcolm was right about the servants already being up and hard at work. A maid walked out the kitchen door carrying a bucket of slops, which she disposed of in a trough-like drain. A second maid walked swiftly out of an out-building with a basket of what looked like eggs. Marigold glanced between the kitchen door and the out-building, then dashed into the latter.

The building was some sort of storehouse, with a thick padlock hanging open from the clasp that would normally keep it sealed tight. A woman dressed all in black stood with her back to the door, a clipboard in hand, staring at one of the shelves.

“Only two pounds of butter today,” she said without turning to look at Marigold. “Cook has been shamefully lax lately, and I’m not standing for it anymore.”

Marigold swallowed her gasp. Between the clipboard, the way the woman spoke, and the ring of keys hanging from her belt, she had to be Mrs. Black. Marigold had run into the one person she needed to stay clear of the moment she set foot on the Club’s property. The only thing she could think to do was to silently grab a slab of butter from one of the shelves, then turn and flee the room.

“Send Lotty in for salt,” the housekeeper called after her.

Marigold rushed toward the kitchen door, praying Mrs. Black hadn’t turned around, or if she had, she had mistaken her for a maid who was supposed to be there. As soon as she darted into the house, she deposited the butter on a counter just inside the kitchen door, picked up a dustpan and brush that sat nearby, and marched deeper into the house. If anyone asked, she could tell them she was off to clean something.

But no one asked. No one seemed to be of a mind to ask anyone else anything. The maids Marigold crossed paths with kept their faces downcast. Every one of them looked miserable and trapped, like threadbare rabbits in a cage who knew they would be supper soon. The hall-boy she met on her way up the servant’s stairs was painfully thin and stunted. A deep sense of foreboding shivered down Marigold’s spine.

There were fewer servants on the upper floors. As much as she wanted to reach for the map in her apron to orient herself, there wasn’t time. She poked her head into as many rooms as she could instead, listening intently for any sign of James.

She searched through the entire house, finding nothing. The dread that had been spreading through her filled her stomach with acid and left her heart beating too fast. The urge to cry was far too powerful. She blamed it on her lack of sleep and the madness of what she was doing, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. She was trapped in the lion’s den, the lion’s mouth, even, with no sign of James.

The only thing that kept her from giving up was when she stumbled across a door that opened onto a much longer corridor, stretching into the adjacent house. Marigold swallowed hard before stepping into the corridor. While drawing the map, Ruby had mentioned that part of the house was where the women, girls, and young boys who served the Black Strap Club’s clients were kept and where they did their business. She hadn’t thought there would be any need to travel into that part of the house. She was wrong.

Gathering as much courage as she had left, and gripping the handles of the brush and dustpan as though they were weapons, Marigold moved quickly along the hall. Instinct told her not to open every door in this part of the house, but she listened at each one as best she could. There were sounds everywhere, even though morning had barely broken. Strange sounds that filled her with revulsion and fear.

At one door, she was certain she heard the soft, plaintive cry of a child. She shifted the broom and dustpan to her left hand and turned the door handle with her right, cracking it just enough to see in. The sight that met her was a woman who couldn’t have been even Lavinia’s age, on her knees on the bed, her hips in the air, her hands tied behind her, some sort of large gag in her mouth, as a swarthy man slammed into her.

Marigold stifled a scream and jerked away, shutting the door as quickly as she could. She couldn’t stop the tears from falling then. What kind of a horrible place had they taken James to? She wanted to run as fast as she could, to flee the terrible place, but not without James, not without saving her boy.

She hurried down the hall, trying to listen and not listen at the same time. Exhaustion and horror were turning her brain to mush at the time when she needed to be most on top of things. It didn’t help to hear screams and pleas for mercy coming from a room at the end of the hall. Marigold clapped the back of her hand to her mouth and ran up the stairs, desperate to get away.

Fear made her careless, though, and as she shot out into the hall one floor up, she came face to face with two burly men in worker’s clothes.

“You’re not allowed up here,” one of them told her in a rough voice. “Get gone.”

Marigold froze to her spot, gaping at the two men, her imagination filling with everything they might do to her.

“Are ye daft, girl? Get!” the rough man said, gesturing for her to go.

“Hang on,” the second man said. “I think I know her.”

Panic took over, making Marigold dizzy. “No, you don’t,” she said.

It was a terrible mistake. Her voice and her accent were too refined for any maid. The moment the words were out of her mouth, the men knew she was an imposter.

“That’s Croydon’s wife,” the second man announced, the light of recognition in his eyes.

Somehow, Marigold managed to lift her feet to turn and run, dropping the dustpan and brush as she did, but she was no match for two toughs. She didn’t make it three steps before the rough man grabbed her, yanking her off her feet. She screamed, but screams seemed to be a common thing in that house.

“Get her in the room with the brat,” the second man said as the rough one dragged her farther down the hall.

Marigold was too stunned to struggle, and when the two men pulled her into a small bedroom, its curtains drawn, she spotted James lying unconscious on the bed.

“James!” she shouted.

James didn’t move. His face was pale and his eyes were closed, although he seemed too still for sleep. Marigold broke away from the man holding her, her fear for herself eclipsed by fear for James. The men didn’t try to stop her as she rushed to him, grabbing him and hugging him. James didn’t wake up, but he didn’t have any injuries that she could see.

“What did you do to him?” Marigold demanded.

“Shut him up,” the second man answered, rubbing his hands together. “Just like we’ll do with you if you’re not a good girl.”

For a split-second, Marigold remembered what Ruby said about James being given laudanum. That thought vanished as the second man stalked closer to her, licking his lips.

“Shayles wouldn’t like it,” the rough man warned him.

Marigold wouldn’t like it either. She leapt away from the bed, dashing toward the window. The woman she’d seen all those months ago. She’d tried to signal for help. Marigold could do the same. She threw back the curtains, banging on the glass even as she searched for a way to open the window. Someone below, Lord Malcolm or anyone on the street, had to notice her, had to send help.

“Help!” she cried, unable to tell if anyone on the street had seen her. “Help! He—”

A hand closed over her mouth and an arm went around her waist. But rather than simply suffocating and silencing her, the hand held a cloth from which a strange medicinal smell emanated. Panicked, she breathed it in. Within seconds, the world swam away into blackness.

For a moment, Alex thought he was back in the field hospital in Sebastopol. His side ached, and his head and arm stung. He knew battle wounds when he felt them.

But as he opened his eyes, the sunlight pouring through the window illuminated the room where he lay. His bedroom. In London. Everything was exactly as it should be…and yet not.

“You’re awake, sir.”

Phillips jumped up from somewhere nearby, rushing toward him. The young man’s face was a mask of worry.

Alex pushed himself to a sitting position, the throbbing and stinging increasing. “What happened?”

“You should rest, sir,” Phillips said. “You’ve been injured.”

That much was obvious. Alex winced, but continued to muscle himself to sit with his back against the pillows behind him. Someone had removed his clothes and dressed him in a nightshirt, but they hadn’t been as careful with the bed. The coverlet was irreparably stained with dried, dark red spots of blood. Mrs. Clifford would be beside herself. Marigold would be upset as well.

He snapped his head up. “Where’s Marigold?”

A moment later, Armand strode into the room. “You’re awake?” he asked.

“Evidently,” Alex answered. He shifted his position, gingerly testing his side. “I was shot.”

“And lucky for you, they nearly missed,” Armand said.

“Nearly,” Alex snorted.

“The bullet in your side didn’t go deep, and it failed to hit anything other than muscle.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Alex teased his friend, grunting and grimacing as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Where’s Marigold?”

“Sir, you shouldn’t get up,” Phillips insisted, reaching out as if he would tuck Alex into bed like a child. “You lost quite a bit of blood.”

Alex frowned. He didn’t need to be told things he already knew. “Where’s Marigold?” he repeated, beginning to have the sense his friends were hiding something from him.

“She and Malcolm went after James,” Katya said, stepping into the room as if she’d been hovering just outside the door.

“Katya,” Armand scolded her.

Phillips glared in her direction.

“What?” Katya shrugged, her outwardly calm demeanor failing to hide the anxiety Alex could see in her eyes. “He was going to find out soon enough.”

Alex pushed himself to stand, grabbing the bedside table to steady himself as his head swam. “Whose idiotic idea was it for Marigold to get involved with this?” he hissed.

“Marigold’s,” Katya answered. “Malcolm tried to stop her. He wanted to send Ruby into the Club instead, but as I reminded him—”

“What?” Alex roared, cutting her off.

In a move that was as rare as an eclipse, Katya bowed her head, looking guilty and sheepish. “We concluded that the best way to rescue your son was to attempt to extricate him from Turpin and Shayles’s grasp before they had a chance to move him somewhere out of our reach. Ruby scouted the house in Bethnal Green and discovered they were taking James to the Black Strap Club, so that is where Marigold and Malcolm went.”

Alex raised a hand to his forehead to fight the pain gathering there. “She can’t go into a place like that. She doesn’t know. It would terrify her.”

“She was determined to rescue James,” Katya said. “Malcolm is with her. She’ll be all right.”

“Since when have you had faith in Malcolm Campbell?” Alex growled.

“Since always,” Katya answered, staring at him, unflinching. The depth of her faith and her love was unquestionable.

Alex shook his pounding head, moving gingerly away from the bed and toward his wardrobe. “I’m going after her.”

“Sir, you can’t,” Phillips said.

“You haven’t even begun to recover from your wounds,” Armand said at the same time. He followed Alex, grabbing his arm to stop him.

Alex used Armand’s arm to steady himself, picking up his pace. “I’m up, aren’t I? If I can walk, I can go after her.”

“You’re not ready,” Armand argued. “You won’t be for some time.”

“I’m going after her,” Alex repeated, determination making him stronger. He would probably pay for it and then some later, but for the time being, nothing would get in his way.

“This is foolishness,” Armand continued. “As your physician, I cannot condone any sort of madness that would put you in greater danger.”

Alex yanked open the wardrobe door and turned to him. “You specialize in treating women’s complaints. I’m not a woman.”

“No, but you’re acting—”

“Don’t you dare equate being a woman with foolishness or weakness,” Katya interrupted, voice raised. “Marigold walked into danger to save your son, with nothing other than courage and the love of a mother. She has more strength in her than the lot of you.”

Alex’s brow shot up. He wasn’t about to argue with passion like that. In fact, he agreed with it, which was why he was so desperate to come to Marigold’s aid.

“My wife needs me,” he told Armand. “I almost lost her once. I’m not about to lose her again.”

“Then I’m going with you,” Armand sighed, reaching into the wardrobe to pull out suitable clothes for Alex.

“I’m coming too,” Phillips seconded.

Alex nodded to him.

“You’ll need me along as well,” Katya said, heading for the door. “I’ll fetch the carriage.”

Alex watched her leave, uncertain whether he should applaud the madwoman’s bravado or rue the day he first called her a friend. He was lucky she was on his side, that much was certain.

“If I’m only able to sit in the carriage and watch while the two of you go in after Marigold, then so be it,” he said. “I’ll not leave her in over her head, though.”

“All right,” Armand said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We’ll do what needs to be done.”

Phillips nodded silently, looking as angry about the situation as he did determined to help.

“Good,” Alex said. “Then help me get dressed.”