Andrew struggled against the ropes that bound him, twisting his wrists counter to one another in an effort to break free. The rough braiding bit into his skin, drawing blood. But the ligatures didn’t loosen a bit.

Damn it all!

He hadn’t been tied up or chained when he’d escaped his prison in Paris. When he’d been taken by French forces, Andrew had been treated as an officer and gentleman who might later be traded for one of Napoleon’s own. He’d even been asked to dine with Marshal Marmont over several evenings—all in a failed effort to glean information from him about Wellington’s plans, of course.

All very civilized, really, if one didn’t count that the men who’d been captured with him had been shot dead on the spot—as they hadn’t been officers—and that outside the locked doors that had held him were well-armed guards.

But that experience wasn’t helping him to escape now.

He renewed his efforts, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Some minutes later, a cold sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes, and his wrists were on fire. He needed a short break from the agony. Andrew let his body go limp against the hard wooden chair, and as he breathed in heavily of the foul-smelling air, he took in his surroundings.

He was in a small, bare room with dirty wooden floors, wooden walls, only one door, and a very small window set high above it. The awful stench—a sickening mixture of refuse and rotten fish—could only be the Thames, which meant they were very near the river. And given how long he’d been in the carriage before he’d been hauled unceremoniously into this place by two hulking men, he guessed they weren’t far from Abchurch. Near London Bridge, perhaps.

He yanked against his bonds once more, but they were as tight as ever. After five years of war, was this tiny, stinking room where he was going to meet his end?

At least Claire was safe.

That was the only reason he’d gone quietly when he’d been ambushed in an alcove near the card room by two men dressed as footmen that he’d taken at first to be Bow Street Runners. Let the villains think they were safe by nabbing him. They couldn’t know that Claire was his secret weapon. That by now, she may even have gotten the proof they’d been hoping for and be on her way to the War Department with it.

And all the while, by letting the blackguards take him far away from Claire without a fight, he was doing his very best to protect her.

He’d gladly die here if it meant keeping her out of danger.

The door handle lifted and the heavy wood pushed inward with a loud creak. A behemoth of a man appeared in the opening—the one who had tied these infernal knots once they’d gotten him into the carriage, as well as the ones that lashed him to the chair now.

Andrew straightened and braced his feet on the floor, preparing himself for whatever came next.

But what came next was a shepherdess, clutching a damned silly woolen lamb.

Claire.

Fear unlike any he’d ever known—even when facing certain death on a battlefield—racked him, and he had to swallow against the bile. No!

Another man followed Claire inside, one hand gripping her arm, the other holding a pistol to her side. He was dressed in costume as well, with a green mask that covered his face. He wore a suit of red, green, and gold triangles separated by gold piping, which marked him a harlequin—one of many Andrew had seen at the Balfour ball tonight.

Which meant the harlequin must have seen Andrew and Claire together, too, and somehow deduced that they were working together. Damn it all.

A third man, the other of the two that had brought Andrew here, stepped in last and closed the door behind him.

“Well,” the harlequin said, “isn’t this quite the little party? Not nearly as fashionable as the Balfours’ ball, but much cozier, I should think.”

Wait… He knew that voice.

“Pike?”

The harlequin laughed and used the hand holding the pistol to flip the mask up off of his face, revealing the code breaker who’d been working at the table next to Claire’s all this time.

“You’ve got the right of it now, Sedgewick.”

Pike? Andrew had suspected Greeves, Lord Marston’s aide-de-camp and the man who knew most about Abchurch business aside from his late master, and who would have had the best access to the man. Or maybe even Finch, the code breaker who had resented Claire’s abilities. But Pike?

“Now you know who I am, and I know who you are,” Pike said, turning his gaze to Claire, “but what I’ve yet to discover is who this delectable creature is.”

He pointed the pistol at her and Andrew nearly came out of his seat.

“I saw the two of you dancing, of course. I didn’t think much of it until I noticed you—” Pike gestured at Claire with the gun. “—follow San Carlos into the card room. Now, remove your mask, dearie, and introduce yourself.”

Claire clutched that damned lamb to her tightly with one hand like a frightened child and Andrew roared inwardly at his inability to help her. Her other hand trembled as she knocked the cap from her head before slowly pulling the mask down until it hung loosely around her neck.

Pike lost his grandiloquent smile as his face registered shock, confusion, and then…

“Barton? But how can that be?”

The man looked over at Andrew, then back at Claire. He raked her with his eyes, his gaze lingering on her décolletage. Then the hand that had been gripping her arm slid over and plumped her breast.

Claire gasped.

“But you’re a woman,” Pike said incredulously.

Andrew did roar then, shoving with his feet to try to rise out of his chair and get to Claire. He got about an inch off of the floor before the larger of Pike’s henchmen strode over and punched him in the face so hard that the entire chair wobbled before he could right himself. Pain exploded in his cheekbone.

When the stars cleared from his vision, Andrew sought Claire out again. She no longer looked afraid. Her eyes spat blue fire as she glared down her nose at Pike. “Clarence was my brother. You’d thought you’d killed him weeks ago, didn’t you? Before I took his place.”

The man just stared at her for a long, dumbfounded moment.

Then the knot-tying behemoth said, “See, gov! I told you there weren’t no way that cove survived a knifing by old Tom here.”

Claire’s chin dropped, but her eyes narrowed to slits. She turned her gaze to “old Tom” and Andrew thought the man would be wise to fear for his life.

Pike still had a bewildered twist to his lips as he stared at Claire. And then he started to laugh.

“You mean this whole time at Abchurch, it’s been you?”

Claire nodded, once. Her jaw firmed, but he could see by the way her fists clenched that Pike’s laughter shook and infuriated her.

“Oh, that’s rich!” Pike chortled. “Here I’d thought you were the indestructible man. I mean, you’d survived being knifed. And then I poisoned your tea at least a half dozen times.”

Andrew felt the blood drain from his face. If Claire hadn’t detested tea…

“Why did you do it?” Claire cried. “What did my brother and Lord Marston know that made you feel they had to die?”

Pike stopped laughing then. He still had the gun pointed at Claire and he tilted his head to regard her.

“I’m not sure Barton knew anything, actually. I only knew that Napoleon was planning to treat with King Ferdinand, and that messages would necessarily travel back and forth between Paris and Madrid. I did my part to make certain that if those messages came to Abchurch that they got buried. But if one or two did make it through? Well, your brother, of all the code breakers in the War Department, had a reputation for breaking the unbreakable. He’d already spoiled things for the emperor at Vitoria—”

Andrew saw Claire’s face go as white as her woolen lamb.

“—and I knew we couldn’t take the chance that he’d be able to ruin this plot as well.”

A horrid ache squeezed Andrew’s chest as he realized the implications of Pike’s words, and he saw from the way Claire’s face crumpled that she understood them, too. Clarence had been killed because of the work Claire had done.

Her pallor went green, and she looked to be fighting off tears. His heart broke for her. Just as it boiled with anger. Pike looked ready to laugh again at her obvious suffering—even if the man didn’t understand what upset Claire so.

“And Marston?” Andrew asked, trying to draw his focus away from Claire as well as draw out the conversation long enough that he could think of a way out of this damnable mess. But he couldn’t see one, trussed up as he was like a damned Christmas goose.

Pike shrugged. “He caught me slipping poison into Barton’s tea.”

Claire once again squeezed her little lamb, probably imagining it was Pike’s neck. Hell, he’d like to—

An explosion rent the air. Bits of wool flew in all directions as the acrid scent of saltpeter and sulfur burned his nose.

Before Andrew could even register what was happening, Pike fell to the ground with wide, sightless eyes—and Claire raised her—lamb?—and pointed it at the man who’d knifed her brother.

Another explosion rocked the room.

And suddenly, he understood. Claire’s three-shot pistol must be concealed inside the damned sheep.

Old Tom dropped where he stood, which left one shot left for—

The largest of the three villains had roared and lunged toward Claire already. He was poised to knock the pistol from her hand before she could fire that third barrel.

“Claire! Get behind me!” Andrew shouted.

She spun, her skirts twirling around her in a move more graceful than any shepherdess he’d ever seen, and did as he said.

The henchman wheeled about more clumsily, but he corrected his course and went after Claire again. But this time, Andrew was between them.

The man lunged anyway, knowing Andrew could do nothing to stop him with his hands tied behind him and lashed to a chair.

Andrew shoved with all of his strength and threw his weight to the left. He couldn’t get far off the floor, but it was just enough to overturn the chair and him in it, right into the path of the charging man.

The impact of the man’s knee to Andrew’s chest drove the breath from him. He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself, pain jarring him as his left side hit the floor and the right absorbed the blows of the flailing man’s feet.

Andrew felt a thud vibrate through the floor as the man came down hard behind him, which was followed quickly by the final, ringing shot.

Silence reigned in the small wooden room for a long, long moment.

And then Claire dropped to her knees beside him where he lay on his side, still tethered to the chair, his face now resting on the floor. Bollocks. He hurt everywhere. And he didn’t know if his heart would ever beat normally again. When he’d seen that bastard rush at Claire—

“Are you all right?” she said, her voice shaking. Her hands flitted over his face, ran down his arms, and reached around him to tug at his bonds. “I’m going to have to find a knife to cut these ropes.”

He groaned. “Inside my boot. I didn’t have a chance to reach for it before I was trussed up.”

Claire let out a breath, and wrinkled her nose. “Oh, good. I didn’t relish having to search one of those bodies for a blade.”

In short time, Claire tugged off his boot, retrieved his dagger, and sawed through his bindings. As she worked, Andrew noted that she kept her eyes fixed solely on her task, being careful not to let her gaze stray to the violent results of the past few minutes.

“There,” she murmured as the last of the ropes gave way.

Andrew’s muscles screamed with relief as he brought his aching arms back to their natural position. He gained his knees, and then pushed to his feet before turning to help Claire to hers.

But she’d already shot up. “We’ve got to hurry,” she said, gathering her pistol from the remnants of wool scattered on the floor. “The treaty has already been negotiated and signed. Two copies are on their way to Madrid by differing routes in case one gets intercepted. We have to warn the War Depart—”

Andrew grasped Claire by the shoulders, gently but firmly turning her to face him. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head, even as her words said something different. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Andrew cupped her face in his palms, still awestruck that they were both alive. He searched Claire’s face. She wasn’t fine, but he didn’t think she understood that, yet. He’d have to let her be for now. “No, thank you, Claire. You saved us.”

“We saved us,” she insisted.

It would take days of discussion and dissection before they understood the whole of what had happened over the past few weeks, he knew. It would take him even longer before he got over the scare he’d had when he’d seen Claire pushed into the room at gunpoint.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on his own feelings at the moment. They still needed to alert the War Department about the treaty.

Still…

“Pike deserved to die, no doubt. And I’m grateful that it was him and not us. But you shot the bastard before he told us what drove him to side with Napoleon. Don’t you want to know what he stood to gain from it?”

Claire raised her eyes to his. They were so very blue, and as clear as a cloudless summer sky. He was reminded of afternoons spent wading in the stream near Barton Manor—he, Clarence, and Claire, when they were young and carefree. Before any ugliness came between the three of them. He wished they could go back there and start again. Do things differently than they had.

“I never cared about what he stood to gain from it,” she said fiercely. “I only care that he’ll never cause another person to lose.”