“You sheltered Lieutenant Hollis for how long?”

The queen hadn’t changed. Same graying hair pulled back into a severe knot behind her head. Same black gown, though this one was festooned with ribbon and lace. Same nasal, clipped voice that set Killian’s nerves on end.

He’d seen more of his monarch in the last three days than he had in the previous ten years. Rather than a cramped room in the Tower, he’d been provided accommodations at the palace. It felt more like he was stopping over on an unpleasant forced visit than being imprisoned at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

“Weeks.” Killian cleared his throat, raw from answering questions. His thoughts continually strayed to Octavia. He’d been cruel to her in those last moments, days ago when he’d last seen her, and he hated himself for his petty anger. “Until he blew his brains out in the woods that abut Finsbury Hall.”

“Coarse language is not required, Strathmoor.” Her Majesty bristled, and her little white dog followed suit, sitting up and casting Killian a gaze of pure disdain. “We only wish to determine the extent of your complicity in harboring this man you claim is a murderer.”

“He told me he was a murderer. I urged him to face the consequences,” he said, for at least the third time. His mind had gone fuzzy, with only enough space for thoughts of Tavia. “I told him to speak to Miss Bannister and confess to the police. I regret that he chose another path.”

“You might have delivered him to a constable yourself.” Lord Cecil snipped from a spot in the corner. Always wafting about, the man was, like a bad smell. The habit had earned him his nickname.

“Never been torn between loyalty and the letter of the law, have you, Wraith?” Killian narrowed his gaze on Lord Cecil. “You float above the law. The invisible devil on people’s shoulders, whispering in their ears.”

The queen looked on with interest, as if intrigued to see how her advisor would acquit himself.

“Snide words from a man who will soon have cause to thank me.” Lord Cecil stepped forward and laid a document on the table in front of Killian, where he’d been standing for what felt like hours. “Sign it. You’ll be grateful you did.”

“I’m not signing anything.” Cecil was a crafty bastard. Killian was sure he’d ruined men before with something as benign as the scratch of their name on a sheet of vellum.

Queen Victoria rose from her settee and approached, her white dog trailing along at her side. “An accurate transcription of the report you’ve provided, Strathmoor.” She nodded to Lord Cecil, who placed another sheet on the table. “And this is a statement which may be of interest to you. A retraction by Miss Caroline Bannister.”

Killian snapped his gaze up to stare at his queen.

“Since you were detained, she has come forward to say she was mistaken in her initial assertion. She has petitioned for your release and wishes to express her regret for any inconvenience she’s caused.”

Killian didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust any of them. “What brought about her change of heart?”

“The death of Clive Forsythe,” Lord Cecil put in as if he was speaking of nothing more interesting than the price of fish at Billingsgate. “Last evening.”

“There was an incident at the Bannister town house. Forsythe attempted to do the girl violence, and her footman stepped in to defend his mistress. It seems Mr. Forsythe was an odious man, and now he’s met his end.” The queen gazed at her folded hands, where a jeweled snake engagement ring glinted on her finger. She twisted the twining gold band. “I gather Miss Bannister does not wish to marry now. If she does not, I will urge her father to settle an annuity on her. After so much tragedy in her young years, the girl deserves to dispense with worry for her future.”

“If her father does not wish to settle an amount on her, I will.” That, he could agree to. Hell, he’d settle an amount on her footman too. The man had ridded the world of a scourge, as far as Killian was concerned.

He took up the pen Lord Cecil offered and scribbled his name on the first document. The printed words matched, for the most part, his account of Hollis’s arrival in Yorkshire, confession, and subsequent suicide.

“Add your name to Miss Bannister’s statement too, Strathmoor.” Cecil never managed to make a request that didn’t sound a bit like a command. “She states that you were not seen with Neville Forsythe. Your signature will serve as agreement with her statement.”

Killian signed his name to second document too, ending with a pointless flourish that sputtered ink across the page.

Lord Cecil’s disgusted gasp was music to Killian’s ears.

“And?” he asked his queen. “What now, ma’am?”

The queen did not answer, simply arched a gunmetal gray brow at her advisor.

“Now,” Lord Cecil began in a stentorian tone, “you will go to Gravesend and put your house in order. See to your tenants. Settle your accounts. Take your seat in Parliament in the spring. You will attempt to live up to the legacy left by your father and brother.”

“And you will marry,” the queen added in a higher pitch.

“Yes.” Killian would have no difficulty fulfilling that command, providing he could convince Tavia to forgive him for being an ass. Offering his monarch a deep bow, he began striding from her overheated sitting room.

“Strathmoor,” the queen’s high voice called. “Wherever are you going? This audience is not at an end. You have not yet learned the young lady’s name.”

Realization tore through him like one of the bullets he’d taken in battle , a flash of searing heat, and then breath-stealing pain in his chest.

This was the snare Lord Cecil had spoken of. Not the irons he’d been clapped into, but the snare of society and nobility and all the suffocating expectations that came along with a title.

“Lady Prudence Denby, the Earl of Stormare’s eldest daughter. We believe you will find much to admire in a lady of such fine breeding and taste,” she went on.

Lord Cecil approached from behind, pressing an envelope into Killian’s hand. “An invitation to the Denbys’ last ball of the season.”

“You will attend and propose, Strathmoor. Goodness knows you’ve waited long enough. The lady is aware of your…” Queen Victoria sniffed. “History. But Lady Prudence has waited too. After five seasons without an offer of marriage—”

“You wish me to marry a spinster I’ve never met?”

“She is a noblewoman eager to do her duty and marry. I trust that you will do your duty too. Go now, but do bring your duchess to court once affairs are settled.” There was a smile in her tone, as if the whole matter pleased her exceedingly.

Killian wanted to burn the world to the ground.

Except for Octavia and that bloody charred estate in Yorkshire. He’d take her and a life in the northern wilds and be the happiest man in England. But would she choose such isolation? Such complete ostracism from others? Because absconding with her, especially now that he’d returned, would make them both pariahs.

“You’ve many duties left too long unattended, Strathmoor.” Lord Cecil trailed him into the vestibule outside the queen’s chamber. “I suspect I know the turn of your thoughts, but you must acknowledge that Miss Fowler will be better off without you. Her father bid me watch over the girl, and I have. Though her self-made success renders me quite obsolete.”

Killian dearly wished the man was obsolete. They’d taken an instant dislike to each other when they’d first met at court years before. He hadn’t imagined anything could soften his view of Lord Cecil, but the notion that the old man felt a duty to watch over Tavia was a step in the right direction.

“She has flourished with her business,” Cecil continued. “I believe she quite values her independence.”

“Yes.” Killian didn’t attempt to hide his grin. He loved that Tavia was not constrained by the etiquette that turned other women timid and biddable.

“I see you admire that quality in her. How, then, can you think of squelching her independence, Strathmoor?” Cecil squared his shoulders and arched one haughty brow. “Leave Miss Fowler to her own devices, Your Grace.” There was no more cajoling in his tone. The man was commanding Killian now, as if he was still an agent in his employ. “Let the lady go on with her enterprise as you see to the dukedom you’ve left floundering for far too long.”