She looked at the knife she still gripped. Blood dripped down the cross of the dagger and on to her bloody hand and the room dimmed, her vision narrowing to just that bit of wet blade. Her breath…wouldn’t come. Wouldn’t come. The dagger slipped from her hands.

“Paulette, love.” Bink was on his knees before her, arms tight behind him, a man’s head bent over him, jerking at his arms.

“Hold still,” the man said.

“Paulette, love,” Bink said again, the sound coming from far away. “Look at me. Deep breaths. Take deep breaths.”

Even swollen and shadowed, his eyes glowed golden. The pain there resonated with each beat of her own heart.

“I’ve killed him.” It took all of her willpower to draw in her breaths. “I’m a killer.”

“Paulette.”

Her knees wobbled. His voice slipped further away.

“Corazón,” the woman said.

“Gibson.” That was someone else in this fog.

“Is she all right?” Hands gripped her waist. Someone lifted her.

Bink reached for her. He needed her. He needed to touch her, to talk to her.

Bakeley pushed at him. “You’re bleeding again, brother.”

His neck cloth was splattered red. “It’s Agruen’s blood. Give her to me.”

“Sit down in that filthy chair, Edward.” The crackly voice made his hair stand and he turned to look.

Shaldon, the old lord, his father, risen from the dead, held the center of the room against all attackers.

He should have known. He should have known.

He’d been maneuvered. Tricked. Leg-shackled to the bride selected by Shaldon. And Paulette, his lovely Paulette, had been used as bait to catch a traitor.

“What the hell have you done?” Bink shouted.

“Sit, Edward, and Bakeley will give you your wife back.”

The urge to smash the older man’s face was overwhelming, until he glanced at Paulette. He sat and let Bakeley settle her in his lap.

“I am not a sack of corn.” Her voice strained like the fresh stitches in his side, causing him as much pain.

Still, she could speak, and wasn’t protesting his hold on her.

He smoothed her hair back and examined her injuries, bruises and small scratches only, it seemed, and the remnants of the terrible fear of facing Agruen’s torture.

Anger, that fierce rage, swelled in him again. If she wasn’t here, on his lap, he’d kill the man with his bare hands.

And be what? The killer she knew him to be.

Despair hit again. Her letter had given him hope, hope that she wasn’t ready to forsake him after all she’d learned, all they’d both learned. Agruen—Josiah Dickson—had, all those years ago, played on Bink’s quick temper, his great bulk, and his urge to think first with his fists.

Paulette blinked, frowned and turned toward the sound of Shaldon’s voice, issuing orders.

She sat up. “You.” She stretched a finger and pointed at the living, breathing man who was his father.

“Hello, Paulette.”

“You are a scoundrel. You sold my home. Sold it. To Cummings, and you…you…let him take it, and you weren’t even truly dead. And you tricked me into marriage.”

Bink’s heart fell. He was the husband she’d been tricked into marrying. His wound ached, but the sharp pain in his heart was far worse.

He’d risked it all, had it all, lost it all.

“And you, Bakeley.” She was in a right temper, her skin pinching pink, her hair dangling at her shoulders. He wanted to kiss the anger out of her, to draw some of that spirit into himself. “You knew. You knew, and you lied, to me, and to…”

She stiffened and glared at him.

“And to me also. I did not know. And about marrying you, I’m not a bit sorry,” he said in a gruff whisper. “I love you.”

She went pinker still and her gaze darted away.

“I’m a useless lump, but it was not right, Father, Brother, to use Paulette as bait.”

Bakeley jumped in. “This shouldn’t have gone this way. If you had but trusted me—”

“Trusted you?” Bink swore a colorful oath.

“I’m your brother.”

“And he’s our father. And he’s deceived us.”

Agruen had been shackled and helped to his feet. He wasn’t dead after all.

The room filled with men, operatives of Shaldon’s. Agruen’s henchman was being led away, and Filomena’s wounds were being tended.

“Who is she, truly?” he asked.

“A whore,” Agruen said.

“There now,” Shaldon said. “Fil’s not a whore. She’s a patriot, though not of England. Never mind, she’s helped with our strategies, unwittingly I’m afraid. Dear girl, it’s always a pleasure to work with you. We shall talk. Agruen, your days of running free across England are over. How your story ends will depend on how much you wish to share with us.” Shaldon tilted his head and three men hauled Agruen toward the door. “Not you, Kincaid.”

He hadn’t noticed Kincaid. The Scotsmen too were here, as well as Tellingford and the clerks. The solicitor’s office might be real, but it was also well-connected with Shaldon’s operation.

Paulette could be a statue perched on his lap, she was that stiff. She would be up and away in moments, and he must let her go.

“Paulette,” Shaldon said gently, “Filomena De Silva is not truly your cousin.”

“No? She bears my mother’s maiden name.”

“That is true. But it was the woman who raised you who was your cousin. Filomena is your mother.”

“Bloody hell,” Bink breathed.

Paulette heard the curse explode from him and she wobbled. “How?”

Fil frowned. “Must we have an audience?”

With one nod, the room cleared, except for Kincaid, Bakeley, Shaldon and the three bloodied victims of Agruen’s violence.

Fil wheezed. “Must we do this in this filthy lair?”

“Get on with it,” Bink said.

Still speaking for Paulette, when she could speak for herself. Strange, but it didn’t bother her.

“Paul and I met in Italy. We were lovers. Then he went off to France. I had you. I left you with friends while I worked. When he found out, he confronted me. I could not care for you and work also, and it was a precarious time everywhere. I had an uncle in Cornwall, and Paul took you to him. I did not know that his daughter, my cousin, would steal my lover, but that is what happened. Paul met Sela and,” she waved a dismissive hand “married her, and with Shaldon’s help, set her up in that cottage.”

Had it been another one of Shaldon’s arranged marriages, with her as a pawn?

“You and he just gave me away?”

Fil shrugged. “It was war. You did not go hungry. No French pigs came to your door to rape you. Your house was not blown up by cannons. Did she…did she not care for you?”

Had she?

Her mother had been a gentle woman, not given to violent tempers, but so inwardly drawn it had been hard for Paulette to really know her. Had she accepted her lot—an absent husband and a child who was not her own?

She studied the face of the woman claiming to be her mother and wondered what answer would hurt her the most.

No. Hurting her was not the answer. There’d been enough lies all around. “She kept me safe. She showed me love. Her lies were ones of omission.”

Filomena grimaced. “There are always lies. Are there not, Kincaid? Behold, Paulette, your father’s half-brother.”

Kincaid cast the woman a baleful look.

“Why am I not surprised?” She looked from face to face. “Tell me. What is it truly I’m supposed to have? What is this letter from my father?”

Filomena chuckled, and Kincaid glared at her again.

“There was no letter from the French,” Fil said. “Only a clever counterfeit that allowed me to bleed the man for a bit. You knew that, did you not, Lord of Spies? But as for what your father sent to you, Paulette? Why, money of course. A ransom to the French. Agruen stole it from the French, Paul stole it back again, brought it to England, and decided to keep it. Is that not true, your Lordship?”

Shaldon seated himself on a wooden chair. “Agruen thought it was true, but we don’t know. It could as well be that the money is scattered across Spain. It was, as Fil says, a ransom for one of our people. When it went missing, when Agruen stole it, the French wanted it replaced. If Heardwyn took it, it was because he knew a replacement had been arranged.” He shrugged. “Like all spies, your father could be enterprising at times.”

In other words, her father could lie and steal. “And so you, Mother, and you, Uncle, let me be the lure for a villain chasing money you don’t even know exists.”

“We were not working together,” Fil said. “I am not without hope that the money exists. The cause of restoring the constitution of Spain can use that money.”

“Aye, the crown would like the money also, but it was never about money for me,” Kincaid said. “It was about stopping a traitor and uncovering his web. And I would never let you be hurt, lass.”

“But she was hurt,” Bink growled. “You couldn’t just scoop Agruen up and torture him?”

“This is England,” Shaldon said. “Not France. Paulette, Agruen’s pursuit of you was inevitable. He was getting desperate, and we knew he’d go after you long before your trust was dissolved on your twenty-fifth birthday. We feared he might even appear at your cottage and try to force you to marry him.”

Her breath caught. “He admitted he killed his wife.”

Shaldon grimaced. “With or without our involvement, Agruen was drawn to you. So we came up with a plan. Your uncle insisted you not be unprotected. The matchmaking scheme was his, and a brilliant match it is.”

Bink stiffened and her heart lifted. He hadn’t been part of this plotting. He’d been as much a victim as she was. Except…

“You matched me with the man who killed my father?”

Kincaid cleared his throat. “We matched you with a man of courage and heart and loyalty, a man who would defend the defenseless, protect women and children, and put his life on the line for his fellows. And yes, we knew he had beaten Paul, but it wasn’t him who killed him. That was Agruen, finishing the job a few days later.”

She turned to face Bink, and the hand she touched him with came back wet. It was covered with blood, and his face was a grim, grey mask, his eyes, tiny points of light.

“Bink. Bink,” she shouted. “He’s bleeding.” She jumped from his lap and tore open his coat. “Help him.”