Chapter One.2

"Very good, sir." Billings was already grabbing paper from a desk drawer.

Peter addressed Mr. Atkins once more. "Please know that we will do all we can to find your daughter. You have my word."

Relief washed over Mr. Atkins's face and as Peter took his leave, he hoped with all his might that he would live up to the promise he'd made him.

Stretched out on a Portman Square rooftop, Samantha Croft observed the activity taking place at Number 5 through her spyglass. It was nearing nine o'clock. Ten hours had passed since her husband's arrest, during which she'd not slept a wink.

Last night's events kept repeating in her head. The shocking sight that greeted her when she arrived at Miss Fontaine's lodgings – the shattered door and blood-splattered walls. Miss Fontaine and Mr. Benjamin Lawrence both dead. Adrian standing over the latter, a pistol in his hand. The look he'd sent her when Kendrick arrived on her heels.

She'd done what she could to prevent being followed when she'd gone to warn her husband about the plan to take him out. Kendrick letting that information slip had put her on guard, so she'd taken measures when she'd left home, just in case it was a ploy to figure out where her allegiance lay.

And yet the chief constable had managed to track her. Worse, he'd made it sound as though she'd deliberately helped him catch Adrian in the act of killing a man. The fact that Benjamin Lawrence was guilty of murder wouldn't matter. Especially since it was highly unlikely anyone would believe he'd been capable of the feat. Having spent several months pretending he'd lost the use of his legs.

Again, the betrayal she'd seen in Adrian's eyes speared her heart. Looking downtrodden and defeated, he'd not even tried explaining himself to Kendrick, but had chosen to go with him to Bow Street while she… She'd run, because that was the only way in which she could help her husband escape the fate that would find him at trial.

He'd killed a man – a marquess's son.

Death by hanging would be the sentence. To suppose anything less when most of the peerage wanted him gone would be foolish. All that was needed was an excuse, and Kendrick had found it. She'd bloody well handed it to him. An acknowledgement of fact that forced a series of curses from her lips.

For the hundredth time since fleeing through Miss Fontaine's window, she reconsidered every action she'd taken. Was there anything she could have done to gain a different result?

It was an exercise in futility. Nothing constructive would come from it. The only path now was forward. So she paid attention when the carriage she'd been expecting pulled up in front of the house, watched closely as a bulky man climbed out. He brought two other men with him – a pair of Runners, based on the bright red waistcoats they wore beneath dark blue coattails.

This was the chief magistrate, come to enact a search of the house, no doubt. He'd want the rest of the files Dorian Harlowe – the man who'd raised her and trained her to be a skilled agent for the Crown – had tasked her with acquiring. Compiled by the Crofts through multiple generations and filled with damning facts about members of Society, the files were primarily meant to provide them with leverage over others.

However, they also included information about the Croft family's dealings. Evidence that could be used against Adrian. Thankfully, she'd had the frame of mind to remove the most damning material yesterday. As soon as she'd realized the authorities were closing in. Before she'd gone to warn Adrian, unwittingly bringing Kendrick with her.

Palms pressed into the roof tiles, she watched Sir Nigel Clemens bang on the door with his fist, then held her breath, and released it when it was opened by Shaw.

Not the butler as one might expect, but Adrian's solicitor.

He and the chief magistrate exchanged a few words. Shaw retrieved a piece of paper. Additional words were spoken, then Shaw stepped back and the door was closed, denying the magistrate entry.

A smile pulled at Samantha's lips. So far so good. Croft House remained off limits. The servants still had a home and Adrian's private belongings would not be riffled through by strangers just yet. Phelps' funeral could also proceed as planned. Samantha's only regret that neither she nor Adrian were able to attend. Their loyal coachman deserved better after getting shot while attempting to drive them to safety, but her showing up posed too great a risk. She would without doubt be snatched up immediately.

She scooted backward, returned her spyglass to her jacket pocket, then leapt to her feet, and sprinted across the roof. Murry would help her strategize once she gave her report. And with the information he'd hopefully gathered, the options available to them would be made clearer.

The dependable valet and his men would provide the support she needed. They'd sworn to it last night when she'd rendezvoused with them in the woods just north of the City. The words they'd spoken in unison pulsed through her veins as she leapt toward the next building.

Upon our honor, we swear to serve the Crofts in the name of justice, to defend them with our lives, and to aid them by whatever means may be required.

The lighting was shit, Adrian decided, the comfort no better. Stretched out on the hard wooden bench his cell offered, he stared at the ceiling and focused on his breaths. It was the only way to stop from roaring with rage.

Trapped. He'd been hunted and caged like a beast. And who had aided his capture? His own damn wife.

God help him, he hoped she'd be there when they slipped the rope around his neck. Prayed he'd find her among the crowd for the simple pleasure of having her hear his last words. He'd use them to send her a message, tell her to pray. Because if she ever arrived in hell, he'd be there, waiting for her.

Rigid fingers curled into fists, nails digging against his palms while he gritted his teeth, the tension pulling his muscles taut. He reminded himself to relax, to let the anger burning inside him abate. A conscious effort accompanied by deep exhalation helped. Yet his heart continued to pound, like someone shouting the truth in his ears.

You're a fool. An embarrassment to your name. You let her deceive you. Not once, but twice. Whatever comes next, you deserve it.

Again, his hands fisted, but the anger now blooming inside him was not directed at her. This time it ran deeper, spreading roots through his past, through every decision he'd ever made, the choices that had guided his path and brought him here. Had his father still lived, he'd have called him a useless failure, and as much as Adrian hated the man, he would have been right in his assessment.

It was barely a year since he'd died and in that time, his son had managed to wreck an empire built by six generations. Nothing anyone told Adrian would ever be worse than the words he aimed at himself.

A snort of derision echoed against the cold walls. He'd tried to explain his actions last night because hell, why not? It wasn't as though he had anywhere better to be. So he'd taken his time with Kendrick, had offered him information leading back months, to the first account of Benjamin Lawrence's fall. The constable had scribbled away in his notebook, his pencil eagerly scratching across every page.

Disbelief had shown on his face several times and why wouldn't it? Had Adrian heard the tale from somebody else, he'd probably have dismissed it as absurd. But after figuring out what had happened and learning how driven Lawrence had been in his quest for vengeance, there was no disputing the man's devious nature.

It proved he'd not just been mentally ill, but brilliant in his patient plotting. Had it not been for the baser need that made him engage Miss Fontaine as his mistress, he'd probably have gotten away with it too. Instead, he'd sent a lead ball through her head without second thought, had planned on killing Adrian next in an act he would likely have claimed as self-defense.

Lawrence's overconfidence had been his downfall. He'd thought himself invincible and had not been aware of Adrian's blade until it had struck him. The choice to shoot him dead instead of just letting him slowly bleed out had forged a path from which there would be no escape.

Adrian considered that as he lay there, wondered if he might have acted differently had he known this was how it would all turn out. Maybe, but that didn't mean he was sorry for killing Lawrence. That bastard deserved what he got.

His only regret was how quick it had been.

A thought upon which he reflected until the sound of approaching footsteps distracted him. He glanced toward the barred door and the Runner who stopped on the opposite side, an older man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Do you need for the chamber pot to be emptied?" He jutted his chin toward the spot beneath the bench where the ceramic vessel was stored.

Adrian smirked. "What do you think? I've been here since last night. Can you hold your bladder that long?"

The Runner grimaced. "I'll have someone see to it while you meet with your visitor."

Interesting. Someone was here to see him?

Slowly, as though the notion bored him, he pushed himself upright. "Who is it?"

"Mr. Shaw. Claims to be your solicitor. For all the good it will do you." The Runner gave a low chuckle, only to school his features when Adrian snarled. A bit of fumbling produced a key and unlocked the door. "I'll need to tie your wrists together first. If you try to attack me or flee, you will be overpowered and beaten, your treatment here made worse. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly so." Adrian stood and placed both arms behind his back so the Runner could bind him however he wished.

"If it's up to me," the Runner murmured in Adrian's ear as he steered him from the cell moments later, "you'll be dead by tomorrow. Killed by your own hand, according to the report."

"You're mighty brave now that I've been restrained," Adrian said, "but I'm not at all sure that's what the report will say. Rather, I think it will question how a dead Runner wound up in my cell. For that is precisely what will occur if you try anything."

The man swallowed audibly then shoved Adrian through a doorway and into a small room where Shaw waited. Seated on one of two wooden chairs that faced each other across a plain table, Adrian's solicitor instantly stood in order to greet him.

He sent the Runner a stern look when the man remained where he was, one hand still gripping Adrian's arm. "You can go. What I have to say to my client does not concern you."

"It might be of interest to Kendrick," the Runner argued, his tone suggesting he meant to be difficult.

"Funny," Shaw muttered. "He did not seem the least bit inclined to fight my right to a confidential discussion with Croft when I passed him on the way in. But maybe you know his mind better. Shall we send for him so we can ask?"

"No. That…um…won't be necessary."

"Are you certain?" Shaw's green eyes were relentlessly sharp.

The Runner cleared his throat and released his tight hold on Adrian's arm. He stepped back. "Quite. I'll be back in ten minutes."

Shaw's gaze remained on the door until the Runner closed it, upon which he gave his full attention to Adrian. "We don't have much time, so let's not waste it. First things first, how are you faring?"

"Well enough, all things considered." Adrian sat and Shaw did the same. "News travels faster than I imagined. I didn't expect you to show up until much later."

"You're not wrong. I probably wouldn't have known what happened, were it not for the note that was brought to my house a few hours ago."

"A note?"

"Arrived at seven."

Shaw pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Adrian, who scanned the brief missive. Croft has been arrested by Kendrick. Murder charges will surely follow. Your help is required at once. Secure the house and protect your employer.

"I wrote up a legal document," Shaw informed him. "Managed to get a judge who owes me a favor to sign it. Presented it to the chief magistrate when he attempted to enter your home. He'll have to wait until you're found guilty now, which…"

Shaw's words faded into the background while Adrian stared at the elegant script adorning the paper before him. Even though there was no identifying signature, he knew the writing belonged to his wife. According to this, she had alerted Shaw – called upon him for assistance – and yet…

No. It couldn't be. Not after how she'd clearly betrayed him.

He shook his head, refused to let himself hope, because if he was wrong…

Lord help him, his heart would not survive it.