Chapter Six

C HAPTER S IX

Lady Long-Nose rode with Sabinus and fenced with him, too. She had long philosophical discussions with him and helped critique his poetry. They were very close. One day, Lady Long-Nose knew she could no longer keep her love silent. She determined to write him a letter filled with her hopes, her dreams, and her yearning.…

—From Lady Long-Nose

Elspeth paused just inside Harlowe House’s ballroom the next night and glanced suspiciously back at the butler.

Freya sighed. “Stop staring. Fletcher is not a thief or a murderer.”

Elspeth transferred her glance to Freya. “How do you know?”

“Because,” Freya said patiently, “Fletcher came with the best of references: a royal princess.”

“The royal family is deeply suspicious,” Elspeth said. “And besides, Fletcher might be biding his time.”

“For what?” Freya demanded.

Elspeth narrowed her eyes, but had to confess, “I do not know.”

Kester, the Duke of Harlowe and Freya’s newly wedded husband, turned a chuckle into a cough.

“Don’t encourage her,” Freya murmured to Kester before turning to Lucretia.

Messalina, who was behind them in the receiving line with a bored-looking Mr. Hawthorne, said, “Why don’t you take Elspeth to the punch, darling?”

“Of course.” Lucretia nodded to her sister.

Freya smiled at another newly arrived guest.

“I don’t like punch,” Elspeth muttered a bit rebelliously as she strolled beside the other woman.

“No one likes punch,” Lucretia returned.

“Then why do people drink it?”

“It’s… festive?” Lucretia didn’t seem at all sure.

Elspeth shook her head but was distracted by Freya’s ballroom. She’d seen the room only once, when Freya had shown Elspeth around Harlowe House back when she’d first arrived in London.

Tonight the room sparkled.

The walls were a lovely pale greenish blue, decorated by white plaster bas-reliefs. The ceiling was quite high and entirely painted with a scene of… well, she wasn’t certain, but there were quite a lot of naked bodies. Suspended over the guests were two enormous chandeliers, candlelight reflecting off the glass drops.

Hundreds more candles were lit around the room, the smell of beeswax and smoke heavy in the air. Massive bunches of white hothouse roses stood on pedestals and tables, their perfume mingling with the beeswax.

People crowded the room, silks and velvet in colors so bright it was like a spinning rainbow.

The ball was loud and odorous and hot and gloriously beautiful.

Elspeth had absently linked arms with Lucretia when she spied Mr. Greycourt, looking bored as he lounged against a wall.

“Freya invited Julian?” Lucretia asked, following Elspeth’s gaze. “I didn’t think Kester was on speaking terms with Julian?”

“I don’t think he is,” Elspeth replied slowly, and then rather nonsensically, “Either Julian or Ranulf.”

She had only fragmented memories of all three men being thick as thieves before the tragedy at Greycourt.

She glanced back at the receiving line. Both Kester and Freya looked unconcerned.

“Then why—?” Lucretia whispered.

Mr. Hawthorne’s voice came from behind them. “I asked Harlowe to invite both Julian and Quintus.”

Elspeth turned along with Lucretia to find Mr. Hawthorne standing with Messalina, her hand tucked in his elbow.

Messalina stared at her husband suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

Mr. Hawthorne’s lips curled quite wickedly. “Must my actions be nefarious?”

“Yes,” Messalina said with blunt certitude.

Elspeth’s brows knit. “Aren’t you glad your brothers are here?”

“The gossipmongers are the ones who will be glad,” Messalina said in hushed tones. “Kester hasn’t spoken to Julian since that summer, and it’s well known that neither Julian nor the Duke of Ayr has spoken to him.” Messalina shot an apologetic look at Elspeth. “I’m afraid everyone talks in London. It should only be our concern, but they all know.”

Elspeth looked about the ballroom and understood what Messalina meant. There were small groups of ladies and gentlemen chatting together, which was usual. What wasn’t usual was that more than a few were darting glances between the Greycourt sisters and her and Mr. Greycourt.

“I had no idea that people still cared enough to gossip about it,” Elspeth said slowly. “This must be so horrible for your brother.”

Lucretia pursed her lips. “A few years ago, Julian was blackballed from every social club in London. He’s probably used to gossip by now.”

Elspeth glanced at Mr. Greycourt. He seemed supremely unaffected by the whispering, though he must hear it. He was such a private man, though. Could he really become immune to this public shunning?

Mr. Greycourt looked up as if he felt her gaze. His gray eyes seemed piercing, even across the crowded room, and for a moment, her heartbeat seemed to slow, and the noise disappeared, as if only they were in the ballroom. She suddenly remembered that she hadn’t spoken to him since that one searing kiss the previous morn. Did he still think about their embrace as she did?

Or had he forgotten?

Elspeth inhaled and focused her attention on her friends.

“You look like you’ve bitten into an apple and found a worm,” Lucretia said critically.

Elspeth sighed. “Not a worm, but rather your older brother.” She looked again and saw that Mr. Greycourt now had his head pointedly turned away from her direction. That was fair, she supposed. If she could ignore him, then he was justified in ignoring her. The thought made her mood dip. She muttered, “And I saw Mr. Greycourt. I didn’t bite him.”

Mr. Hawthorne coughed into his fist.

Messalina blinked and seemed to dig her elbow into her husband’s side as she asked Elspeth, “Have you had the punch yet?”

“No,” Lucretia said, answering for them both. “We’ve been avoiding it.”

“If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” Mr. Hawthorne murmured, “I see a gentleman I must speak to. Will you accompany me, my wife?”

Messalina beamed up at her husband. “Naturally.”

They strolled away without further ado.

Lucretia sighed. “She’s quite lost her head over him.”

“Well,” Elspeth said as they continued their perambulation of the room, “I suppose if one is going to lose one’s head, a husband is just as well as any other man.”

Lucretia snorted. “You have the oddest way of putting things.”

“Do I?” Elspeth glanced at the other woman. “Then what do you think of the matter?”

“I think,” Lucretia said, “that’s it’s a very good thing that Gideon worships my sister.”

“Mm.” Elspeth hummed a reply. “Have you started your knife lessons with Mr. Hawthorne?”

“Yes.” Lucretia gave a shudder. “Much too early this morning. I can’t tell you how sore my muscles are. I don’t understand why learning to knife fight is so strenuous.”

Elspeth fought not to smile. “Did you find the lessons useful?”

“That’s the worst part,” the other woman said in a put-out tone of voice. “They are useful. Terribly so. I feel I’m learning so much. I just regret the exercise involved.”

“That is a pity,” Elspeth said as levelly as she could.

But she must have given some sign of her amusement, for Lucretia squinted at her suspiciously.

Then the girl’s eyes widened as she saw something behind Elspeth. “There’s Arabella Holland,” Lucretia exclaimed. “Shall we go greet her?”

Elspeth hesitated. She liked Arabella, but she had business to attend to. “I hope you don’t mind if I decline and talk to your brother instead? I’m not sure I thanked him for saving me at Westminster Abbey.”

“Oh.” Lucretia glanced between her brother and Miss Holland as if undecided.

“You needn’t accompany me,” Elspeth said cheerily. “I think I can approach Mr. Greycourt by myself.”

“Well, yes, but…” Lucretia bit her lip. “It might stir up the gossips more.”

“They don’t scare me.” Elspeth withdrew her arm from Lucretia’s. “I shall wave my handkerchief if I need help.”

And with that she walked toward Mr. Greycourt. She couldn’t stop anticipation tugging at her belly. Mr. Greycourt was severe and intimidating and oftentimes quite rude, but it was a facade, she knew now. Inside he cared to almost a fanatical degree. He was intelligent, sarcastic, and most definitely hiding something.

She wanted to rip open that false front and find what softness he hid inside.

“Lady Elspeth,” he muttered as she drew closer.

“Mr. Greycourt.” She dipped him a curtsy. “How wonderful to see you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You saw me just yesterday.”

“I did.” She nodded gravely. “But so much has happened since then.”

“Such as?” he asked.

“Mmm…” She hummed while she thought. “I uncovered a Don Quixote in your sister’s library, beautifully preserved and bound in red leather.”

“Remarkable.” His tone was bored, but she noticed that he hadn’t looked away from her since she’d arrived by his side.

“Oh, it is,” Elspeth assured him. “It’s in Spanish and possibly one of the first editions published. Also, I named my new dog.” She waited, but although he still watched her out of the corner of his eye, he didn’t ask. “You should say, ‘What is his name?’”

Mr. Greycourt exhaled slowly. As if tamping down exasperation.

“Plum!” She answered anyway. “I think it quite fits him.”

“What do you want, Lady Elspeth?” he asked.

“The pleasure of your company,” she replied gently.

For a moment, there was something in his expression. Surprise? Vulnerability? Longing?

Then his eyes iced over. “Not even my sisters enjoy my company, my lady. Cut line.”

“I think they rather do,” she said, but sighed when he gave no reply. “Books.”

He blinked. “What?”

Elspeth cleared her throat. “I was discussing the Greycourt libraries yesterday with Messalina. She said that the Duke of Windemere wasn’t interested in books, so he had many of the libraries dismantled.” She paused and said carefully, “I wondered if you knew of any that survived? Perhaps he overlooked an obscure estate?”

He stared at her for a very long moment before speaking. “You’re quite obsessed with libraries, aren’t you?”

She cocked her head. “Isn’t everyone?”

“No.” He glanced away again. “Most people couldn’t think of anything more boring.”

“Then you have no library yourself?”

He looked at her, his eyes such a fathomless gray she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “I didn’t say that.”

Her hopes rose. “You must have a London townhouse.”

“No.” His mouth twisted for some reason. “My mother left me a hunting lodge from her family. Adders Hall.”

“Ah,” she said brightly. “Near to London?”

“No. It’s almost to the Welsh border,” he snapped.

Well, that put to rest any ideas of a day outing. Elspeth examined him, this man who kept such a tight rein on himself, and couldn’t help saying, “I think you like libraries after all.”

Something flared to life behind his eyes.

“Like libraries, my lady?” He stepped so close he loomed over her. “Let me tell you this: My father collected books. He loved them. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting on his lap while Father showed me his latest acquisition. He’d turn the pages and point to a griffin or a daffodil or a map of France. The library at Greycourt was my father’s most prized possession.” His icy, uninflected tenor was in sharp contrast to the passionate words he spoke. “Father had been buried only a day when Augustus began selling or destroying his books. There isn’t anything left there. My mother was only able to save a single small crate of my father’s books. She sent them to Adders. Everything else is gone.” For a second—only a second!—his face twisted. “Yes. Yes , I like libraries.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her heart aching. “I can’t fathom the loss if the library where I grew up were destroyed. All that knowledge. All those memories. A library is more than a space with books.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Mr. Greycourt’s expression seemed to soften. “Yes. My father’s library was the best of him.”

“And it’s gone.” She touched his arm with her fingers.

He glanced down at her hand, and his mouth tightened. “Now you’ve wrested my sad story from me, I think we are done.”

She pressed her lips together in sudden irritation. “Are you this way with everyone you know? So abrupt and dismissive?”

“What do you care?” he sneered.

She exhaled forcefully, having lost all patience. “I care because I breathe and think and laugh and cry. I care because I’m alive. I suspect that you, Mr. Greycourt, have been dead for a very long time.”

Dead? Julian stared after Lady Elspeth as she walked away. If he was dead, then why had she left him feeling so alive?

He ached to go after her, to catch her arm, make her stop, and tell her exactly what he thought of her and her opinions. But he could hear the whispers already. The gossips looking at him, at her, wondering what a de Moray might want with a Greycourt.

Julian turned to glare at the clump of young ladies to his right, making them scurry away from him. He might’ve scared the girls, but tomorrow, the spat he’d had with Lady Elspeth would be all over town.

She should know better.

She ought to be more discreet, more reserved, more ladylike.

Julian sighed.

Except Lady Elspeth wasn’t and never would be either discreet or reserved. She spun around his family and around London as if she were some fae queen, without worry or fear. As if she’d been reared far from everything he understood. As if she’d come from another, wilder world.

Lady Elspeth burst into his awareness like the sun rising, bringing warmth and light, making his world iridescent with color.

And what was worse, he couldn’t find it in himself to condemn her brilliance. He liked her. She argued with him, made him question his own opinions, made him feel . He was anything but dead in her presence.

Feelings, he reminded himself, could be a distraction. He was thinking about Lady Elspeth far too much. He was here to guard Lucretia. The thought made him jerk his head up, only to see Lucretia, still chatting animatedly with Arabella Holland and her mother.

Julian felt his shoulders loosen only fractionally at the sight of his sister. Right now, she was safe from Windemere’s machinations—but for how long? Perhaps he should chance it. Take her to the Americas or the East Indies himself, even if that would put Augustus on his trail immediately.

If only…

A broad hand came down on his shoulder. “Enjoying the ball?”

Julian turned to glare at Quinn.

“Of course,” his brother continued, “you seem to be spending it propping up the wall, which makes one wonder. But you’ve also talked to a certain pretty young lady.”

“Quinn,” Julian growled, knowing it was useless.

“I don’t believe I remember her,” his brother said softly. “But then she would’ve only been what? Five? Six?”

“Six.” Julian could feel himself flushing.

Quinn nodded. “So one-and-twenty now. A bit—”

“Shut up.”

“A bit ,” Quinn continued, “young, perhaps?”

“She’s not in the schoolroom,” Julian snapped, and then he winced.

Because Quinn grinned. “Oh no, of course not.”

Julian closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. She’s not for me.”

When he opened them again, Quinn had lost his smile. “Why not? I’ve never seen you taken so much by a woman. Except for—”

“No,” Julian said. “Not here.”

Quinn sighed. “As you like.” His hand dropped from Julian’s shoulder.

Leaving Julian cold again. “Have you any news for me?”

He could feel his brother looking at him before Quinn said, “No, Augustus’s schedule has been the same, quite ordinary meetings with his solicitors and the like…”

His voice trailed off.

“What?” Julian asked.

“Nothing,” Quinn said. “I just saw that Ann’s here.”

Julian turned around. “Where? Is Augustus with her?”

“No,” Quinn muttered. “Some other gentleman.”

Julian finally caught sight of the duchess, standing near a side entrance to the ballroom. Her hand rested on… “That’s George Etherege, Earl Mulgrave.”

“Mulgrave?” Quinn’s nose wrinkled. “Isn’t he a libertine?”

“Yes, there are rumors that he likes to hurt women,” Julian said grimly, pushing through the crowd with Quinn behind. “What in hell is our uncle doing, letting Ann be escorted by Mulgrave of all people? Come.”

It was nearing eleven of the clock, and the crush was at its thickest. People stood shoulder by shoulder, breathing each other’s air, inhaling sweat and perfume. Julian was determined, though, and at last they stepped before the duchess.

“Your Grace,” Julian said as he bent over her hand, “you look lovely.” As he straightened, though, he realized he had lied. Ann’s complexion was nearly gray, her eyes shadowed, and her fingers trembled in his. The change from only days ago made him ask, “Are you quite well?”

“Oh,” she said, touching her temple, “it’s nothing. His Grace has told me that I merely have a touch of melancholy. I’m here at his request. He feels I shall revive my spirits with company.”

Julian wasn’t entirely sure how “melancholy” could cause such pallor, but the bigger problem was the man with Ann. “I don’t believe I’ve met your companion?”

Ann blinked. “Earl Mulgrave, these are my nephews, Mr. Julian Greycourt and Mr. Quintus Greycourt. And this is George Etherege, Earl Mulgrave.”

Julian made a short bow, though Quinn didn’t bother with the niceties.

“How do you know Her Grace?” Quinn asked aggressively.

Julian studied the man.

Lord Mulgrave had an aquiline face, handsome, with eyes that seemed to be habitually heavy lidded. He wore an ornate purple silk suit with gold-and-black embroidery at the wrists and pockets, and his white wig was curled and powdered exquisitely. He looked like any other aristocrat here, save that he also wore three black velvet patches on his face. Julian couldn’t help but wonder if they covered syphilis pox scars.

“I am a friend of Windemere,” Mulgrave replied with a dimpled smile. “Although I find myself rather insulted that I must explain to you of all people, Greycourt. After all, I’m not the one disgraced in society’s eyes. Now if you will excuse us—”

“Not yet.” Julian caught his arm, disregarding the earl’s slur. After all it was true. “Your Grace, would you give me the privilege of escorting you?”

Ann’s eyes widened. “What?”

“She doesn’t need your escort.” Mulgrave still held his smile, but something had gone wrong behind his eyes. They seemed as blank and unfeeling as a toad’s. “I’m perfectly capable.”

“You’re a damned libertine,” Quinn said, “and unfit to stand next to any woman.”

“Come, Your Grace,” Julian said, holding out his hand.

Ann visibly wavered before taking his hand.

Julian let Mulgrave go, tucking Ann’s hand into his elbow.

The man exhaled a laugh. “You know this is all quite farcical,” Mulgrave said while removing a snuffbox from his pocket. His words and face were calm, but his hands were trembling. “After all, I’ll soon be your brother-in-law.”

For a moment, all Julian could see was Mulgrave’s dimpled smile growing wider. Mulgrave was the man Augustus meant to wed Lucretia to. He inhaled and said to Quinn, “Take Ann and find Lucretia.”

Without a word, his brother led Ann away.

Mulgrave laughed. “Why bother hiding my bride?” he asked as he carefully tapped out a line of snuff on the side of his thumb. “Augustus and I have already signed the marriage contract. We only need to set a wedding date.” He inhaled the snuff and then sneezed into a handkerchief.

“You’ll not be marrying my sister.” Julian was fighting to keep his breathing even, to not let his rage past his defenses. “She doesn’t want to marry you or anyone else at the moment.”

“Indeed?” Mulgrave shrugged and put away his handkerchief. “But you must know that your sister’s wishes matter not at all. Augustus is her guardian, and he has agreed to give her to me. I must say I’m looking forward to both her dowry and her… time.”

The urge to take the man by the neck and shake him until Mulgrave’s eyes bled was almost overwhelming. “Stay away from Lucretia,” he rasped.

Mulgrave snickered. “I mean to collect your sister sometime tomorrow or the day after—we’ll be marrying at my townhouse, I think. But I’m beginning to wonder if I should capture her tonight. I’ve enough footmen waiting outside the ballroom. What do you think?”

It had been only minutes since Quinn had left, and he was burdened with Ann. Even if he’d found Lucretia, he probably hadn’t removed her from the house. Quinn needed more time.

Julian punched the earl in the jaw.

The man staggered back, nearly falling as several shrieks rose from the surrounding women.

“I say!” an older gentleman exclaimed.

“How dare you!” the earl screamed, his wig fallen to reveal a shaved head. “To me!”

The side door to the ballroom burst open and footmen—in Mulgrave’s yellow livery—swarmed in. Julian just had time to hit Mulgrave one more time, and then he was pulled off by the footmen. He fought, of course, striking flesh, kicking legs, doing anything he could as more shrieks and yelling rose around them. But he was hit in the stomach, the face, and the back of the knee, the last making him fall to the ground, where he had little defense against the kicks coming from all sides.

“Enough!” the Duke of Harlowe—Kester—shouted. “Enough.”

The footmen stopped, breathing heavily, as they backed away from Julian.

His ribs hurt. As did his face. He looked up and saw his childhood friend staring down at him. “What is going on, Jules?” the duke asked, thrusting his hand toward him.

Julian took Kester’s hand and used it to get to his feet. “A disagreement.”

“I’ll have you arrested,” Mulgrave growled at him.

“Stay away from my family,” Julian snarled back, causing a couple of footmen to step closer.

Mulgrave waved his men away. “As I said, I’d have you arrested, but for the fact that it would drag my fiancée’s name through the mud.”

Julian surged forward, only to be caught by Kester. “Stop.”

“Let me go,” Julian growled to the duke.

“Jules,” Quinn was panting beside him, “Kester is right. Mulgrave can have you before a magistrate.”

Julian suddenly remembered what Quinn was supposed to be doing. “Lucretia—”

“Safe,” Quinn whispered in his ear. “Hawthorne is with her. And I’ve seen Ann off. She looked quite ill.”

“I think,” Mulgrave interrupted, “you had better listen to whatever your brother is whispering to you.”

“Fuck you,” Quinn replied, tugging Julian backward.

Kester had disappeared, perhaps to find his own footmen to have Julian removed.

Mulgrave laughed. “I won’t forget this.” He gestured to the jaw that Julian had hit.

“We need to find Lucretia,” Julian said, never taking his eyes from the earl as Quinn hurried him away. “Now.”

Elspeth watched Mr. Greycourt and his brother approach the Duchess of Windemere and the gentleman escorting her. Odd. Both Greycourt brothers looked on edge, their shoulders squared.

She shook her head and returned to watching the dancers. They moved in a line in a very stately manner, a far cry from the wild dancing she’d seen in Scotland. Was that because—

Someone cleared their throat behind her.

She turned to find a maid. “Pardon me, my lady, but Her Grace would like to see you in her personal sitting room.”

For a wild moment, Elspeth thought the Duchess of Windemere was summoning her before she remembered that Freya was also a duchess. “Thank you.”

Elspeth began making her way to one of the ballroom’s doors. It seemed rather odd that Freya would want to meet Elspeth during her ball. Was there some sort of emergency? But what sort?

She could see both Greycourt sisters and Mr. Hawthorne standing together on the other side of the room. And Kester was laughing with a couple of gentlemen.

Strange.

The hallway outside the ballroom was rather crowded with guests, but when Elspeth climbed the stairs to the upper floor, there was no one around.

She padded quietly down the hall to Freya’s bedroom. Beside it was another door—her personal sitting room. Elspeth knocked and went in.

Inside, Freya sat with another woman on a settee. “Quick. Shut the door.”

Elspeth closed the door before asking, “Who is this?”

The woman beside Freya was wearing a black cloak with a gray hood. She pushed it back, revealing a tangle of black hair loose around her shoulders and black eyes. “Don’t you recognize me, little Elspeth?”

“I think I do?” Elspeth stared. The woman had one of those ageless faces—she could be anywhere from sixteen to five and thirty. “You’re a Wise Woman, but I don’t know your name.”

“She’s the Crow,” Freya said very quietly, “and she’s come to London at great risk to herself. Tell her.”

“I went back when we were all recalled,” the Crow said, “to see what the Hags were doing.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’ve said or done, little Elspeth, but they’ve sent a woman to kill you.”

Elspeth felt her legs weaken, and she sat rather abruptly on a stuffed chair across from the settee.

She looked up. “They’ve set the Nemain on me?” The Nemain was a trained assassin—a woman who moved in the shadows, ready to kill any man the Hags ruled was deserving of death.

“No.” Freya reached to place her hand on Elspeth’s knee. “Listen.”

“It’s not the Nemain,” the Crow replied. “I’m not sure where the Nemain is, frankly. No, this is a different woman. I glimpsed her only once, so she can’t have grown up within the compound.”

“Do you have a name?” Freya asked.

“I’m sorry, no.” The Crow sounded regretful. “But she’s unmistakable. Her upper lip is scarred, as if someone cut through it and the flesh was sewn back together badly. Other than that, she has brown hair and is tall and slim.”

“Do you know where she is?” Elspeth asked.

“London,” the Crow said grimly. “I followed her trail here, but then lost her several days ago.”

“Several days ago?” Freya turned to Elspeth. “You said there was a shooting when you visited the cathedral.”

“That was probably her work, then,” the Crow said. “I’ve seen her carry a pistol.”

Elspeth shuddered as she relived the shot fired at Westminster Abbey. At the time, she had thought that it was intended for Mr. Greycourt.

“Dear God,” Freya murmured. “She’ll know we’re sisters. Perhaps you can hide with Messalina and her husband. Or”—she glanced at the Crow—“can we hire you as a protector for Elspeth?”

“I’m afraid not,” the woman replied. “I start back to Scotland tonight. There’s business I still have with the Wise Women at their compound.”

The Crow didn’t sound as if she considered herself a Wise Woman anymore, Elspeth thought with despair. What was she to do? Maighread’s diary was needed now more than ever, but she was worried about being discovered by this killer sent especially to murder her. Would she even be able to return to the compound in Scotland if she did find it?

And then she registered the rest of the Crow’s sentence.

“You’re returning to Scotland?”

“Within the hour,” the Crow said.

“Could you take someone with you?” Elspeth asked impulsively. “A woman being forced into marriage with an abominable man?”

The Crow didn’t hesitate. “Of course, if she can be ready in time.”

Elspeth turned to her sister. “Lucretia.” She’d told Freya of Lucretia’s peril only the night before.

Freya strode to the door and called for her maid.

“Your Grace?” The girl must’ve been waiting nearby.

Freya murmured some instructions and then shut the door again, looking at Elspeth. “She’s wearing a ball gown.”

“Then we must find her something else,” Elspeth said. “Do you have anything?”

“Of course,” Freya replied, opening the door that connected her sitting room to her bedroom. “But I’m shorter than Lucretia.”

“And your dresses will be much too fine, I’m guessing,” the Crow said. “What about that maid?”

Freya nodded, letting Messalina and Lucretia inside the bedroom along with Mr. Hawthorne. She turned back to the door and talked to the maid.

“What has happened?” Mr. Hawthorne demanded.

Elspeth squared her shoulders. “We’ve found someone to save Lucretia.”

“Have you.” His words were flat, and he was eyeing the Crow, who had donned her hood before everyone came in.

“Yes,” Elspeth said. “And Lucretia needs to take off her dress, so I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

Mr. Hawthorne didn’t exactly seem convinced, but he turned to look at Messalina.

She smiled at her husband and nodded.

That was all he needed, apparently, for without a word he left the room.

Freya came back inside. “Mary is fetching a gown.”

“Let me help you out of that dress,” Elspeth said to Lucretia.

“Who is she?” Lucretia asked, motioning to the Crow.

The Crow pushed back her hood. “I’m your savior.”

Elspeth took down Lucretia’s hair as Freya and Messalina dealt with her skirts and bodice. “She’s a Wise Woman. We’re sending you to Scotland.”

“Just like that?” Lucretia asked, sounding alarmed. “But I haven’t my clothes or—or anything of mine.”

“I leave by half past eleven,” the Crow said calmly.

Elspeth glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was already fifteen after.

“Either you come or you don’t,” the Crow continued. “Doesn’t make a difference to me. But know this: if you come, I’ll protect you with my life.”

Lucretia swallowed and nodded.

Five minutes later, Lucretia stood in a plain dark-blue linsey-woolsey gown, her hair in simple braids pinned to her head under a large, floppy bonnet.

Both she and her sister were in tears.

Lucretia hugged Freya and Elspeth and lastly her sister.

“Goodbye, darling,” Messalina said, holding Lucretia tight.

And then Lucretia and the Crow were gone.

Elspeth sank into the settee, feeling suddenly weary. Everything had happened so fast, and she still had to deal with the assassin who was after her.

Freya sighed. “I need to go back to the ball. People will comment on my absence.”

Messalina nodded, blotting her face with a handkerchief. “You go. Give me a few minutes, and then both Elspeth and I will come.”

Freya nodded, moving to the door, but it was suddenly slammed open.

Julian Greycourt stood there in front of Mr. Hawthorne and Quintus Greycourt, a bruise rising on one elegant cheekbone, and glared at Elspeth. “Where is my sister?”

Elspeth opened her mouth, but no words came.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Hawthorne said to his wife. “I tried to stop him.”

Mr. Greycourt actually bared his teeth. “Stop me from what?”

“Jules,” Quintus Greycourt murmured, “there’s no need to shout.”

“Then produce Lucretia,” Mr. Greycourt demanded. He was still staring at Elspeth.

He was magnificent, she couldn’t help thinking, entirely inappropriately, and then, even worse, what would it be like to have control over such a man? To order him to his knees.

She felt a flood of warmth.

Messalina said, “She’s gone. We’ve sent her to Scotland.”

“With whom?” Quintus Greycourt asked.

“With a friend,” Elspeth said quietly.

“How dare you,” Mr. Greycourt snarled. “She needs guards and a plan.”

“No,” Messalina said. “Lucretia needed a way to get out of London without anyone knowing. She’s done that with Elspeth’s help.”

Mr. Greycourt turned on her. “And you simply trust Lady Elspeth with our sister’s life?”

Elspeth inhaled, feeling the pain tighten her breast. He didn’t trust her, it was clear. She might feel close to him, as if they were on the brink of a new realization, but he seemed still back in the Windemere Library at their first meeting. When he didn’t know her at all.

“I do trust her,” Messalina said. “With Lucretia’s life.”

For a moment, Mr. Greycourt stared, his eyes narrowed in what might be hurt. Then he strode from the room.

Quintus Greycourt gave one last glance at his sister and then followed Mr. Greycourt.

Mr. Hawthorne took Messalina into his arms. “I’m sorry. Quinn told me that they’ve discovered the man that was meant to marry Lucretia—Earl Mulgrave. And he was here tonight.”

Elspeth’s breath caught in her throat.

Messalina pulled back from her husband, her face gone white. “What?”

Mr. Hawthorne said grimly, “I don’t know why Mulgrave decided to show, but Julian had an altercation with him outside. His mood is not your fault.”

Messalina nodded absently and then turned to Elspeth. “Can Mulgrave follow them?”

“He could try,” Elspeth returned, remembering why she’d sent Lucretia away with the Crow. “But he’d lose them.”

“That’s good,” Messalina said.

Freya came back into the room. “Earl Mulgrave was at the ball. He must’ve sneaked in because I certainly didn’t invite him.”

“So we’ve heard from Mr. Hawthorne,” Elspeth said.

Freya looked at the man. “Did you tell them that the earl and Mr. Greycourt came to fisticuffs?”

Mr. Hawthorne raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know.”

Freya sat next to Elspeth and sighed. “Kester told me. I have no doubt that it will be the talk of the town tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry.” Elspeth frowned, thinking. “The earl may have left spies. And even if he didn’t, everyone in the ballroom will be watching.” She looked at Messalina. “You need to go back down. Act as if everything is normal.”

“But shouldn’t we leave?” Messalina asked.

“No,” Freya replied. “Elspeth is right. If you leave early, it might create suspicion.”

“Right.” Mr. Hawthorne took his wife’s arm, starting for the door.

“Wait,” Messalina said, turning to Elspeth. “Aren’t you coming?”

“In a minute.” Elspeth glanced at her sister. “I need to discuss something with Freya.”

Messalina looked between them but didn’t ask any questions before leaving with her husband.

“What is it?” Freya asked.

Elspeth took a deep breath. “I need to search the library at Mr. Greycourt’s Adders Hall.”

Freya shook her head, sinking farther into a settee. “We haven’t time for this tonight. We still—”

“Freya,” Elspeth said.

Her sister stopped and looked at her.

Elspeth knelt and took Freya’s hands. “I’ve a murderer after me. I need to leave London. I can escape after the ball—”

“You can’t,” Freya said. “Ladies do not travel alone.”

“Then come with me,” Elspeth pleaded. “It will be fun.”

Freya closed her eyes as if weary to her soul. “Forgive me if I don’t wish to engender a scandal by stealing from Mr. Greycourt.”

For a second, Elspeth felt awful for making her sister so tired.

But the point remained.

“I must leave London. Is it really stealing when the diary properly belongs to the Wise Women?” Elspeth asked earnestly.

“Elspeth.” Freya sighed. “You know the tension that exists between Kester and Julian Greycourt. They won’t even acknowledge each other in the same room. I won’t be the catalyst that reignites their argument.”

Elspeth nodded, considering. “Then I shall have to take the mail coach, I suppose.” She wrinkled her nose. “I wonder what the nearest town to Adders Hall is?”

“Oh my Lord,” Freya muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t remember you being this—this contrary when we lived in the Wise Women’s compound.”

“That’s because I was a child,” Elspeth said gently. “Children take their opinions from their elders. Adult women make their own.”

“You’re right,” Freya said. “Of course you’re right. It just seemed easier to talk with you back then.”

“Easier because I agreed always with you?”

“Perhaps.” Freya gripped her hands together. “I’m afraid, darling. I’m afraid for you, I’m afraid for Lucretia, and I’m afraid for the Wise Women.”

Elspeth nodded. “Is there a coach that travels near Mr. Greycourt’s estate?”

Freya sighed heavily. “I’m not going to talk you out of this mad scheme, am I?”

“No.” Elspeth waited for her sister to make up her mind.

“Then yes, I have no doubt that there is a mail coach,” Freya said. “I can send one of Kester’s men to check tomorrow morning.”

Elspeth shook her head. “Now, please. I’ve stayed too long in London being distracted by balls and such. I want to find Maighread’s diary and save the Wise Women.”

Freya looked at her in alarm. “But you’ll come back to London even if you find the diary, won’t you? I’ll want to see you first before you journey to Dornach, and besides, you’ll need allies if you want to present the diary to the Hags.” Freya stopped suddenly. “I can’t believe you have me speaking as if the diary were a certain thing. You’ve made me lose my head to dreams.”

Elspeth smiled. “The diary may be a dream, but if I find it, the Wise Women will change. The world will change.”