Chapter 23

Kit wasaware of the men moving around them, but she paid them no heed. Her attention—her anger—was locked on her father, and his glare was for her alone.

That’s how she needed it.

“Bonkinbone,” Thorne began, employing his duke voice for a change, “before I leave ye alone with yer precious Katherine, step this way.” He was gesturing toward the finely dressed woman he’d been sitting beside.

As the woman inclined her head slightly, an invitation for an introduction, Thorne cleared his throat. “Your Highness, please allow me to introduce William Stoughton, the Earl of Bonkinbone. Since he recently returned from Canada, ye might share fond reminisces together. Or ye would, if ye had anything fond to say about the country and he hadn’t been hiding like a wounded dog.” A mocking smile slid across Thorne’s face. “Bonkinbone, Her Royal Highness, the Princess Louise, Marchioness of Lorne.”

Kit’s breath had been stolen with the first words of the introduction.

Thiswas the Crown’s representative? One of the princesses? Even Kit knew that Princess Louise was a powerful woman, with ties to artists and politicians alike, and a goal of working toward the betterment of womankind. Her reputation went far beyond British borders.

But beyond the rumors she’d heard, Kit had to admit the Princess was far more impressive in person. She kept an air of detached certainty about her, as if knowing everyone around her was somehow lesser.

And her attention was firmly on Kit, even as she held her hand to Father.

As he bent over it, murmured pleasantries, the Princess smiled tightly at Kit. “I am pleased to finally meet you, Bonkinbone, having heard so much about you. But please,” she added, before anyone could ask what she’d heard about him, “introduce me to this talented young virtuoso.”

A muscle leapt in Father’s jaw as he straightened. “Your Highness, my daughter, Katherine Pastorino.”

Kit, suddenly wishing she’d quelled the completely idiotic instinct to wear fooking trousers to meet a fooking Princess, did her best to curtsey.

The Princess accepting the homage with a dip of her own chin. “But tell me, Bonkinbone, why her name is not Stoughton?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Why are you not Katherine Stoughton, my dear? Your father gave your mother his name, did he not?”

Oh hell. Even Thorne was looking a little uncertain here.

Kit tried for a reassuring smile. “My mother’s name was quite important to her fame, my—Your—uh…Highness.”

“Americans,” spat her father under his breath.

“Mother raised me in America,” Kit continued, ignoring him and speaking to the Princess. “Her family in Italy had been performers, and she capitalized on that when she studied opera. By the time she was successful, it would have been foolish to give up the name Pastorino, at least as far as the public was concerned.”

There. Let those listening think she and Mother used Stoughton in their private lives. Father himself had bristled at the implication, which was more than enough incentive for the lie.

“And why did your mother raise you herself?” the Princess asked with a hum before turning away, as if the answer didn’t matter. Or as if she were deliberately riling Kit’s father. “I suspect you two have rather a lot to catch up on. Stroken, what was that business you wanted to discuss?”

When Thorne stepped aside with Princess Louise, a charming expression on his face, and Father stepped closer to Kit, she felt her blood slowly turn icy. The look of banked rage in her father’s expression was enough to send fear through anyone, but Kit wasn’t going to allow it.

Instead, she matched it, lifting her chin and holding his gaze. “How kind of you to make it this evening, Father. What did you think?”

She meant of my music, but wasn’t entirely surprised when his lips curled with disgust. “I think your ridiculous display has not only embarrassed yourself, but completely humiliated me.”

Pretending surprise, she glanced down at herself. “Oh, you mean my suit? But this is how I always dress. Pockets, you know.”

“You forget it is my business to know things, daughter.” He leaned closer. “I have had to pass quite a lot of money around, but I’ve learned all sorts of interesting things about your stay here at Stroken House.”

It was only by sheer force of will that Kit didn’t pale. “What do you mean?”

His grin turned cruel. “You didn’t arrive in London as Stroken’s guest. You were hired as a servant. A male servant. His valet.” Father’s voice dropped to a hiss. “After this little game you played, I was planning on distancing myself from you, but when that news makes the papers, and everyone realizes you’ve been Stroken’s whore all these months, it’ll make it so much easier.”

Don’t let him see how harsh those words are. Kit felt her hands curling into fists, aching to strike out at him for everything he’d ever done to her and those she loved. “Distancing yourself, Father?” she managed lightly. “Don’t you mean, claiming everything I said was a lie, that you never really married Mother?” She shrugged, as if her heart weren’t pounding desperately in her chest. “But we have the certificate, you see.”

He reared back as if struck. “No you don’t! I have—” He bit off the words and studied her. “So that slut kept her word?”

Kit’s eyes widened slightly at the insult. “You mean your wife?”

“She was an opera singer,” Father said in disgust, waving dismissively. “Everyone knows what they say about sopranos. I wanted her, and she—she was too high and mighty to agree.”

Suddenly, it all snapped into place. “She wouldn’t bed you until you married her,” Kit breathed, understanding dawning. “So you agreed, and then were stuck with us both.”

“I paid her well to keep her mouth shut about why I supported you.”

“You never supported us,” Kit snapped, “you merely sent us money.”

He scoffed. “As if you could have survived without—”

She cut him off by stepping closer. “Mother is world-renowned, and I made my own name for myself.” She jabbed her finger in his chest. “And now that we know where the money came from which you sent us, we will—”

Kit never had a chance to announce what high-handed plans she had for his money, because between one breath and the next, her father reminded her that anger wasn’t enough. No, anger could get her into these situations, but she needed training and skill and above all else, strength, to get out of them.

Father grabbed her finger and twisted, yanking her entire hand to one side and spinning her about. With an oof, she landed with her back against his chest, one of his arms pinning her to him, something harsh jabbing her under her jaw.

As he began to walk rapidly backward, causing Kit to stumble as he dragged her, she saw the frozen tableau before them.

Father hadn’t just been arguing with her; he’d been watching Thorne and had known when to act. Thorne had just finished handing a folio to Princess Louise; they both stood stock still, arms still extended, watching Father with horror.

No.

No.

Thorne was staring at her jaw, and as Father finally halted with his back to the door, Kit understood with a sinking certainty.

The hard metal pressed against the underside of her jaw was a barrel of a gun. A gun which her own father held on her.

Her eyes fluttered closed so she wouldn’t have to see the pained accusation in Thorne’s.

Oh Kit, you idiot.

“What are you doing, Father?” she hissed, trying not to move her mouth too much.

“I would suggest you shut up, Katherine.” He shifted until he could see Griffin on one side, who’d stepped in front of Bull, and Effinghell and Demon on the other, who’d both stepped forward with his movement. “My plans to disassociate myself with you have just stepped up.”

“Blackrose,” Thorne began, but Father dug the gun into her skin, and Kit couldn’t help the slight whimper, which apparently shut Thorne up as well.

To hell with this.

If Kit was going to die, she was going to do it with her eyes open, looking at the man she loved.

And sure enough, Thorne was staring at her, anguish and uncertainty in his gaze. He slowly moved to put himself between Father and the Princess, and Kit would have smiled at that had the situation not be so desperate.

The fool likely wasn’t even aware of how blasted noble he was being, was he?

No, his worried gaze was on her, and only her.

And in that moment, Kit knew.

She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Thorne loved her.

Thorne loved her and she loved him, and she wanted to be with him.

Yes, she’d always thought that meant an affair, but if he wanted marriage, then she would be honored to join him.

And yes, he was sure to fook up again in the future, just as she was certain to make mistakes. Her pride alone would get her into stupid situations like this one.

But if he could forgive her, then she could forgive him for keeping a secret he’d thought in her best interest.

Please God, give me the chance to tell him that. Give me the chance to tell him I love him and know he understands.

Swallowing, Kit gently tipped her chin upward, trying to give herself the best chance of surviving her father’s rage.

“Here’s what will happen,” Father said, his voice surprisingly flat. “I am leaving. It is clear now my return to Society was premature, and I’m lucky to have resources put aside. Your Highness, I regret you needed to be witness to this ugliness, but I need you to turn over that folio to me.”

Princess Louise was a brilliant actress. She blinked at the papers in her hand. “But this is merely some information Stroken wanted me to pass on to—”

“I know what it is,” Father snarled. “You will pass it to me.”

Thorne, however, spread his arms to keep the Princess behind him. “Dinnae get near him,” he cautioned.

Father dug the gun barrel against her sensitive skin, but Kit refused to react. No, her attention was on Thorne, begging him not to do anything stupid. Stupider.

“Give me the evidence, Stroken,” he growled. “Now.”

Still pretending confusion, the princess spoke up. “Bonkinbone, really, your own daughter! I’ll gladly pass over these silly papers to save such talent!”

“Aye,” Thorne rasped. “Aye, of course. Ye can have the folio.”

Yet he hedged to the side, as if trying to sneak closer.

And in that moment her Father wrenched the gun away from Kit and pointed it directly at Her Royal Highness, the Princess Louise, Marchioness of Lorne—daughter of the Queen of the United Kingdom and Empress of India.

There was a harsh inhalation, as if every man watching gasped.

“Now, Stroken,” Father barked.

And Thorne said, “Dinnae do anything stupid.”

But Kit had the sense he wasn’t speaking to her father. She began to turn, but his hold tightened on her, and she gasped. From this angle, she could see his finger shifting across the trigger.

Princess Louise, in the crosshairs, was doing an admirable job of staying calm and merely interested, instead of terrified.

“Father!” Kit choked, desperate to distract him. “Don’t—I’m the one who foiled your plans! I’m the one you’re angry with!”

Oh excellent plan! Save the princess by getting him to shootyou.

But his desperation, his bitter anger was the only edge she had. Kit could see it all clearly, in the way Thorne was shifting his weight, the way his eyes flicked around the room.

The man she loved was about to be a hero, throwing himself in front of an innocent yet again to save a life.

And she’d lose him.

No.

“Father!”

“Yes,” he growled, the revolver never wavering. “You are the cause of all my problems, aren’t you, Katherine? You and your mother should’ve had the sense to stay in that godforsaken country.”

The gun was still pointed at the Princess, but Father glanced down at her. The motion tilted his head to one side, pulling away from her. “Now I’ll have to kill you both.”

“Blackrose,” Thorne called placatingly, “dinnae do anything rash.”

“Rash? Rash?” Grinning evilly at Kit, his finger tightened on the trigger. As she reached desperately for his arm, he calmly said, “I’ll show you—”

Each second seemedan hour as Thorne’s heart pounded, trying to see a way out of this mess. “Aye, of course,” he cautioned Blackrose, inching to one side. “Ye can have the folio.”

The trick was to keep the bastard talking. Thorne knew he was leaving the Princess unprotected—what the shite had happened to her guard?—but he couldn’t get an angle on Blackrose from here. Perhaps if he moved—

Fook.

Blackrose took advantage of his motion to swing the gun back toward Princess Louise. Thorne wasn’t the only one to gasp, but he was the only one to see what was going on behind Griffin.

The man had moved forward to reach Blackrose, but also putting his body between the gun and Bull. His son, however, didn’t seem concerned, and was eyeing Blackrose thoughtfully as he slipped that small knife of his from his sleeve.

The knife he could flip and catch without cutting himself. The knife he now held at his hip as he edged to his left, out of Blackrose’s line of vision.

“Now, Stroken,” Blackrose barked, demanding the folio of blank papers they were using to bait this trap. The trap which had turned disastrous with Kit in so much danger.

He could not lose her.

Bull cared for her as well, and Thorne could see the lad’s fiercely calculating gaze. “Dinnae do anything stupid,” he warned Bull, who shot him a surprised smirk.

Meanwhile, something had changed. Kit gasped, dragging Thorne’s gaze back to her. “Father, don’t!” she cried. “I’m the one who foiled your plans!”

And Thorne wanted to growl. Nay! Dinnae draw his attention! Thorne was positively frantic at the thought of the Princess in danger, his loyalty to her absolute, but he couldn’t lose the woman he loved! He couldn’t! He wanted that gun pointed at him instead.

But his brave, noble Kit wasn’t going to let him sacrifice himself. “I’m the one you’re angry with!” she was saying to her father.

Whose face twisted into something ugly, something hate-filled, and even as he glared at the men around him he spat that anger at his own daughter. “Yes! You are the cause of all my problems, aren’t you, Katherine?”

He said more words, but Thorne’s pulse was pounding too loud for him to focus. For the first time in years, he found himself really praying. Please keep her safe. Keep them all safe!

But he knew what he had to do. He’d die before he let Blackrose harm another innocent.

The bastard chose that moment to glance at his daughter, letting Kit see the evil in his expression. It meant his head was tipped back, but that didn’t seem to affect his ability to sneer. “Now I’ll have to kill you both.”

Oh Christ, no. “Blackrose, dinnae do anything rash,” Thorne managed past the lump in his throat. He balanced on the balls of his feet, trying to keep everything, everyone in his sight at once.

“Rash?” Blackrose repeated, the gun still pointed at Princess Louise. Kit’s hands moved upward, but Thorne knew she wasn’t going to be in time. “I’ll show you—”

His words cut off mid-threat in a sort of gurgle as Kit lunged for her father’s arm. She grabbed him around the elbow and yanked, so when his finger spasmed, pulling the trigger twice, the bullets tore into the finely polished wood floor.

Thorne lurched forward as the gunshots drew the attention of the other guests, shouts and screams rising behind him as he reached for Kit.

In the few seconds it took for everything to happen, her father had sagged to one side—and Thorne could see the hilt of the small knife protruding from his eye socket.

As the bastard’s body fell away, Thorne grabbed Kit and pulled her against him, even as he turned an incredulous stare Bull’s way.

As Thorne and Kit sank to the ground beside her father’s body, her head buried in Thorne’s chest, Bull stood frozen, breathing heavily, hand outstretched, the knife thrown true.

He’d saved them.

The lad had saved them all.

Thorne saw the moment Griffin realized that. The gruff man whirled around, grabbing his son by the lapels, and shaking him. “What in the everloving fook, Bull?” he growled, before yanking the lad to him and crushing him against his chest. “What did I tell ye about taking a life?”

Bull’s arms snaked around his father’s middle, his face buried against Griffin’s shoulder. Still, Thorne heard the muffled words. “That it’s no’ easy.”

His father pressed his forehead against Bull’s crown and rasped, “I’m so sorry, lad.”

“Sorry?” bellowed Demon, his scarred face pulled into a remarkably unsettling grin. “Frolicking spunk-gibbons! That was a fooking remarkable throw. The lad has talent!”

Rourke slammed his hand into Demon’s shoulder. “My brother just killed a man. Try to show some respect!”

“Respect for Blackrose?” Demon spat. “That excretable pissweasel?”

“No,” Princess Louise said in a shaking voice, as if the events had finally caught up with her. “Respect for that lad’s incredible aim and sense of timing.”

Apparently all it took was a princess feeling a bit wobbly to unite all of the ex-agents. As Rourke and Effinghell stepped forward to comfort Her Highness, Fawkes and Demon went to calm the rest of the guests.

And Thorne was able to concentrate on the woman in his arms.

“Kit,” he murmured. “Kit, my darling, I’m sorry.”

She was shaking. As with the princess, the danger and excitement had finally caught up with her. He rubbed his hand down her spine, wishing she were naked in his arms so he could truly comfort her, skin-to-skin.

“Please dinnae cry, love,” he said, beginning to rock her. “Ye’re safe. Ye’re safe, and yer father can never hurt ye again.”

“Hurt me?” she cried, pulling away suddenly.

And he realized he’d guessed wrong, yet again. Kit’s cheeks weren’t streaked with tears, but were splotched with anger. Her pale eyes blazed as she wrapped her fingers through his lapels.

“Hurt me, you idiot?” she repeated, giving him a little shake. They were both on their knees beside the door, Blackrose’s body sprawled behind them, although Griffin and Bull were bending to lift it. “You were the one about to throw yourself into danger, don’t deny it! You were the one who got yourself shot last night, and you were going to do it again, weren’t you? After I told you specifically not to!”

Slowly, Thorne’s expression eased and his lips curled upward into a smile.

He should have known. His strong, brave Kit wasn’t crying. She wasn’t terrified.

She was angry. At him.

Unable to help himself, he leaned forward and kissed her.

She froze, then in a burst of movement threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. As their lips met in frantic embrace, they overbalanced and tumbled backward. He braced himself, catching them both and rolling them so she wasn’t crushed.

Which meant the two of them—wearing matching evening wear—ended up tangled around one another on the fine wooden floor of the music room in Stroken House. With an audience. A royal audience.

“I love you,” Kit gasped, yanking herself away and clasping his cheeks in her hands, glaring down at him. “I love you, Octavius Cumming, and if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll kill you myself!”

His heart had stuttered at the first I love you, a sort of wonder filling his chest to replace the steady beating. Now that wonder spread throughout his torso and down his limbs and up into his throat until he was grinning like an idiot.

She loved him.

Kit loved him.

Last night, he’d dreamed she’d told him that as he’d fallen asleep in her arms, but had thought that was all it was—a dream. But now…

Thorne felt as if his chest was going to expand so much it would lift him off the floor of his music room, floating him off into the atmosphere like one of those contraptions the balloonists were keen on.

She loved him, and with that knowledge, any miracle seemed possible.

“Do you hear me?” Kit all but screeched down at him, her hair wild around her face.

“I heard ye,” Thorne said softly, lips stretched almost painfully tight as he reached up to tuck a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Ye love me.”

“Yes, I love you, you stupid man. I love you. And I never, ever want to come that close to losing you!”

“Kit, darling…I hate to point this out, but ye were the one with the gun pointed to yer head. How do ye think that made me feel?”

She paused, lips tugging into a frown. “What?”

“I love ye, and watching ye held by that madman, kenning I couldnae get to ye in time if he decided to hurt ye…” Thorne shook his head. “It broke me, love.”

Kit swallowed, looking uncertain once more. “You’re only upset because you couldn’t figure out a way to draw his aim, to get him to shoot you instead. You ass.”

“Well, aye.” She was adorable in her pique, wasn’t she? “And dinnae think I’ve forgotten ye did exactly that.”

She seemed to deflate, her elbows dropping to his chest. “We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we?”

“Love, I promise to do my best to stay out of danger, if ye promise the same.”

Kit shuddered. “I hope to never be in this situation again.”

Pretending to consider it, Thorne frowned thoughtfully. “I dinnae ken. I’ve never met yer mother.”

It took her a moment to process the teasing insult—as if Mother would do anything half as bad as this!—but then Kit scoffed and smacked him in the chest. “I’m saying that we should both do our best to stay safe for each other.”

He caught her hand. “I can easily swear that, my love.”

My love.

Kit’s expression softened at those words, as if she were repeating them as well. Time seemed to stretch, slow, even their heartbeats. It was just the two of them, safely cocooned in their little haven.

And she loved him.

“I’m sorry, Kit,” he whispered, staring up into her eyes. “So sorry. I should have told ye.”

“Yes, you should have.” Her smile was soft, almost shy.

“But I promise—”

“I don’t want promises.”

Thorne blinked. “You dinnae?”

Kit’s grin was almost too delighted. “No, I want to leverage this for a long time. Every time I make a mistake, I shall remind you of this. Whenever I want my own way—”

His groan was deep. “Och, ye’re a cruel woman, Kit.”

“—you’ll never be able to disagree with me now, not after keeping such a secret,” Kit said haughtily, a sparkle in her eyes. “Besides, I want you to grovel.”

“Grovel?” Thorne tried not to smile. “I’d get on my knees, but ye are already on my chest.”

“I require a ridiculous statement of contrition,” continued the woman he loved sharply. “And declarations of idiocy, and all the opera tickets I can eat, and—”

“But ye forgive me?” Thorne said quietly.

She only hesitated for a heartbeat. “But I forgive you. In the future—”

“Dinnae assume I ken what ye want,” he finished. “I’ll talk it over with ye.”

“What wi—woman would want anything more than that?”

If her smile hadn’t frozen, he might’ve missed her slip.

She’d been about to say wife, he was certain of it.

But she hadn’t. Why?

Because she still doesnae want to marry ye!

Nay, he’d just finished vowing not to make assumptions like that. He needed to ask her again, and there was no time like the—

There was a loud throat-clearing nearby.

The world slid back into place and, with a sigh, Thorne lifted Kit off his chest and rolled to his feet, then offered her his hand.

Fawkes was standing there with his hands locked behind his back, pretending great interest in the ceiling. “Made up, have we?” he asked, not looking at them.

Thorne glanced down at Kit, who shrugged sheepishly. “I’ve decided perhaps he’s not as horrible as I might have thought.”

Nodding seriously, Thorne deadpanned, “I’m no’ as horrible as she thought. Clearly it’s true love.”

His cousin snorted, but his shoulders relaxed and when he finally met their eyes, he was smirking slightly.

“Demon and the ladies are handling yer guests, and—”

“Demon?” Thorne blanched. “Dear God, I need these people to like me!”

Kit smacked his arm. “Demon won’t scare them away. If nothing else, they’ll keep returning out of sheer horrified fascination.”

Fawkes nodded solemnly. “Like a train wreck.”

As both Thorne and Kit snorted, in that strange post-catastrophe way that makes everything funnier, Rourke hobbled over, his hand wrapped tightly around the head of his cane. “Are ye well, lass?”

Interestingly, Kit flushed and moved closer to Thorne. “Y-Yes. I’m fine.”

“Kit, love, this is my friend Rourke Lindsay,” Thorne said softly. “Bull’s older brother, and the Duke of Exingham. His wife is the pretty blonde, and they’re guardians to his niece and nephew.”

“Whom we left at home,” the stone-faced man explained. “And Sophia is no’ merely pretty, Thorne.”

“I didnae want ye to think I was admiring yer wife,” Thorne explained with a smirk. “Tha’s dangerous talk. But truthfully I’m surprised she’s no’ still here. She was the reason we had the evidence to turn over to Her Highness in the first place.”

Rourke nodded. “And that is why she was the one to hand it over two hours ago. The Princess was most gracious.”

As if summoned, Princess Louise waved away her guard and moved toward their little group at the same time Griffin stepped up, his arm still around his son’s shoulders.

“Hello, Rourke,” Bull managed, with none of his usual smirks.

His hands were still, for the first time ever.

Rourke nodded once. “Ye saved the day, Bull,” he said softly. “Thank ye.”

Bull shrugged. “I did what any of ye would have done.”

“The difference,” said Princess Louise regally as she stepped up, “was that you did it, young man.”

As Bull swallowed, Griffin murmured, “My son—or rather, my stepson, Your Highness. James Lindsay, but we all call him Bull.”

The Princess eyed the lad, whose chin was sunk to his chest. “You had the angle and the shot, so you took it,” she finally said, and when Bull slowly raised his eyes, she nodded firmly. “It is very likely you saved my life tonight, young Bull.”

There was something like wonder in the lad’s eyes when Her Royal Highness, the Princess Louise, Marchioness of Lorne held out her gloved hand.

In a daze, Bull took it and bowed over it with some of his usual flair. “An honor, Your Highness,” he murmured.

“I think,” the woman said in a rather mysterious way as Bull straightened, “I should like to remain in contact with you, young man. I believe I might have use for you in the fullness of time. My agents are far-ranging and the very best, and you have proven to have a level head, steady aim, and an understanding of what needs to be done.”

Then, as if she hadn’t just admitted to running an organization like Blackrose’s—although this time, the agents could be certain they were working for the Crown—Princess Louise dropped Bull’s hand. The lad stared down at his palm in shock, as if unable to believe her words. Or perhaps her touch.

Either way, the princess had taken his mind off what he’d done tonight to save her and Kit.

Princess Louise turned to Thorne. “And thank you, my friend, for your part in organizing this. I know every man here—and some of the women—played a part in taking down this terror, but it is reassuring to know the threat has been eliminated for good.”

Without giving him time to do more than nod, she turned to Kit.

“And, Countess, may I express my awareness of the toll a parent’s death brings. I might not offer my condolences, but I wish you the best in your healing journey, as you move forward with arranging your new estate.”

Kit gaped. “My—Countess—Your Highness?”

“As your father’s legitimate daughter, you are his heir. Your new role as the Countess of Bonkinbone is, I imagine, rather different from what you have been maintaining thus far.” The slightly downward flick of her gaze took in Kit’s way of dress, then she glanced to Thorne before meeting the woman’s gaze once more. “I am certain you will find friends to help you navigate your next responsibilities.”

Kit’s hold on Thorne tightened. “But…Your Highness, I don’t know how to be a—a countess!”

Princess Louise smiled slightly as she watched the two of them clinging to one another. “Well, I suppose you could always acquire a grander title, and pass Bonkinbone on to your eldest son as a courtesy title.”

With that, she nodded regally, turned, and swept from the room, head held high in the manner of those certain of their power.

As they watched her leave, Kit pressed her cheek against Thorne’s shoulder. “Two of your guests of honor have disappeared.”

He started, then frowned down at her. “What?”

“The Princess and my father. Even if the rest of the guests didn’t see what happened, there will be gossip.”

“Och, darling, tonight will keep the gossip rags in business for months. The Princess will use that folio Sophia turned over to make certain Blackrose’s dealings are not only brought to light, but his contacts and conspirators are hunted down.”

Rourke was nodding. “And we—all of us—will be exonerated. Not only legally, but morally as well. We…we’re free.”

Thorne knew he wasn’t the only one feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d taken the lead on springing this trap, but he wouldn’t have been able to do it without his friends.

No, his family.

He glanced down at Kit. His lover.

Somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred. Lover became friend, then family. His family was his friends.

And he was lucky. So very lucky.

“I was just wondering,” Kit said quietly, “since my father is dead and the Princess has left, could we possibly sneak away…?”

The way her hand slid along his back, beneath his jacket, told Thorne what she had in mind. And as Griffin chuckled dryly, Thorne had to shake his head in disappointment. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we can get around it. We have to be here. I’ll no’ ask ye to play again, but as the host, I need to mitigate some of the gossip.”

“Or,” Rourke pointed out blandly, “at least point it in the right direction.”

Thorne glanced at his cousin. When Fawkes raised a brow, Thorne remembered their earlier conversation about controlling the narrative, especially when it came to Kit. When it came to protecting Kit.

And they had just been rolling around on the floor, laughing. And kissing.

“Right,” he murmured, then sighed. All he wanted to do now was gather her in his arms and remind themselves that they were both safe. Instead, he needed to get started on building their future. He offered her his arm. “Join me?”

Kit’s smile was tired, but she slipped her hand through his. “Always.”