Prologue

J oss Ettinger floated in a haze of pain. It felt as if the right side of his body was on fire. Curiously, his left arm was entirely numb. He felt nothing at all. Fragments of memory penetrated the fog in his brain. The carriage racing through the countryside, the fear and adrenaline as they were being chased by Bechard. While there were things he hadn't known about the man, he'd known enough that the thought of him getting his hands on any of the females occupying that coach with him—be they young or old—had made his blood run cold.

The sound of a pistol firing reverberated in his mind. The splintering of wood as he'd been propelled backwards into the wall of the vehicle had been deafening. Soft, cool hands had touched him, but then they'd put pressure on his wounds and the agony of it had been unbearable. Still, he'd fought. He'd managed to drag himself up onto his knees at least, pistol drawn. Then another shot had rung out. The last memory he had was of Effie Darrow—no, Effie Montford, now—issuing sharp instructions to the young women in that carriage. Then the world had gone black.

The second shot . It had struck him in his shoulder, high up. Nowhere near his heart, but he didn't doubt it had done damage. How much?

Despite the pain, Joss raised his right arm and draped it across his body. What he'd feared—that his left arm was gone entirely—was not true. It was there, but he felt nothing. No pain, no tickling or tingling sensations. It was just curiously numb. Experimentally, he tried to move it. He couldn't lift it from the bed, but at least his fingers drew into a fist. It wasn't completely useless to him. Just mostly.

"You're awake."

He knew that voice. He'd heard it often enough in his life. Cracking one eye open and wincing at the bright light of day flooding through the windows, he found himself staring into the slightly haggard face of Vincent Carrow. Joss noted one thing about his long acquaintance: for the first time in all the years that he had known the Hound of Whitehall, he was happy to see the bastard.

"The duchess?"

"Safe," Vincent answered. "As are Alexandria and Louisa. They are all well and in your debt."

"I did nothing. She was still taken."

"Yes," Vincent agreed. "But you slowed the bastard down. You gave us the time we needed to track her and to retrieve her before the unthinkable could happen... and you damn near died for your efforts."

Joss asked the question that he most feared the answer to. "How bad is the arm?"

"Not good. Still there, at least. That was a battle. Damned sawbones wanted to lop it off. Bloodthirsty bastard. I put a stop to that."

For once, Joss was grateful for just what a terrifying son of a bitch his sometimes-friend could be. "How?"

The Hound grinned, but it was not at all a friendly expression. "Told him for every part of you he chopped off, I'd be taking an equal amount of flesh from him. He changed his tune then... as to the arm. Bow Street is done for you now. How much use you'll have of it is anyone's guess."

Joss nodded. "I want to get back to London. I'm not good here in the country."

"Soon enough, yes. But you're not fit to travel just yet. Give it a few weeks. Rest now. I'll make arrangements to get you back to London as soon as you're able to make the journey."

Joss watched the other man leave. Alone, he struggled into a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He wasn't foolish enough to try to stand. Not when just that small bit of effort had left him wheezing like an old man. Still, he sat there for a while, flexing his hand—willing some sensation into it. Nothing happened. He moved it, lifting his arm clumsily, trying to grasp the blankets and pull them aside. He had limited success with either. In the end, all his experiments produced was more frustration.

The door to his room opened once more, admitting a woman of middling years with a round, florid face and an ample figure. "Mr. Ettinger! It's so good to see you awake. And sitting up on your own! My heavens, but you are an ambitious one."

"I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"I'm Mrs. Cheavers, dear boy. His grace, the Duke of Clarenden, has let this small house near his estate and hired me to oversee your convalescence. He'd have moved you to his own home, but it's miles away yet and—to be quite frank—no one thought you'd make it that far. Dark and dire days, sir. Dark and dire!"

Her pragmatic answers were at odds with her almost elfin appearance and the singsong way she communicated them. "I see. Thank you, Mrs. Cheavers."

"Oh, don't thank me yet. While you're awake, I'll help you to the chair, and that way I can change the bed without rolling you to and fro like a log. Heavens, but you're a heavy one!"

That he had to lean so heavily on that small, round woman as she aided him to a chair that had been placed by the window was lowering. More than lowering. It made him angry. All the pain, frustration and fear bubbled up inside him to such a degree that he was fighting with all his worth not to lash out at her.

"There," she said, huffing out a breath as she plopped him in that chair. "I'll just get you a blanket."

Moments later, a blanket was tucked around his legs like he was some sort of invalid in a Bath chair. Still, he held his tongue as she went about the business of tidying up. When it was all done, she bundled the soiled linens into her arms. "I'll be back in a moment with something for the pain. You look a little pale, Mr. Ettinger."

He wanted to protest, but he didn't. It would be churlish. Instead he just nodded and sent her bustling from the room. It was less than ten minutes before she returned carrying a small tray with a pot of tea on it and a bottle. "A bit of laudanum in your tea. It'll do the trick," she said, pouring the cup and adding a few drops of the potent liquid to it. "Drink up now."

He did, downing the scorching liquid as quickly as possible. Then the haze returned, and he found himself thinking that he rather liked it, having a veil between himself and the harsh reality of his present and the uncertainty of his future.

A part of his mind protested. He knew the dangers of opium all too well. And what was laudanum but opium in its liquid form? Still, he couldn't quite muster the wherewithal to think about giving up that blessed numbness, that escape.