He stopped at the base of the stairs and put a hand on the banister, strangely reluctant to ascend. “I selected rooms for you upstairs and had them prepared,” he said stiffly. Rooms not far from his own. Another inexplicable, impulsive decision from that evening.

  The very few times he tolerated a guest, voluntary or otherwise, they resided in the small cottage near the stable. Close enough that his men might observe their presence and control comings and goings, and far enough away that they did not threaten King’s privacy.

  Adeline Archambault threatened far more than his privacy. He had no idea what he had been thinking, other than that he hadn’t been. But to change his mind now and send her to a dark, freezing cottage would not only be callous, it would make him look like a fool.

  “You should find the rooms comfortable,” he continued, as if he had beautiful, bewitching women stay in his home regularly. “If you—”

  “Was that you?” she asked, the first words she had spoken since they had left Lavoie’s.

  “Was what me?”

  “Marstowe’s missing fortune. Did you do that?”

  “No.”

  “Mmm. I didn’t think so. The timing didn’t make sense, but I needed to hear you say it. Do you know where it is?”

  “Not at the moment.” King gestured up the stairs. “If you’d like to get settled—”

  “And your ring?” She gestured at the ruby.

  “A gift from Evan. The last thing he gave me before he died.”

  “Ah.”

  “You will not be disturbed in your rooms. My staff are only allowed access to the upper floor at my implicit direction—”

  “I will meet Marstowe tomorrow,” she interrupted quietly. “Alone.”

  “Absolutely not. I will handle Marstowe.”

  She shook her head. “You hired me for just this reason. You’re going to have to trust me at some point.”

  “I do trust you.” He just didn’t trust himself.

  “But not with the secrets that hurt you the most in the past. The secrets that cause you pain even now.” Without warning, she stepped toward him and caught his hand in hers, turning it over and running her fingers over the proper bandage that had been applied over his palm. He should pull away from her touch, hide his bandaged hand under his coat. But he couldn’t seem to do it.

  “You did not follow me tonight because you were protecting your investment,” she continued, her fingers winding through his.

  He couldn’t answer because her touch was sending a firestorm of heat through his veins.

  “You followed me because you’ve reconsidered,” she said into the silence.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She sighed. “You regret your decision to engage my services.” It wasn’t really a question.

  “No,” King lied instantly. To admit that very regret now would be to admit failure on his part to preserve control. “We reached an agreement, and I gave you my word. Of all the things that I have lost in this life, the integrity of my word is not one of them. I will not renege on our agreement.” He just needed to manage the outcome.

  “You’re not the first to discover after engaging me that some secrets are better left buried,” she said. “And like the others who have come to reconsider, I release you from whatever promises you made regarding our agreement. I will not think less of you. But the sapphire stays with me.”

  She was giving him the perfect escape. He should seize her offer. He would simply say goodbye to Adeline Archambault on the morrow, and his secrets would remain safe. Wasn’t this exactly what he had just wished for, sapphire be damned?

  Yet he couldn’t say the words. He couldn’t let her go.

  “No,” he said, hating the weakness that his answer had betrayed.

  “No?” She sounded less than convinced. “I will not judge you for reconsidering your decision. Your pain and your secrets are not commodities that I am entitled to but things that you may entrust to my care should I stay.”

  He looked away, aching with the strange longing that he had felt the first time he had laid eyes on her. He wished that she would rant and hurl accusations at him. He needed her angry. This gentle dissection of his soul was disquieting.

  “And what if I had reconsidered?” he demanded harshly. “If I told you that I will simply kill Marstowe for what he did? What then?”

  Her fingers tightened around his. “That would be your decision, of course.”

  “Jesus. I don’t think you’re hearing me. I could have killed him tonight. Thought about it more than once.” His voice echoed loudly in the empty hall.

  “Yet you didn’t.”

  “I could have.”

  “And so could I. You don’t scare me, King.”

  “I should scare you,” he growled. “I am not a good person.”

  “Then what does that make me?”

  “What?” Her question caught him off guard.

  “I pulled a blade on the baron tonight, and you did nothing. Weren’t even troubled.”

  “I knew exactly what you had done. Why the hell would I be troubled? You are magnificent with both your wits and your weapons.”

  She made a funny little noise. “But that’s just it. You are the first person to make me feel…seen.”

  His gaze came back to hers. She was still watching him, her expression even, her eyes like pools of quicksilver. The urge to kiss her, to make her feel far more than merely seen, was overwhelming. This woman deserved so much more. She deserved to feel treasured and adored and respected.

  But not by him.

  He’d had women in the past, brief physical interactions that left both sated but that had never, ever involved emotion. Those interactions had barely involved kissing, or even much undressing, for God’s sake, much less conversation or the surrender of secrets. Adrestia deserved a man as honorable as she was.

  He should walk away from her right now.

  Instead he lifted his free hand, pulling at the ties of her cloak for the second time that night. The wool slipped off her shoulders and pooled at her feet. He ran his fingers along the edge of her jaw, tipping her chin up. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his hand, the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.

  Her eyes dropped to his lips, and whatever rational thoughts he was still clinging to scattered. He took a step forward, closing the gap between them. “Adrestia—”

  “Adeline,” she whispered. “Call me by my real name.”

  His breath caught, and for a wild, insane moment, he wished he could offer her the same. Because she made him feel seen too.

  And that realization was terrifying. Even worse, he couldn’t seem to muster the wherewithal to care.

  “Adeline,” he repeated, and her shiver as he uttered her name almost brought him to his knees. His thumb drifted over her bottom lip, and she closed her eyes. He backed her up a step against the wall. Desire licked through him, and he—

  “Sir?” A door on the far side of the hall creaked open, and light flared. King stumbled away from Adeline and turned to find Elliot gripping a small lantern while rubbing his eyes sleepily. He was still dressed in his livery from the auction.

  “What are you still doing up?” King asked. Besides saving me from doing something monumentally stupid. He’d already capitulated to weakness and lost enough control for one night. He could not afford to lose any more.

  “Waiting for you, sir.” His bright green eyes slid past King. “Your belongings are in your room upstairs, miss,” he told Adeline. “I collected them from the Four Cocks for you.”

  “You did wh—” She stopped. “Thank you,” she replied politely.

  “How did you do it?” he asked, his face brightening. “How did you buz the key from Smithers?”

  King groaned. “Elliot—”

  “Assumptions,” Adeline said, smiling at the boy.

  “Assumptions?”

  “When Smithers looked at me, he wasn’t looking at a thief. He assumed I was a wealthy, refined lady, there by invitation. Had we been anywhere less, had I been wearing anything less, had I been acting as anything less, his assumptions would have differed, and he would have had his guard up. Costuming and presentation makes all the difference, and they’re worth investing in.”

  “Where did you work most?” Elliot asked eagerly.

  “The Paris cabarets,” she answered easily. “And gardens similar to the pleasure gardens you have here in London.”

  “Do you think that maybe you could show me—”

  “Go to bed, Elliot,” King interrupted. Because if he let him, Elliot wouldn’t stop talking, judging from the besotted look on the boy’s face.

  “But—”

  “I have an appointment at the St James’s Church tomorrow afternoon at two. First thing tomorrow morning I need you to make the arrangements to have my carriage ready to ensure I am able to leave on time.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Now go to bed. It’s late.”

  “Yessir.” Elliot’s face fell and he dutifully slipped back across the hall, vanishing back through the narrow door at the end.

  “You sent a child to the Four Cocks?” Adeline asked as the door closed behind him.

  King kept himself a careful distance from the seductive siren that was Adeline Archambault. He used to sneer at the stories of hapless sailors, thinking them weak and pitiable, without willpower. In retrospect, his naivete suddenly seemed laughable.

  “Do not let Elliot’s appearances fool you,” he told her, seizing the safe subject she offered. “He probably has more sharp, pointy blades hidden on his person than you do. He is an opportunistic viper in the guise of a cherub. Worked the Finish for four years before he came to work for me.”

  “The Finish?”

  “A coffeehouse in Covent Square. It’s popular with gentlemen trying to correct the previous night’s bad choices with coffee. A rich hunting ground for those with clever hands and clever blades. The two of you can compare notes tomorrow.”

  “And why does he work for you now?” she asked.

  Because boys like Elliot generally died by their twelfth birthday, killed by their prey or fellow hunters. Because Elliot reminded him of Evan, not just in looks but in the way he defended those whom he cared for.

  “Because I did not wish to see such talent wasted in the rookeries.” He cleared his throat and started up the stairs. “You should retire. It’s been a long night.”

  “I should what?” She was behind him, sounding somewhat incredulous.

  “I believe I will retire as well,” he continued brusquely, ignoring her question and reaching the long, narrow hallway above lit intermittently by sconces. He paused at the second door on his left and pushed it open. “Your rooms,” he announced. “We can discuss our business arrangement further on the morrow.” Not now, and certainly not standing in the hall outside her bedroom with soft light playing across her skin.

  Adeline stepped into the room but stopped and turned almost immediately. “We have unfinished business, King. I think we need to talk about what you—”

  “I have nothing further to say to you tonight.” It sounded cold, but he didn’t trust himself with a woman who stole his breath, his composure, and his control merely by looking at him. Unlike earlier, King recognized the danger of allowing weakness and emotion to dictate action. He had survived unspeakable things on his own. He would survive this too.

  “King, I—”

  “Good night, Adeline.” He closed her bedroom door.

  Chapter 9

  The snow that had been falling earlier had stopped, leaving a blanket of white over the grounds beyond the tall windows. Moonlight reflected off the sparkling crust and filtered through the diamond-shaped panes, filling the room with an eerie silver light. A massive bed dominated the far-right corner, a darkened door beyond leading into what was likely a dressing room. A small desk sat at the end of the bed, a discarded book resting on a simple wooden chair. In a near corner, a chaise was situated, a coat and waistcoat tossed over the brocaded back, a pair of boots abandoned at its feet, the polished toes gleaming dully in the light from the nearby hearth.

  But all these details were insignificant, her attention riveted on the figure at the pianoforte on the far side, his back to her. And for the first time since she’d slipped into King’s rooms, Adeline wondered if she’d made a mistake.

  King was seated on a bench, his fingers flying over the keys, his head down. Music filled the room, reaching a crescendo before becoming subdued, only to rise again in a haunting, stirring rhythm. Adeline’s mouth went dry at the sight of his lean power illuminated in the moonlight. He’d stripped down to his shirt and trousers, his sleeves shoved to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he swayed and bent, his shirt stretching across his shoulders, his red-gold hair falling just over his forehead as the music and his movements became more frantic.

  The urge to push that hair away, to put a soothing hand on his back, was overwhelming. He was playing like a man possessed and, in essence, he was—held captive by the demons that had emerged from his past with the return of John Westerleigh. Which was why Adeline would not let him alone anywhere near Baron Marstowe tomorrow. A man who slew another in broad daylight in the middle of a churchyard would hang, no matter who he was.

  She moved into the center of the room. “We need to talk.”

  His head snapped up, a discordant crash of notes ending his exertions, but the rest of him remained motionless. “There are locks on my doors.”

  “Not good ones.”

  “On the contrary.” Still he didn’t turn around. “You could have knocked.”

  “You wouldn’t have answered.”

  “You can’t be here.”

  “What’s at the St James churchyard?” she asked.

  “A church.”

  “Don’t be obtuse.”

  His head dropped, his hands gripping the edge of the keys. He looked like a man caught in a struggle that only he could see. She’d had glimpses of that struggle in Lavoie’s, in the carriage ride home, in the hallway outside her bedroom. A man fighting his memories, fighting his emotions, fighting his instincts, and fighting her.

  “It’s where Evan is buried.”

  Adeline took a few more careful steps closer. “Thank you.”

  “What do you want, Adeline?” he demanded, turning around but remaining seated on the bench. He crossed his arms over his chest, his forearms flexing, and for the first time, she noticed his scars. They were old and faded, thick bands of discolored skin that circled both wrists. She had seen scars like that before.

  In places where men and women spent their lives chained to walls.

  She swallowed and dragged her gaze away from his scars and back to his face. His cool eyes impaled her, and she felt the force of that stare all the way through her body.

  “I want to know the price you wish John Westerleigh to pay that will give you peace.” She asked the question that she needed the answer to the most.

  Even in the shadows, the anguish that tore across King’s carefully cloaked features was easily visible. Adeline had seen that before too—a soul forced to relive a moment from which it had never truly healed.

  King stood, stalking away from the bench and coming to stand in front of the windows. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and King was silhouetted by the ghostly white gardens beyond. Adeline followed him, her own shape a reflection in the glass as she came to stand beside him.

  She had changed out of her dress, pulling on her black trousers and coat for both warmth and practicality.

  “Marstowe’s money is gone,” she said. “Is that enough?”

  “No. There is no amount of money that is worth Evan’s life.”

  Adeline sighed. She hadn’t expected a different answer. “Would you see him lose his seat in the House? See him publicly accused? Imprisoned?”

  He put one hand against the glass, his other clenched at his side. “I want him to know fear. I want him to feel what Evan felt in those moments before he stole his life. I want him to know what it’s like to be thrust alone into a nightmare from which he cannot wake.”

  Adeline chose her next words carefully. “Revenge is a dangerous mistress. Sir Francis Bacon once wrote, ‘A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.’”

  “You think that I should just forgive and forget?”

  “I didn’t say that. No one can ever truly forget. And forgiveness—well, that is something that I cannot determine for anyone. I’m only saying that, in some cases, the need to right the past comes at a high price to the future.”

  King remained motionless. “Sir Francis also wrote, ‘Revenge is a kind of wild justice’ and ‘If we do not maintain justice, justice will not maintain us.’”

  “He did.” It would seem the bookshelves in King’s study were not there for decoration. “But it’s a fine line, that which lies between justice and revenge. And neither can bring back the dead, nor undo past wrongs.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good.”

  “Why do you do this?” he demanded.

  “Do what?”

  “Seek revenge—justice for those you don’t even know. For people you do not care about.”

  “What?” She heard the edge to her question.

  “They’re nothing but clients, Adeline.”

  “They’re people first,” she said. “And I care very much about each person.”

  King made a sound in the back of his throat. “Even me?”

  The man who seemed to understand and accept her more than anyone had?

  “Especially you.” Her answer was barely a whisper.

  She didn’t really see him move. One second she was standing beside him, the next he was in front of her, her chest almost brushing his, her head tipped back so she could see his face.

  “You can’t be here,” he rasped.

  “You’ve left me little choice.”