“No worries, Duke. That’s likely how it will be,” Danny replied.

  “Adelaide. What is this play?” Henry asked.

  She shook her head, meeting his gaze, her beautiful brown eyes clear. Full of the truth. “No play. I go with Danny. He takes me back to London. On one condition . . .” She paused. “You leave Havistock’s money on the table. You leave Lady Helene headed for Gretna with her man. You leave Clayborn here.”

  Helene? What was happening?

  “Fucking hell, Adelaide,” he said. “He’ll have to kill me to get me to stay here if you leave with him.”

  “That can be arranged,” Danny replied.

  She shook her head. “You need to get to Jack and Helene. You need to keep her safe.” Even through his fury, the words penetrated, a new piece of the puzzle. Keep her safe. Not Adelaide, Helene. Safe from what?

  Danny seemed to consider it for a moment—long enough that Clayborn thought he’d go mad from fury that she’d do this—that she wouldn’t trust him to take care of it. To get them out of this.

  And then the villain said, “Nah. No deal. Pretty words, though.” He feigned brushing a tear from his eye. “Little Addie, fallin’ for Mayfair just like you always did, standin’ on that bridge you liked so much and starin’ at Parliament like it might cough up a different life for you.”

  The moment he released her, Clayborn would rip the man’s throat out.

  Danny tutted dramatically. “And this is the best you can do, innit? Left us all behind on the South Bank, and you ended up a workin’ girl anyway. Duke or no, all men are the same in the dark, ain’t they?”

  And then she retorted, the broad accent of the South Bank in her voice. “Don’t be so sure, Danny—some know what to do in it.”

  The insult landed, and Danny let out a cruel laugh, turning her to face him. Henry moved in the heartbeat of the shift, until the blade returned to her throat. Tighter now. A drop of blood formed on her skin.

  He bit back a shout.

  “Still a bitch,” Danny said. “You know, it will be good to take you with me. Teach you a lesson I should have taught you years ago. You always thought you were better than me.”

  “I was better than you. I just forgot how much.” He gripped her tighter. “There are things I did not forget, however.” Before he could reply, she spat directly into his face, then lifted one long, lithe leg and drove her knee directly into Danny’s groin. No quarter.

  Good girl.

  Clayborn was moving even as she grasped Danny’s head while he doubled over in pain and put her knee into his nose.

  The man screamed and fell like a tree.

  Adelaide was already turning. “We have to go.” She crossed the room, lifting his box from where it had tumbled to the floor the night before, tossing it into her bag. “Now. We have to get to Helene.”

  “Adelaide,” Danny called after her from his position, curled in on himself on the floor. She turned back. “Your girls can’t protect you everywhere.” There was no mistaking the threat in his words. “And your duke ain’t going to protect you much longer, either. Will he? Boys from Mayfair don’t end up with girls from the South Bank.”

  Without a moment’s thought, Clayborn stepped over Billy and headed for Danny.

  “No,” Adelaide said, reaching a hand out to him. “No.”

  He ignored her.

  “Henry,” she said. “There’s no time.”

  There would be time for this. He would make time for this. He would stop time for this. He leaned over and lifted the other man by the shirtfront, staring down into his eyes, barely open. “You tell her da”—he spat the word into the other man’s face—“and anyone else who asks, that Adelaide Frampton is under the protection of the Duke of Clayborn—and that anyone who comes near her shall face me.”

  A heavy silence fell in the room. One second passed. Two. And then Adelaide said softly, in a way that indicated that he had done the exact wrong thing: “Clayborn.”

  “Oooh,” the ass crowed. “Protection.” Henry resisted the wince that came at the emphasis. At the realization of what the word could mean. That Adelaide might be paid for her company. And then Danny turned back to Adelaide and said, “You must be better in the sheets than I expected.”

  Fuck this man.

  With no hesitation, Henry knocked him out cold.

  “I don’t believe I shall ever tire of watching you do that,” Adelaide said, pulling several long ribbons out of her skirts from the day before and extending them to him. “Take these.”

  “Clever,” he said, looking down at the brightly colored ribbons. “Remind me never to disdain haberdashery.”

  She flashed him a quick smile, there then gone. “If we must follow the rules of proper dress, we might as well use them to our advantage.”

  Efficiently, Henry bound and gagged the pair, stripping them of their weapons, Adelaide watching through the spectacles she now wore, dressing with quiet efficiency.

  When he was done, he went to her, pulling her close and tilting her face up to his, staring deep into her eyes. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

  She pressed a hand to his. “No. I am well.” She lifted a chin in the direction of the villains’ blades in his free hand. “We should take their shoes, too.”

  His brow furrowed. “Their shoes?”

  She dipped her head in chagrin. “Old habits.”

  “What kind of habits require stealing an opponent’s footwear?”

  “The kind that make it harder for the opponent to chase you down. And ensure that you’ve got a new pair of shoes if you need them.”

  For all the doubt and uncertainty Henry had experienced over his lifetime, he’d never worried about shoes. The words, a harsh reminder of the world where Adelaide had grown, made him feel like he deserved every ache and sting and pain that he’d collected that evening.

  And there were many of them.

  He lifted a hand to his nose, aching from the bout. “I think you might have gotten what you desired.”

  Her lips flattened with concern. “What is that?”

  “I wager my nose is broken.”

  She came close to inspect it, turning to the tub where a towel had been forgotten after his bath, which felt like it had taken place weeks ago. Dipping a bit of the fabric into the now-cool water, she dabbed at the blood on his face, and he winced.

  “You’ve a wicked bruise blooming,” she said softly. “More than one.”

  He nodded. “My face will finally have character.”

  Her smile was as soft as her touch. As her teasing. “At last, something worth looking at.”

  “You’re going to tell me about Havistock,” he said. “There’s more going on here than an outraged father trying to stop an unsuitable wedding.”

  She hesitated.

  Trust me, Adelaide. Trust me to help.

  He didn’t say it, knowing she wouldn’t listen.

  She met his eyes, searching long enough that he hoped she would find what she was looking for. The truth. That he was an ally. Finally, she nodded. “When we’re safe.”

  It would have to be enough, he told himself as he searched her in return, needing to make sure she was unharmed. He did not have to search far. “You’re bleeding.”

  She put a hand to her neck. “A scratch.”

  He took the towel from her. Repeated her movements. Cleaned the spot where the knife had punctured skin. “I want to tear him apart again. For every drop of blood.”

  She shook her head. “Not tonight.” She was right. Though he did his best not to show it, the battle had taken a toll on his already bruised body. “We’re going to do him one worse,” she added.

  His brows rose. “What’s that?”

  “We’re sending him back to The Bully Boys . . . hogtied to take his punishment for losing. No one punishes a thug for a loss like one of their own.”

  “I should like to try,” he said before swaying and catching himself on the rim of the bathtub, hoping she did not notice.

  She noticed. Of course she did. “Clayborn?”

  The title, back on her tongue. He wanted to tell her to call him Henry, as the moonlight streamed through the window, casting silver shadows over the skin she swiftly covered. Had she always been so beautiful?

  Always.

  He sucked in a breath, ignoring the sharp pain that flashed in his side. He needed a bed. A decent sleep. There wasn’t time for that—they had to get to Helene and Jack.

  “You should have been wearing clothes. Then he wouldn’t have been able to hurt you.”

  She moved toward him, his shirt in hand, her brow furrowed. “Would you believe I didn’t have time to lace a corset when the criminals broke down the door?” She pressed the ball of fabric to his chest, and he rocked back at the touch.

  “What is—” The end of the question caught in her throat as she directed her attention down over his body, her hands following her concerned gaze in the darkness.

  “Adelaide, as much as I enjoy your—”

  “Oh, do shut up,” she interrupted him.

  “I beg your pardon—” Pain. His hand flew to hers at his side. “Christ!”

  “Shit.” Her exclamation was more colorful. “You need a doctor.” She looked up at him. “Can you walk?”

  “Of course I can!” he insisted, offended. “But I’m perfectly fine. I don’t need a doctor.” He looked down to discover a neat slice in his side. “Billy must have landed one.”

  “Even a broken clock . . .” she retorted, but he read the worry in her eyes.

  “I shall be fine. It’s a scratch.”

  “It’s not a scratch,” she said. “I’ve seen scratches and I’ve seen knife wounds and I’ve seen what comes of both of them and you need care.” She collected both their bags and moved to pass him, heading for the far side of the room. “You need a surgeon,” she repeated to herself more than to him, “and we need to get as far from this place as possible.”

  He snatched his bag from her grip. He would be dead before he let her carry his bag. “Or what?”

  “Or Danny will regain consciousness and join us once more,” she said, nodding in the direction of the already once-splintered door.

  “Danny,” he repeated, not liking the thread of anger that coursed through him. “You know him.”

  She didn’t reply, moving with speed to the painting he’d noticed when he entered. What had she called them? The shield-maidens. She gripped the frame and pulled the painting off the wall.

  No. Not off the wall.

  She pulled it open, revealing another door.

  “Another passageway,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It took me twenty minutes to find the last one.”

  Her brows rose at the words as she pulled the chain from her bodice, unscrewing the brass pendant even as she extracted a snuffbox from her skirts. “I’m impressed. That one was far more difficult than this.”

  He watched her carefully as she selected an item from the box and affixed it to the cylinder. She’d made a skeleton key. Brilliant. “Do you have passageways in every inn in Britain?”

  “I’m sorry, Duke,” she said, one half of her pretty mouth lifting in a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “I don’t have time to play with your puzzle box right now.”

  He let her have the jest. Let her keep her secrets.

  She was magnificent.

  “It lets out in the stables,” she whispered. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be out before they wake.”

  Her carriage was already hitched when they got to the stables, Mary standing beside it. She nodded her thanks to the woman. “Send word to Lucia. We need one of the boys to make a delivery. And tell her I need her. She’ll know where to find me.”

  The young woman nodded, sending a nervous look at Clayborn. “Did Billy—”

  “Billy knifed a duke, and is lucky to be alive,” Adelaide said.

  “And if I wish for him to be alive somewhere other than here?”

  “Then send him along with the other. His cargo is paid, and you’ll never see him again. We must go—this place isn’t safe,” she said as she opened the door and tossed her bag into the vehicle, indicating that he should enter. “Get in, Duke. We don’t have time for dallying.”

  Henry shook his head. “I’m riding up top, with you.”

  “No. You need to lie flat.”

  “And you need someone to protect you.”

  “And you will do that how, bleed upon them?”

  He turned from her and made to climb up, embarrassed by his weakness. By the way his muscles seemed no longer under his control. When he finally got there, she leaned over him, gazing deep into his eyes, her own pools of brown velvet, full of concern. “We’ve got to get you somewhere safe.”

  “He knew you. Danny.”

  She didn’t reply, pulling a carriage blanket over him.

  He grabbed her hand. Held it firmly. “He knew you. He knows your father.”

  She looked to him for a long moment. “Everyone knows my father.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t.”

  She smiled, but there was no amusement in the expression. “Are you sure about that?”

  His brows furrowed, and a wave of weakness crashed over him. Dammit. If he hadn’t been stabbed, he could think. He could put it together. Who she was. Who her father was. Danny had said something. Why couldn’t he remember? “I think I might . . .” He gave the seat his full weight, leaning his head back against the carriage behind them. “Shit.”

  She was already around the other side of the vehicle, pulling herself up beside him. “Duke?”

  “Don’t call me that,” he said, which was a ridiculous thing to say, but suddenly it felt important. He closed his eyes. “Last night you called me Henry.”

  She sighed and gave him what he wanted, her words soft and sweet in the darkness, almost as though she liked them. Almost as though she liked him. “Alright, Henry. We have to get you somewhere safe.”

  But he was already unconscious, and could not hear her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Five miles from the Hungry Hen, down several short lanes, two of which tracked back toward the inn, there was a long drive tucked behind a collection of fence and brush that made it impossible to find if a body wasn’t looking for it.

  Adelaide was looking for it.

  She urged the horses up the drive to the small cottage at the top of the hill—a cottage that sat empty most of the year, except on nights like this, when an emergency forced one of the Duchess of Trevescan’s vast network of contacts to seek safety.

  Adelaide drove as quickly as she dared, using only one hand for the reins.

  With her other hand, she applied pressure to the wound in Henry’s side, trying not to think about the remarkable amount of blood—blood that soaked through the length of linen she’d stolen from the inn and coated her hand. To keep them both from giving up, she did the only other thing she could think to do—she talked to him.

  She began with ridicule and exasperation, having been born in a world that prized this response above all others when faced with extraordinary events. “This is what happens when you learn to fight at some school for rich boys with nothing to do, toff,” she groused as they exited the drive of the Hungry Hen, leaning over his unconscious body to make sure they were not followed.

  “Six years at Eton is nothing compared to a drunken lout with a dull wit and a sharp blade. Of course you’re out cold. Nothing else can be expected.” She paused, and added, “Though I will admit I remain impressed with the force of your facers.”

  Threatening did not work, either; he did not respond to “If you don’t wake up, I ought to just tip you out of the carriage and let you fend for yourself.” Nor to “I have neither the time nor the patience for whatever you’re about to bring to my doorstep, Your Grace. What I do have is a team of women more than willing to help me disappear you.”

  She tried coaxing him awake. “Come on, Clayborn. If you wake I’ll let you ask all your questions. I’ll tell you all the answers. I’ll give you the file—let you see all we know about your brother. About you.” She left out the realization that they knew far less about him than they should, considering how well he lurked outside warehouses and took down brutes. Instead, she tried a different tack. “I’ll let you win the race. Let the lovebirds get wed. Just wake up.”

  And when none of the other strategies worked, she settled on pleading as they trundled up the rise to the cottage, a simple litany of words that might have been prayer if praying were a thing Adelaide did. She’d never found a deity willing to listen to her, so she prayed to things that were not deities. She begged the carriage not to throw a wheel and pleaded with the horses to move more quickly. And she prayed the house would be well stocked with supplies.

  But mainly, she prayed to him, she supposed. To him to keep breathing. “Please don’t die,” she whispered again and again. “You promised me you wouldn’t die. Please.”

  It shouldn’t have felt so weighty, that request. She’d seen plenty of people die in her young life—a girl didn’t grow where and how she had without knowing the face of death. But somehow, the idea that Henry might die . . .

  It shouldn’t have stuck in her throat and stung her eyes. Shouldn’t have been full of such panic. Such worry.

  Please don’t die.

  And then, on the heels of the silent thought.

  I like you too much.

  She sucked in a breath—knowing the words were silly and selfish. Frivolous. Irrelevant. He would live or he would die, and her feelings about him were irrelevant.

  He wasn’t for liking. Not for her. Especially not now that he knew she wasn’t Miss Adelaide Frampton, cousin to the Duchess of Trevescan with a hobby for petty larceny, but instead Addie, daughter to one of the worst criminals in London, raised in the gangs of the South Bank.

  She’d do well to remember that—to cloak herself in the truth of it and protect herself from whatever was to come with this man. Emotions were a luxury Adelaide could not afford, so she pushed disappointment and anger and frustration and shame and no small amount of fear aside, focusing, instead, on the house as it came into full, shadowed view, close enough now to loom darker than the darkness around them. No one was inside.