“No.” She shook her head, turning an agonized look at Henry. No. Not like this.

  The words were already out of her father’s mouth. “You’re finally gettin’ your wedding.”

  Frustration and anger and absolute panic flooded through her as she rounded on her father, who looked like a fox who’d found a henhouse. She cursed, harsh and angry and turned to Henry, ready to tell him that she’d had nothing to do with this. That he could—no . . . he must—refuse. That they would find another way out, a way that wouldn’t mean tarnishing the legacy of his loving family and his own future with her father’s unbearable greed.

  But he was back to not looking at her. Back to looking only at Alfie, his blue eyes glittering in the waning sunlight.

  He would regret it. Instantly. Adelaide knew in her soul that this man would instantly regret marrying her. Tying himself to her. To this place. To her father, who would immediately wield every tool in his arsenal to manipulate and control them.

  And what of his work? What of his future? What of his legacy?

  This wasn’t the plan. It was never what she wanted.

  For him. The words whispered through her, and she hated the truth of them. It didn’t matter that she might have wanted this. He was all that mattered. “No. Don’t . . .”

  Don’t make it so you regret loving me.

  Don’t make it so you forget loving me.

  And then Henry gave his answer. “Yes.”

  A wide grin split Alfie’s face. “Say it again, boy.”

  “Yes,” Henry repeated, the word firm and cool and without any doubt. “Yes. I accept the offer, on one condition.”

  “Oho! A condition!” Alfie rocked back on his heels. “Go on, then, I find I’m in a givin’ mood.”

  Only then did Henry turn to her, and she caught her breath at what she saw in his beautiful blue eyes. Triumph. “We do it tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Henry had never known fear the way he’d known it when he’d been jostled awake two mornings earlier by Sesily Calhoun, standing at his bedside like some kind of specter. “No time to stand on ceremony, Duke. Get up. Our girl is already gone.”

  He’d been out of bed instantly, dressed within minutes, fear and fury battling his control. She’d left him. Headed into battle without him. Without her sisters in arms.

  She’d taken matters into her own hands, never realizing that this wasn’t how it ended. Not like this, her against the world.

  If she was going up against the world, he would be with her, dammit.

  In the two days it had taken for them to return to London and for him to find his way here, to this church deep in the labyrinth of Lambeth, he’d been consumed with two goals:

  Find Adelaide.

  Make her his. Forever.

  He’d been able to breathe again when he’d turned down the street to find her standing on the steps of the church, tall and beautiful, red hair gleaming in the lantern light. She was found. And she was unharmed. And the world, which had been spinning out of control, had righted itself.

  Yes, he was furious with her for leaving him. For putting herself in danger. For forgetting that she belonged to him, dammit, just as he belonged to her—and they were going to have a long and serious conversation about that . . . just as soon as he convinced her to marry him.

  Granted, this was not the way he’d planned to marry her, but it would get the job done, and he could spend the rest of his life making it up to her with flowers and wedding brunches and string quartets and new frocks. Whatever she wanted would be hers, and he would make a lifetime of giving it to her.

  Why had he ever doubted that they could have it all—the time together, the children, the future . . . the love? Whatever it was that was left between them, they’d sort it out, just as soon as he could pack her into a carriage and take her home and get on with the business of loving her, hang Alfie Trumbull’s wild plans for the future.

  Whatever they were, Henry and Adelaide would face them. And fight them. And triumph.

  Together.

  After all, Henry came with a dukedom, and Adelaide came with a battalion of women warriors. Alfie wouldn’t stand a chance once they were joined.

  And so, standing on the sooty steps of St. Stephen’s Chapel at dusk on that particular Thursday evening, after two days of racing across Britain, furious that the woman he loved would walk herself directly into danger rather than letting him stand beside her . . . things were looking up.

  Right up until she refused him. “No.”

  He turned to look at her. To explain. To coax. “Adelaide.”

  It was as though he was not present. She did not look away from her father as she delivered her blow. “I’m not marrying him. You’ll have to choose something else. I won’t do it.”

  “Why in hell not?” Henry asked. Did she not see what they might have? What this could be?

  “You ain’t got a choice, gel,” Alfie replied. “That’s the price.”

  “Let there be another one, then. How much are they paying you to kidnap the girl? How much is the price on her head? On his brother’s? On Clayborn’s? I’ve wealthy friends now, Alfie, and whatever they will pay you, I am able to pay you more.”

  “I’ll pay my own damn debts, thank you—” Henry bit out, feeling like the whole thing was spinning out of his control.

  “Fine,” she said, still not looking at him, but at least acknowledging his presence. “The duke will pay his own way. And I will double whatever it is. Is that enough?”

  “Now that’s a lot of money, girl. You’d be puttin’ yourself deep in debt to pay it.”

  It would be exorbitant. Alfred Trumbull was nothing if not a shrewd businessman, and he knew the price of silence. Knew, too, that such a price increased with danger, and crime, and a threat to a family and a future. Whatever Havistock was offering, it would be an enormous amount. And with no guarantee for Adelaide’s future.

  But if she married him, Henry would guarantee her future. Immediately. Forever.

  Hell, even if she didn’t marry him, he would guarantee it. But given the choice between spending his life with the woman he loved and spending his life alone, stinging from her rejection—it was no choice at all.

  “Adelaide, we’re marrying,” he said, the words like steel.

  “No, we’re not.” She rounded on him. “We’re going in there and we’re getting your brother and his bride out of the hole my father has put them in, and you are taking them far away from here.”

  “And you,” he said, suddenly furious. “Dammit, Adelaide, some day you will stop leaving yourself out of the equation. I’m taking you away from here, too.”

  She shook her head. “Why won’t you see?”

  Henry took a deep breath. “I do see, love. I see you.”

  See me. Trust me.

  For a heartbeat, he thought she might, her brown eyes glittering behind her spectacles, riveted to his. And then she looked away, to her father. To the rooftops. Up the grimy lane. And instead of replying, she turned and made for the church door, leaving Henry standing on the steps, frustrated and furious.

  He looked to her father. “I hope you have a team of brutes in there, Trumbull.”

  “I’ve one or two,” Trumbull said. “Why?”

  Henry clenched a fist at his side. “Because I’m spoiling for a fight.”

  Alfie watched him for a long moment, then said, “All this time, I thought she’d fallen for you, Duke . . . and here we are . . . you’re absolutely sick for her, ain’t you?”

  “I am, in fact. Sick enough to welcome you into the family.”

  Alfie grinned wide. “That’s a priceless value, that. Ain’t enough money in the Havistock coffers to compete. Think of it! Alfie Trumbull’s blood in a ducal line!”

  And standing there, as one of London’s most hardened criminals crowed his delight at his daughter marrying a duke, it occurred to Henry that his own father, a duke who never thought twice about choosing love over the bloodline, would have found this entire afternoon thoroughly entertaining.

  And he would have been very proud of his son for following in his footsteps.

  Climbing the steps, Henry followed the woman he loved into the church where he fully intended to marry her, dispatch a few of Alfie’s bruisers, extract his brother and sister-in-law from a hole, apparently, and take his new bride home to bed for a solid week—or however long it would take to convince her that he’d married her because he loved her, despite her superior skill at driving him mad.

  A week might not be enough, but Henry was nothing if not persevering, and his plan was flexible.

  Inside the church, Jack and Helene were no longer in a hole. Instead, they were seated on the steps leading to the altar, Lady Helene—Lady Carrington, Henry corrected himself—tucked beneath his brother’s arm as Jack fussed over her adoringly. Relief at seeing his brother well was quickly replaced with a pang of envy. Jack, at least, had found a woman willing to marry him.

  The pair was guarded by two Bully Boys, each one big and broad and with fists the size of hams. Jack looked up as Henry entered and stood. “Henry!”

  Henry scowled down the aisle at Jack’s black eye. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m grand!” Jack said with a bright smile. “Barely feel it!” He pointed to the pretty girl next to him. “My wife!”

  Lady Helene offered him a little wave and a curtsy. “Hello, Your Grace!”

  It was an odd sequence of events, but Henry’s training took over, and he offered the young woman a little bow. “Congratulations, my lady,” he said before returning his attention to his brother. “Jack, we’re not quite out of the woods yet, so . . .”

  “That’s fine!” Jack pronounced, turning to settle Helene back on the steps before he fisted his hands at his sides.

  That sorted, Henry turned his attention to the rest of the church. To Adelaide, paused halfway up the aisle, again refusing to look at him. And to the rest of those assembled—the women who refused to let him come for her alone.

  Distributed quite casually throughout the small chapel were the Duchess of Trevescan, Imogen Loveless, and Sesily Calhoun, each seated in a different pew, bright, jewel-tone skirts shining in the candlelight, as though they were at a musicale and not lingering with villains on the South Bank.

  “Oy!” Alfie said, from behind him, marching up the aisle. “Where did you lot come from?”

  “I’m curious about that, too, honestly,” Adelaide said. “Why can’t you people stay where I leave you?”

  “We’ve no intention of leaving you on your own, Adelaide. I do believe I made that clear. Where one of us goes, the others follow. So . . .” Duchess picked at an invisible piece of lint on her skirts and turned to Trumbull. “Here we are. There’s a back entrance to this church, Alfred. Surely you know of it.”

  “’Course I know about it! But how’d you get through it? There was a guard posted there.”

  “I’m sure that he is ordinarily a very good guard,” Her Grace continued. “But the truth is, men often become flummoxed when women turn up.”

  Trumbull turned on her. “Are you telling me that you got the better of my bruiser?”

  “Not me, in fact,” The Duchess said, pointing to Imogen Loveless. “Lady Imogen.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,” the woman in question reported. “He’ll only be unconscious for an hour or so.”

  Trumbull was flummoxed for a beat, until he seemed to remember why they were all there. “Alright. While I would ordinarily be proper unhappy about somethin’ like this, it’s my Addie’s wedding day, so I’m willing to let this slide.”

  “Wedding!” Sesily Calhoun exclaimed.

  “I daresay we did not expect that,” Imogen replied. “Think of what we can do with two duchesses!”

  “That’s grand!” Jack said, seeming not to fully grasp the danger of his situation. “About time you settle down, Henry, if you ask me!”

  Henry wasn’t at all certain he’d call marriage to Adelaide settling down, but he’d take whatever she’d give him.

  The Duchess of Trevescan remained silent, her eyes on Adelaide.

  “I’m afraid there won’t be any wedding, Jack,” Adelaide said. “Duchess, I require a loan.”

  A single blond brow rose, but the other woman answered unequivocally. “Of course.”

  “It will likely be a great deal of money, and I may not be able to pay it back.”

  Her friend nodded. “Nevertheless, if you need it, it is yours.”

  The three women stood then, coming to flank Adelaide like a team of well-trained lieutenants, facing Henry, as though he were the enemy and not Alfie Trumbull, the actual hardened criminal in the place.

  Each of them looked as though they would protect her with their life. And Adelaide somehow believed the world did not value her.

  “Thank you.” She nodded and turned to her father. “Name your price, Alfie. And I’ll sweeten the pot.”

  Trumbull cut Henry a look. “I’m listening.”

  “You get your money—whatever Havistock’s price is—” Adelaide said.

  “Not sweet enough, girl,” Alfie said.

  “—which is why I am not finished,” she said, irritation sliding into her tone as she repeated herself. “You get your price . . . and me. Returned.”

  Gasps went up around the room, and heat exploded through Henry. He’d burn Lambeth to the ground before he allowed that. “Absolutely fucking not.”

  Somewhere, the Duchess said, “What in hell?”

  Alfie’s brows rose. “Returned.”

  “I’m still the best cutpurse you’ve got,” she said, eyes only on her father. “And now I’ve ties to Mayfair and the aristocracy. I’m a proper thief—one of the best in London—which you know, as I’ve stolen from you in broad daylight. You won’t get better.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “That’s the offer. The money, and me. For the newlyweds. And for Clayborn.”

  “And for my promise never again to work for Havistock,” Alfie guessed shrewdly.

  “Once you let Lady Helene go with Duchess, you’ll never have a chance to work with him again,” Adelaide said. “But I want a promise that you’ll never come for any of them again.”

  “Fucking hell, Adelaide.” Henry had had enough. Without waiting for Trumbull’s decision, he headed for her, ready to toss her over his shoulder and carry her out of this church, and sort out his brother only after he’d tied Adelaide Frampton to a damn chair. “You absolute madwoman.” He didn’t look to Trumbull as he added, “Alfie, I will personally use every tool at my disposal to destroy you and your gang if you accept that offer. What I cannot do myself, I’ll bring in the goddamned Royal Guard to finish.”

  “Adelaide. This is—Listen to him.” Sesily Calhoun agreed with him, but Henry didn’t have time to think on the opinions of her friends, each one likely preparing to do battle.

  Henry reached Adelaide, pulling her into his arms, resisting the urge to shake some sense into her. “I will tear this place apart before I let you stay here, do you understand?”

  She pulled away from him. “Dammit, Henry! This is the only way through! The only way to keep you all safe. Your brother. Helene. You.”

  “Keep me safe from what?”

  “You want to be tied to me? To this place?” She waved a hand at it. “This will ruin you!”

  “And what of you?”

  “It’s different for me. I was born here. I know it. I can’t bear having you here. Knowing what you will sacrifice for me.”

  “What sacrifice? You think your past is hidden from me? I’ve been here before, Adelaide. With you! I knocked out half a dozen of your father’s men and chased you through the fucking place!”

  “That’s not the same! I didn’t love you then!”

  The shout reverberated through the chapel, and relief burst in his chest, mixing with fury.

  “You love me?” he repeated.

  “Yes!” There was nothing soft in the reply.

  Good. He wasn’t feeling soft, either. “Not enough.”

  Her eyes went wide and she fairly vibrated with anger. “What did you say?”

  “You clearly don’t love me enough if you’re willing to toss it away.”

  “Toss it away?” Her words were loud. Furious. “Can’t you see what I am trying to do? To give you?”

  “I don’t want it.” He closed the distance between them. “Do you hear me, Adelaide Frampton, Addie Trumbull, Matchbreaker, fucking chaos—I don’t want any of it if it ends with me loving you from afar. Me, wild with need for you, tearing Lambeth apart to get to you. To hold you. To keep you safe.” He rubbed a hand over his chest at the ache that came with the memory of waking to discover her gone.

  “I am not a damsel in distress!”

  “But I am?!” Henry fairly roared the question. “Christ, Adelaide, you really do think yourself one of your pretty shield-maidens, left alone to choose who lives and dies on the battlefield. You don’t get to choose this. You don’t get to stand in front of me like a shield. I am here, and I have the means to fight all on my own. And dammit, I intend to save the fucking day!”

  Silence fell, and behind him, someone said softly, “My goodness! Did you hear that?” Lady Sesily, perhaps.

  “I like him. With that scruffy beard, I’d consider marrying him myself.” Lady Imogen.

  Henry didn’t much care who liked him at the moment, as he was busy coming unhinged. “You think I’ll leave you here? Marry me, or don’t. Love me, or don’t. Spend the rest of your life with me, or don’t. But don’t for one second think that I’m leaving you here. Alone.”

  “Argh!” Adelaide shouted, her frustration palpable. Good. Let her be furious. He was, as well. “That is the problem! You’re too noble! You think love is enough. You can’t see that this won’t be a real marriage; it shall be a transaction. You think you can beat Alfie Trumbull at his own game. You think you want me. But you don’t. You want to save your brother and his wife—and you should! That is good and decent, and you should want to do everything you can to save them. But trust me when I tell you that marrying me is not the way. Marrying me makes it all worse. It brings you here. To Lambeth. To the crime and the muck and to my father”—she spat the word—“who has never in his life been noble or good or decent.”