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“Very good, Mr. Lake, very good!” Woodstock dropped his hand from Caroline’s face, sipped at his cognac. “Of course I wanted whatever—
whomever
—it was that would kill you to give me.”

He took a step toward Henry. “I wanted to break your spine and your spirit.” Suddenly his voice was low, savage, spittle flying. “I wanted to destroy you by destroying everything you loved. And I have. I have, Mr. Lake. I’ve destroyed you. You think you know hate now. But I’ll destroy her, too, and then you will know what hate really is. It fills you up, and rots you from the inside out. England’s most dedicated agent, rotten. Just like me. Her most dedicated enemy.”

Henry made a great show of rolling his eyes. “Are you done yet? I’ve heard my fill of these sorts of speeches—the villain at last explaining his motives, puffing out his chest at another hero vanquished. I’m vanquished, Woodstock. I’m rotten. You’ve turned me into what you are—a traitor, worth less than a dog. Come, Caroline, let’s be off.”

Again he reached for her; again she pulled away. “Go, Henry,” she said. “Go.”

Woodstock sipped at his cognac, eyes glittering like the cut glass tumbler he held to his lips. He was enjoying this; he did not want his moment of triumph to end.

“Tell me,” he said. “Is the lady as feisty as I think she is? I suppose I shall have to restrain her, for the first few weeks at least.”

Henry’s fingers curled so tightly into his fists he felt the bite of his nails against his palm. He couldn’t stand this much longer; he did not trust himself to hold back. If Moon did not
appear, and soon, Henry would kill Woodstock, and in so doing probably end up dead himself.

Lake glanced one last time across the room. He nearly cried out with relief at the appearance of a lithe figure there in the corner; a figure with long, dark hair. The figure turned, silently closing the window behind him before turning back toward the chamber.

Finally. He—she—was here.

He prayed, harder, that neither Caroline nor Moon would not be harmed, playing their parts.

Moon’s feet made no sound as he made his way into the chamber. With his right hand he swiped an engraved silver candlestick from a nearby table; ah, so he would not use his usual dagger. Interesting choice. Henry bit back a cry when Moon caught the edge of the table with his hip; Henry could not see his face—the room grew darker with an approaching afternoon storm—but he could just imagine his grimace. Caroline’s clumsiness was rubbing off on Moon.

Woodstock caught Henry looking; to stop the marquess from looking over his shoulder himself, Henry stepped forward and jabbed his finger into Woodstock’s chest.

“I’ll come for her,” Henry said, doing his best to play the panicked lover. He did not have to try very hard. “And when I do, I’ll kill you. If she doesn’t do it herself.”

Woodstock grinned. “She is feisty, then. Splendid.”

Behind Woodstock, Moon approached, candlestick held fast in hand.

Henry refocused his gaze on Woodstock.

“How dare you describe her as ‘feisty,’” Henry said, knowing as he said it that it was a poor excuse for a rejoinder. He was too nervous to be witty. “Caroline is a lady, the widow of an earl!”

“Yes,” Woodstock purred. “And this lady—she is mine.”

Henry blinked back the rage that dimmed the edges of his vision. He should just reach out and strangle Woodstock himself.

“Which lady,” Henry said slowly, “do you mean? There seem to be two of them present.”

He nodded his head at the figure drawing up behind Woodstock. Moon held the candlestick over his head, poised for attack.

Alarm flickered in Woodstock’s pale eyes as his head snapped about. His nostrils flared as the realization hit him. He looked at Caroline, looked back at Moon. In the low light the two of them appeared identical, dark hair curling over proud shoulders, bonnets framing their faces with scalloped lace and delicate ribbons.

It was the perfect ruse.

Caroline had been right. Woodstock was taken entirely off guard.

His eyes, wide, slid to meet Henry’s.

Moon did not hesitate. Seizing upon Woodstock’s indecision, he brought the candlestick down, hard, on the back of his skull.

Woodstock’s eyes went wider, so wide Henry thought they would pop out of his head. He wavered for half a second on his feet; Henry knew Woodstock was far too wily an opponent to allow him a full second—that devil would think of something—and so Henry drew back his arm, and was about to drive his fist into the man’s face when Caroline stepped in, and did it first.

Bold indeed. Henry remembered the sting of her slap that first night, after Hope’s ball. Caroline landed a solid blow, doubtless from years of practice on that idiot brother of hers.

There was a dull, squishy
crack
; a spatter of blood, eyes rolling back; and then the Marquess of Woodstock collapsed on the ground in a heap of gangly limbs.

The three of them—Caroline dressed as Caroline, Mr. Moon dressed as Caroline, and Henry—peered down at the body.

“Did I do it?” Caroline whispered, flapping her hand. “Is he unconscious?”

Henry fell to his knees, straddling Woodstock’s lifeless torso. He cuffed his chin, for good measure.

Wiping his brow, he panted, “Now he is. Let’s go. Before we’re found out.”

They moved quickly; Henry and Moon carried the body to the window. Before he could tell her to wait, he’d catch her in the alley below, Caroline was leaping through the window, a smile of satisfaction lighting her face as she turned to look up at him.

“I learned from the best,” she said.

Henry rolled his eyes, and then rolled out after her.

*   *   *

B
y the time the hackney pulled away from Newgate Prison, the evening was getting on. A high half-moon floated in a darkening bluebell sky; well past ten o’clock, but still light enough to see the gleam of Caroline’s skin across the vehicle.

Her skin, flawless, just like the night sky.

Henry had always loved that about London—the long summer days, when one could emerge from dinner to see the city swathed in soft northern light. It wasn’t the same in Paris. Paris seemed endlessly dreary against nights like this one.

Henry drew down the window, inhaled a long draught of air.

Beside him, Caroline let out a small sigh.

“What is it?” Henry asked.

“Disappointed it’s over, that’s what.”

Henry leaned forward, put his elbows on his thighs, and covered the ball of her knee with his palm. “You played your part with aplomb, Caroline,” he said softly. “But you are a lady, remember? A dowager countess. You’re not going to waste your widowhood clocking fellows in the face, are you? Surely you’ve got better things to do.”

She was smiling now. If Moon weren’t swaying in the carriage beside him, Henry would have slid his hand up her leg, watched her smile widen, her head fall back on the squabs.

Inside his chest, his heart clenched. The heat of her skin seeped through her gown into his palm; she looked away, out the window.

Back at Henry’s brother’s house, they congratulated one another. Caroline joined Henry and Moon in a toast to their victory, and was a dear not to mention how terrible the champagne was, even though her eyes watered at its sourness.

Henry couldn’t tear his gaze from her face.

This was their last night together. They’d solved the puzzle; Woodstock was gone, the diamond was in Henry’s possession. Negotiations would begin with the French tomorrow, after Henry delivered the good news to his commanding officer; he would promptly be sent back to Paris, probably by the end of the week. In the war against Old Boney, there was no time to waste.

He no longer had a reason to pester Caroline, call upon her, expect her to call upon him. The French Blue had brought them together, and now that the diamond would go to Napoleon, Henry and Caroline would once again be parted. She would be a respectable widow once more. And he—he would go back to his work, his men, his duty. He would be in a world so far removed from hers it might as well be the moon.

Tonight’s victory was proving a bittersweet one.

But tonight—Henry and Caroline still had tonight. It was too depressing to think about what happened next, without her. So he would think about tonight.

He hoped the minutes might pass slowly, so that he might savor them.

He hoped Caroline would stay with him. He would do anything she wanted—play cards, drink wine—as long as she stayed.

Only, she didn’t.

“Time to go, I’m afraid,” she said, setting her half-empty glass on the bureau. “Henry, would you walk me home?”

Forty-one

H
enry stalked through the darkness in silence.

“Why so,” she panted, “serious? Eager to be rid of me?”

He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “You were the one who wanted to leave,” he said gruffly.

“Don’t you know? I only did that so that we might have some time alone.”

Henry cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “You did?”

“Of course I did. Couldn’t hurt Moon’s feelings by asking him to make himself scarce.”

“That would’ve been a tad obvious, yes.” Henry grinned.

“Dear God, Henry, could you please slow down?”

He did as she asked. She slipped her arm through his and drew him close. She could smell just the vaguest hint of lemon, but it was enough to fill her head—and then her body—with longing.

Together Caroline and Henry made their way through Mayfair’s quiet lanes and squares, careful to muffle their footfalls in the spaces between cobbles.

Only when the stately façade of her brother’s house appeared did Caroline’s heart resume its beating. Relief, warm
like wine, washed through her. The backs of her knees tingled; her footsteps slowed.

They’d won. With her help, Henry had defeated Woodstock, and ensured the success of his plans for the diamond.

Playing her part had been her confession. She loved him; she hoped he understood.

Just outside the mews gate, she bent at the waist, resting elbows on knees as she caught her breath. Beside her, Henry leaned his back against the wall, let his head fall back, too. His enormous chest rose and fell, rose and fell; Caroline watched through the curtain of hair hanging in front of her eyes.

She felt flush with victory, yes. Even now she smiled at the memory of their deception, and its success. Henry’s greatest enemy—well, the only enemy she knew about, anyway—would be locked away, buried in a hole so deep he would never be found again. Another traitor to England, as good as dead.

And Caroline had helped capture him. She, a dowager countess, a gardener, a widow.

The French Blue would be used as Henry had always intended: an enticing piece of diplomatic bait, in the hopes Old Boney would exchange British prisoners, perhaps a Spanish city or two, in his quest to collect the crown jewels.

Henry would do his duty by England. That duty, of course, would bring him back to Paris, where he would continue his work. He was too good, too experienced, to be allowed to stay in London; Caroline had no doubt his loss these past weeks had been felt, acutely.

Pain, black and swelling, punctured her relief. She’d always known he would go back. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

These two things warred inside Caroline: her love for Henry, a love she could no longer deny, a love she’d all but admitted by helping him win back the French Blue; and the need to protect herself, to keep her carefully tended wounds—wounds that, after twelve years, had never fully healed—from opening again.

But Henry had opened them, and she knew it was too late to stanch the bleeding. She felt rent in two, equal parts love and fear, longing and sadness. The euphoria of having him near, and being so in love, was tinged with an ache Caroline knew well.

She smoothed her hair behind her ear, and looked at Henry as she drew upright. Tonight. It was all they had left. The wild chase that had brought them back together was done.

But they still had tonight.

Henry held out a hand to her, and she took it. He brought her close, his fingers entwining with hers as she stepped into the wedge of shadow put off by the wall.

“Caroline,” he said quietly. Would this be the last time, she wondered, that she’d hear him speak her name? “Thank you. I was an ass to believe I could do this alone. Without you.”

She grinned. “I only had to tell you three hundred times that I could help. At last, I get my due! Tell me, is the Alien Office looking to recruit new spies? I daresay I’d be smashing at it.”

Henry tugged her closer, set her hand to rest against his chest and covered it with his own. His heart beat strongly against her palm. Desire pulsed, dimly, low in her belly. “What about your gardens? And that book! You still need to finish that book.”

“Oh, that book,” Caroline sighed, looking up at Henry. “I have that dreadful book, and you’ll have Paris.”

His grin faded. He squeezed her hand, ran his tongue along his bottom lip. For a moment he looked away. “I hope—sincerely—that I have not caused you overmuch pain, coming to London like this. I never meant to take captive your life, you know. It just . . .” He shrugged, that half-grin of his returning full force, dimple and all. Caroline thought she might faint. “Happened. I don’t regret it, Caroline. No matter what happens next, I don’t regret it.”