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“Oh,” she said, craning her neck but proving unable to see the spot, which she traced with her fingers. The drop of blood smudged, already half dried. “Did she get me, then?”

The casual air with which she asked the question made Benedict want to laugh—or weep or perhaps lose his lunch. He wasn’t sure which. He drew her hand away from the spot and grasped her at the back of the neck, pulling her forehead to press firmly against his.

If Priscilla’s knife hand landed a few centimeters down or to the left, Emily wouldn’t be safe and secure in his arms; she’d be bleeding out, another victim in his mother’s wretched quest to make herself important to the men she relentlessly pursued.

“You’re all right,” he murmured, trying to make the knowledge break through the relentless pounding of his heart, the panickedrush of his blood through him, the fear he could not shake—the likes of which he’d never before known.

“I’m all right,” she assured him, her fingertips cool and grounding against his cheek.

Benedict would have been content to stay there for hours, no matter the hard floor beneath them or the insistent throbbing from his bruised shoulder. But a polite clearing of a throat reminded Benedict that there was more to be done before he bundled his wife off home where he intended to not let her out of his sight for at least a week. Likely longer.

Inspector Drummond, an ambitious young member of the London constabulary, gave Benedict and Emily a frown that was both apologetic and businesslike.

“Sorry to pull you away from your lady, My Lord, when you’ve both just had a fright. But we’ve remaining business to attend to before we consider this matter dealt with.”

“Right,” Benedict said, trying to remember that he was an earl, not just Emily’s fearful husband. “Yes, of course. I beg your pardon.”

He got to his feet then extended a hand to help Emily do the same, trying not to let his gaze linger on where a frayed hole had been punched into the back of the settee, a stark reminder that his mother had attempted to punch such a hole in Benedict’swife.

“What is goingon?” Priscilla screamed. The two orderlies were holding her securely, looking as though they were perfectly comfortable doing such a thing all day, even as Priscilla thrashed to and fro. “Who are these men, Benedict? Release me at once.”

Benedict gave his wife a last squeeze before he let his arm drop from around her, the reassurance more for his own sake than for hers. Emily was, after all, still pale, but the look she was giving the Dowager Countess wasn’t lined with fear but rather disdain.

He stepped in front of his mother.

“You have admitted to conspiring to kill Lady Grace Miller,” he said, keeping his tone carefully emotionless. “As she was the daughter of a powerful peer, that could well be considered a capital offense. I suspect the Crown would perhaps hesitate to hang an aristocratic woman—” After everything, he could not deign to give his mother the title oflady. “—but you would be looking at a lifetime spent in a miserable, dank prison. I have arranged with Inspector Drummond here—” He tipped his head toward the man, who gave a sharp nod in response. “—to have you sequestered in a respectable asylum, instead. These gentlemen—” This time his gesture was to the orderlies. “—will escort you there.”

“Bedlam?” Priscilla shrieked, the noise so loud and so high that it took all of Benedict’s self-control not to cover his ears like a child. The orderlies didn’t so much as blink. Perhaps a strong constitution in the face of furious hysteria was, like endless strength, a requirement for the position. “You’re sending me tobedlam?”

“It is arespectableasylum,” he reiterated. “And, frankly, it’s better than you deserve. Unless you’d prefer prison?”

For the first time in several long minutes, Priscilla fell silent, her chin jutting out mulishly.

“I suspected as much,” Benedict said, a hint of anger creeping into his tone. This was permissible, he felt, as what hereallywished to do was screamhow could you?until he was blue in the face.

Still, when Emily’s hand pressed gently against his elbow, he let himself bask in the fortifying sensation.

“The inspector will explain your circumstances to you more fully along the way,” Benedict explained. “But this is the last time we will see each other. Goodbye, Mother.”

“Wait, Benedict, wait!” she cried as the orderlies began to pull her inexorably toward the door. “You can’t do this! Stop! Stop!” When they didn’t stop, a snarl of anger crossed her face once more. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with!” she shrieked just before the doors closed on her blotchy red complexion and her disheveled hair.

And then the heavy oak door clicked into place, and her words became too muffled to parse before disappearing completely as the orderlies and inspector took her away.

Not that Benedict was paying any attention. The moment his duty to see this thing through was discharged, he cleared his mind of everything except Emily.

He whirled, crushing her to him as she hugged him back with the same intensity. That blessed, gorgeous height of hers meant that this embrace put pressure on his bruised shoulder; when he let out a little grunt, she pulled back in alarm.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.

“I’m fine,” he said, reaching for her again. “It’s just a bruise.” She danced out of his reach. “Emily, be serious.”

“Iambeing serious,” she retorted. “That horrible woman injured you.”

“Shestabbedyou,” he exclaimed. He would have thrown up his hands in exasperation, but, well, his shoulderdidhurt.

Emily gave him a pitying look. “I’ve had papercuts worse than this,” she scoffed.

“Was the paper trying to kill you?” he shot back. He couldn’t believe they were having this argument.