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The second sign of trouble came when DuBois came running through the front doors and down the steps.

“My Lord!” he cried. “You’re home!” His face did not reflect any relief or pleasure, as Conor would have expected. Indeed, he looked distressed.

Conor frowned. Worry was beginning to take hold now. “Yes, I am,” he said. “You don’t think me guilty, DuBois, do you?” It had occurred to him suddenly that his butler might be reluctant to have him in the house because he thought Conor a murderer.

But DuBois shook his head. “Of course not, My Lord,” he said, and his face was earnest. “We all know you couldn’t have killed that man. You don’t have a killer’s heart. It’s just—” He wrung his hands.

“Spit it out,” Conor urged.

“It’s Lady Middleborough,” DuBois said.

“Is she all right?” Conor’s heart raced. He had been so worried about her. Now it seemed that perhaps he might have been right to worry. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s gone,” DuBois said.

“What do you mean,gone? Where did she go? Back to her father’s house?” It was no great surprise if she had, he thought. If he had been thinking when the police had picked him up, he would havetoldher to go back to Tobias. It only made sense for her to be with someone who could look after her during this time.

But DuBois was shaking his head. “We should get inside,” he said, and for the first time Tobias realized that his face was pale.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“A note was delivered by courier a few hours ago,” DuBois said.

“Who did it come from?”

“We don’t know. But it says—well, I should let you read it.”

“Did Astrid send the note?” Conor was confused, and fear was starting to creep in. Was DuBois trying to tell him that his wife had left him?

They entered the manor and DuBois led the way across the foyer. Several members of the staff were gathered by a small table, whispering urgently. They broke apart when they saw Conor, their voices quieting.

“Somebody tell me what’s going on,” Conor said.

DuBois picked up a folded sheet of paper from the table and handed it to Conor. “This is the note that was delivered,” he said quietly.

Conor flicked it open and read:

Lady Middleborough has not been harmed, but if you want her to remain healthy, you will meet with me to discuss my demands and the terms of her possible release. Come to The Arc tonight at one o’clock. Bring no one. If the police are informed, or if you attempt to come with any company, Lady Middleborough will meet the same fate as Lord Hayward.

The words seemed to swim before Conor’s eyes. He tried to force the message to make sense.

They’re threatening to kill her.

Why would anybody want to kill Astrid?

But he knew why. Killing Astrid would gain the same thing as framing Conor for Lord Hayward’s murder—it would utterly destroy Conor.

He latched onto the one thing that seemed to offer a scrap of hope.The terms of her possible release. It wasn’t a guarantee—they were going out of their way to make sure he knew it wasn’t a guarantee—but it was a chance. There was a chance that Astrid might be able to walk away from this.

Demands. They were going to want something from him.

Well, they could have it. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as much as Astrid’s life. Would he be asked to give up his business, to relinquish his title and live as a commoner? Would he be asked to hand over all the money he had?

He would do it.

He had been bested.

But even as he felt the cold shroud of utter defeat settle over him, a tiny spark of rage seemed to ignite within him.How dare they? How dare they use Astrid like this? She has nothing to do with any of it.