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In fact—Andrew cocked his head—perhaps he’d imagined the threatening tone of the letter he’d received. For Marcia sat at a table across from DuMond and two of the biggest guards employed by the man, doling out cards.

“What hangs at a man’s thigh and wants to poke the hole that it’s often poked before?” She posed that outrageous question to her card partners.

“Wot?” Creed asked in his booming, always angry-sounding voice.

Marcia paused and glanced up from her hand, blinking innocently. “Why, a key, of course.”

The table erupted with laughter.

He’d stepped onto a damned Covent Garden stage. That was all there was to it. There was no explaining any of this.

“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat, and when he still went unnoticed amongst the revelry, he made another attempt. “Ahhhem.”

Marcia glanced over, and her eyes brightened. “Andrew!” she greeted, jumping up.

In an instant, the levity died, and as the three men looked squarely at Andrew, the façade of a friendly game between friends might as well have been an imagining he’d conjured in his head.

“Waters,” DuMond said silkily, and with slow, unhurried movements, he came to his feet.

Flynn and Red turned dark looks on Andrew. “Took you long enough.”

“Hey now.” Marcia made a sound of disapproval. “There’s no need for that,” she chided and took a step towards the head guard.

Andrew’s body jolted, and a shaft of fear ran through him. “Marcia, come over here now,” he said quietly.

“It is fine, Andrew,” she spoke as if she were soothing a nervous child.

“I said come over here, Marcia,” he repeated, fighting for calm and control.

DuMond leaned a hip upon the table and arched an eyebrow. “Are you issuing orders in my offices, Waters?”

“I’m issuing an order,” he said tersely. “To my wife. Marcia,” he urged again.

She folded her arms. “I’ll have you know I do not appreciate being ordered about any more than Mr. DuMond enjoys it.”

“Bloody hell, Marcia,” he gritted out. “This is not the time for this.”

“I believe this is the perfect time for it.”

Instead of waiting for his headstrong bride to do as he’d demanded, Andrew took a hurried step towards her, and then he stopped, the air exploding from his lungs, and slipping in a noisy hiss through his teeth. “Marcia,” he whispered. The glow of the candles bathed her face in a soft light, illuminating the bruise on her left cheek.

Marcia’s fingers came up to touch that spot, and she winced.

A black curtain of rage fell across his vision. “I’ll kill him,” he growled, and with a roar, he charged for DuMond.

DuMond’s men instantly had weapons drawn and trained on him.

“He is not speaking of you!” Marcia exclaimed, gripping his arm and tugging at it. “He is speaking about the ones who did this,” she repeated, and feeling dazed, he blinked several times. She was here. She was safe. “Isn’t that right, Andrew?”

His relief proved fleeting. Every muscle in his body tensed as he registered the weapons trained on him… and Marcia.

His pulse hammered, and fear pumped through him. Memories of the past merged with the present, of another gun held by Marianne Carew and pointed at his sister and then the blast of a gunshot. Only this time, it was Marcia in harm’s way.

And it was because of him, once more.

He struggled to get control of his rapidly careening thoughts. Terror had no place in this moment.

DuMond shot a palm up, and his soldiers took that silent cue, holstering the weapons.