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“Whoever stole those coins, ’twasn’t any o’ the normal tradesmen.”

This was no more than confirmation of what we already suspected, but it was good to have corroboration that a… tradesman , as he’d called professional lockpicks, wasn’t involved.

“I’ve also discovered somethin’ interestin’ aboot Mr. Fletcher.”

I knew Bonnie Brock well enough to recognize that tone.

Whatever he had to tell me would be interesting, indeed, but he intended to reel it out piece by piece, making me work to drag it out of him.

It was a rather annoying habit which provoked me to scowl at him, letting him know I was not in the mood to humor him.

He flashed me a smile. “Apparently, Mr. Fletcher has made friends wi’ a rather obligin’ barmaid at the White Horse.” He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “A rather obligin’ barmaid, indeed…”

I scrunched up my nose at this reference, for I understood what he was implying.

“For she told Locke…” one of Bonnie Brock’s henchmen “…that on the night before the floor collapse, Mr. Fletcher convinced her tae dose Mr. Rimmer’s drink wi’ some sort o’ tincture.”

I started.

“Aye,” he said, letting me know I’d heard correctly. “From her description, ’twas probably laudanum.”

“Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Rimmer share quarters,” I murmured, recalling that Rimmer had said so.

“Aye. The lovely maid thought she was givin’ the lad a sleepin’ draught so that she and Fletcher could carry on undisturbed. She was still quite miffed that instead Mr. Fletcher left the White Horse and didna return ’til the wee hours o’ the mornin’.”

My eyes had widened to saucers, and I clasped my hands over my mouth.

“The maid thought he was visitin’ another lass, but I believe you and I ken better.”

“It was Fletcher,” I exclaimed, lowering my hands.

“He must have returned to Picardy Place with Mr. Rimmer’s keys, tampered with the joist, and went back to the inn, with Mr. Rimmer none the wiser because he was drugged.

” I turned toward the door as if to find Gage, only remembering too late that he wasn’t home.

“The maid said he returned wi’ an injury as well. A cut tae his hand she had tae bandage for him.”

Mr. Rimmer had mentioned that Fletcher had injured his hand the day before the collapse, that it had become infected when he’d fallen.

Or perhaps it simply hadn’t been tended correctly.

After all, a barmaid was not a doctor. Either way, it seemed evident he’d sliced his hand while tampering with the joist. During the auction, he’d hidden it beneath the gloves he’d worn to move the paintings about.

“Yer husband’s man might o’ found all this oot eventually, had he no’ been so obviously English. And no’ gone soft.” His brogue dripped with insinuation. “Courtin’ yer maid, isn’t he?”

I elected to ignore this query in favor of one more important. “But why?” I asked, baffled by Fletcher’s reasoning. “He killed an innocent man and injured dozens of others. And it might have been much worse. But to what end?”

“I dinna ken the why. You’ll have tae figure that one oot on yer own. What I do care aboot is that he’s likely the one who tried to harm ye by pushin’ ye in front o’ that carriage.”

I looked up, suddenly alerted by the tone of his voice, and the fact he was now standing much closer to me. I could smell the damp of his wool coat, feel the warmth radiating off him, see the gold flecks in his eyes.

“And nay one harms what’s mine.”

Instinctively I took a step back, only to come up against the cool glass of the door. “I’m not yours,” I protested, my pulse suddenly pounding.

He arched an arrogant eyebrow as if to say, Ye are if I say ye are , and crowded closer, his intent clear. “Noo, aboot my favor.”

My heart rose into my throat as his mouth lowered toward mine, but I turned my head at the last, so that his lips brushed across my cheek.

This wasn’t the first time Bonnie Brock had tried to kiss me, but it was his first attempt since my marriage to Gage. Gage had tried to warn me, but I’d ignored him, believing Bonnie Brock wouldn’t dare try such a thing. Evidently, I was wrong.

“Ye made a bargain, lass,” he growled in warning, his breath gusting hot in my ear and his bristles lightly abrading my skin. The indolence from before was gone, leaving only a man bent on what he wanted.

Memories of my marriage to Sir Anthony flooded through me, reminding me of the enjoyment he’d gotten out of turning on me when I’d least expected it and backing me into a corner. He’d fed off any reaction, be it shock, resistance, or fear.

I inhaled a shaky breath, trying to clear my thoughts, to focus on the obvious.

That this was not my first husband. For one, he smelled better, and the plains of his body were hard where Sir Anthony’s had been soft.

But the recognition that Bonnie Brock could be as much a threat to me as anyone made my limbs tremble and threaten to give way.

I’d known this man was a dangerous criminal. I’d known it, and yet I’d deceived myself into thinking I could trust him. That he meant no harm.

I inhaled again, compelling the fog of panic to recede, refusing to lose sight of what I knew to be true, despite the seeming proof to the contrary. Bonnie Brock could be trusted. I simply had to prove it—to myself and possibly even to him.

I pushed out with my hands where they were trapped against his chest, creating some distance between us. “I’m not going to kiss you,” I told him plainly once our eyes met.

His jaw was hard, his eyes determined, so I hastened to continue before he could argue how I owed him the token of his choosing.

“But I have something better for you.”

He looked disbelieving but allowed me to continue.

“You’re going to have to let me fetch it.”

His eyes narrowed mistrustfully. “I’ve seen yer pistol, ye bloodthirsty wench.”

“It’s not my pistol. It’s…a gift.” I searched his expression for any sign of weakening. “Please, will you let me go get it?”

I could feel the restraint vibrating through him, the sharpness of his desire, and for a moment I feared I’d miscalculated again. But then he stepped back abruptly. I edged past him, worried he would change his mind, and hurried down the corridor toward the staircase.

As I ascended, I spared a moment to wonder where all the staff had gone.

I was surprised none of them had heard us talking or stumbled across our altercation and intervened.

But then I realized they must all be at dinner in the servants’ hall.

All but Joe, Peter, and Anderley, who had gone with Gage, and Mrs. Mackay, who would be eating in her own room while Emma slept.

I panted slightly when I reached the top floor—unaccustomed to climbing three flights of stairs at such a speed—and hastened toward my studio.

Unlocking the door, I tumbled into the darkened chamber.

Jeffers knew better than to leave a lantern unattended in here.

Carefully skirting the contents of the room, I crossed to the window and yanked open the curtains.

Moonlight flooded the space, allowing me to pick through the canvases leaning against the interior wall.

Three back, I found the one I was searching for.

Pulling it out, I cast one last critical eye over it before deciding there was no time to second-guess myself.

I’d already decided I would never exhibit it, and I knew I would never hang it in any of our homes.

Gage would never have stood for it had I even tried.

So rather than let it languish in a corner of my studio, this seemed a better choice.

Locking the studio door, I returned down the stairs to the morning room, finding Bonnie Brock waiting impatiently for me.

He stood facing the French doors, his hands planted almost defiantly on his hips, but upon my appearance, he rounded, almost as if he’d not believed my assertion that I’d not gone to get my pistol.

His gaze dipped to the canvas I held in confusion.

“I…I want you to have this.” I advanced toward him, suddenly feeling unsure of myself. Perhaps he wouldn’t like it. Perhaps he would be insulted. “You may do whatever you wish with it.” With this statement, I turned the canvas so that he could see it, holding it out to him.

He accepted it hesitantly, scrutinizing the image depicted.

It was a portrait of him and his sister, Maggie.

Painted almost exactly where he was standing now, illuminated by moonlight.

She was tucked against his side, her head resting on his shoulder trustingly though a single tear lingered in the crevice beside her nose.

His face was turned to look down at her, quiet affection writ in his eyes and the sharp angles of his face, but also regret and determination.

I had called it A Reconciliation . And it had captured precisely that. A moment in time that happened over a year ago now, but that had lingered with me long after.

Several minutes passed without Bonnie Brock saying anything.

At first, I’d studied his features, trying to discern his reaction, but I’d soon abandoned the effort, for it felt too invasive.

Instead, I took up his previous stance in front of the French doors, attempting to gauge whether the mist had deepened or remained the same.

I was still trying to decide when he joined me, his shoulder brushing mine, the portrait still held before him, but lower.

“Thank ye,” he said.

I nodded, not unaffected by the gravity of his tone.

It was the subdued tenor of his demeanor that allowed me to dare to voice a question I would normally have never risked. “Isn’t there a better way forward?”

Than running the largest criminal enterprise in Edinburgh. Than committing theft, extortion, smuggling, body snatching, assault, and murder, as well as any number of petty crimes I might not be aware of.

“Nay,” he stated confidently, but with little satisfaction. “No’ kennin’ who would take my place. I canna quit nor leave.” His shoulders straightened. “Too many people rely on me.” He shook his head. “I canna fold.”

I fully appreciated then what a trap he’d constructed for himself.

Yes, he’d committed terrible acts to get where he was.

He continued to commit them. But his power also protected a great deal of people who could not protect themselves.

It was why so much of the city was content to live under his thumb.

He had his own code of honor, and as long as you played by it, you were secure.

Which was more than they could say about the law of the land, which often catered to the wealthy and titled at the expense of the masses.

If Bonnie Brock were suddenly to disappear, the vacuum created would result in chaos and carnage, certainly for those closest to him. The very thought was actually quite frightening. I couldn’t guarantee even we would be safe.

I turned to him, offering him my hand, telling him it was time to go. “Give Maggie my regards.”

He took it, squeezing gently. “Aye.”

Then lest I start to think he’d become too tame, he yanked me toward him, planting a smacking kiss on my cheek. Before I could retaliate, he released me, slipping through the French door and out into the night.

I turned to scowl through the glass at him, his laughter reverberating back to me as he strode away. His shadows, Stump and Locke, were no doubt waiting for him by the carriage house. There was no telling what they would think upon hearing it.

As he disappeared into the mist, a smile cracked the corner of my lips, too, before being quickly suppressed.