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“One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it.”

—Joan of Arc

C harity returned home to find three carriages lining the pavement in front of Atholl House, each bearing society women desiring to pay her a call. She was in no mood to play host.

Pritchard led the visitors in and out of the drawing room, with Charity raising and lowering from her chair like a marionette on a wooden stage. Her expression remained placid, but there was no heart in her conversation.

“What of the Dorset ball?” Lady Stephens asked. “Will Your Grace be in attendance? Perhaps with a certain debonair gent at your side?”

“We have yet to coordinate our social calendars,” Charity demurred.

“Of course he will attend!” Lady Stephens carried on, ignoring Charity. “It is a highlight of the season. What could be more important than escorting you?”

Answers sprang to mind, but Charity could hardly voice them. Instead, she asked what Lady Stephens planned to wear to the event.

When the last guest left, Charity collapsed into her favourite chair, massaging away the ache at her temples. Daylight still streamed through the open drapes, but the atmosphere in the room was dark and heavy. The desire to escape her responsibilities grew.

But where could she go?

Your place is here, my darling , her mama’s voice reminded her, would you leave it behind after all you sacrificed?

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” Pritchard interrupted her musings, holding his silver tray in his left hand. “Both Lords Fitzroy and Ravenscroft have sent messages. I thought it best to bring them straight in.”

Charity looked keenly at her butler, appreciating that the man had divined that there was more to her discussions with both men than the usual frippery. She took the folded notes from the tray, reading Peregrine’s first.

Your Grace—I have news both good and bad. The good is that I believe I have indeed identified a certain banker as the source of our problems. The bad is that now he knows that I know who he is, too.

Tonight proves ill-suited for outings, so a quiet night might be for the best. I’ll call another time. —P

Dropping the letter in her lap, Charity puzzled over the vague tone of his written words. But the message was clear enough. Things had become more dangerous now that he had tipped his hand to Goldbourne. He wanted her to stay home.

Ravenscroft’s letter sat folded still, and Charity wondered what Prinny’s magpie wanted. She hoped that it wasn’t another complaint about the Grand Duchess. Peregrine’s letter would make it difficult to help him. Carefully, she unfolded his, too.

Your Grace, a little yellow bird has petitioned me urgently to get him access to Lady Normanby, by any means necessary.

To judge by his poor penmanship, I believe something upsetting has transpired and I am hoping he has sent some sort of explanation—and perhaps a warning—to you. Be safe. —Ravenscroft

An ill-feeling was growing in the pit of her stomach, and she picked up Peregrine’s letter again. His words had been rather terse, but his handwriting seemed more or less as even. That, and the arrival of Ravenscroft’s letter at roughly the same time, suggested that he had written to her later.

“Is there bad news?” Pritchard asked.

“It seems Lord Fitzroy may have had some sort of incident.”

“Again! Trouble has developed a fondness for Lord Fitzroy’s company,” her butler said sharply, no doubt thinking about their bloodied appearance in the wee hours of this very morning. “For your sake, I hope his problem isn’t… infectious.”

Poor Pritchard. He had no idea that she had already caught the plague. She had only advised her senior servants to take greater precautions, mostly to explain the presence of her guards.

At least she had guards. Trust Peregrine to understate the matter if he was in trouble.

“Have the unmarked carriage brought out and alert the guards. If Lord Fitzroy will not seek protection, I shall take some protection to him,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

She was on her way to the Fitzroy estate within the hour.

The footman who greeted her at the door was not Jack, the one who had carried her.

But she did recognise him as the other one who had ridden on the back of the carriage.

And as she looked at him discreetly, she marked the lines of tension in the footman’s jaw and body.

He was clearly in a state of considerable strain, made suddenly worse by her arrival.

“Your Grace,” he said stiffly, glancing at her and the guards. “Lord Fitzroy is not presently receiving callers.”

Whatever could have happened?

“I am not a caller,” she said, adopting the imperious tone that got the Queen her way. “I am here to see him.”

The footman was clearly torn in two directions. Finally he led her to the morning room. “Please wait. I will see if he’s fit for company.”

For Perry, that sounded decidedly sinister, and her suspicion was borne out when Charity waited longer than she expected for him to show.

The minutes passed—first ten, then twenty.

With every glance at the large clock on the mantle, her nerves got worse.

His house clearly wasn’t prepared for her arrival, to judge by the lack of hospitality.

She wasn’t upset for her own sake. It was for his.

If the house was this unready, how well protected was he?

She had just begun considering the idea that she might be refused and how she would respond to that when hard steps sounded on the stairs. Charity turned and was confronted by a freshly dressed but clearly irate Peregrine Fitzroy who swept into the room, fists clenched.

Relief swamped her immediately. He wasn’t broken or bleeding—or at least not too much to see her.

Really, how strange your life has become , she thought.

“I know,” she cut him off before he could open his mouth and snarl at her for leaving Atholl House.

“I know you are wroth with me because you wanted me to stay safe at home. But before you shout at me, Ravenscroft wrote to me and said you might be in trouble. I wanted to make sure you had protection, too.”

In a rare state, Peregrine lifted both hands to his temples, snatching fistfuls of his hair. But she smiled at him sadly, because she had seen this expression before. When he realised she had brought him while unconscious to her house and invited all the danger of his life to her doorstep.

So she was unsurprised when he grabbed her by the shoulders, giving her a shaking. “Not at your expense! Never at your expense!”

There was a hoarseness to his words that gave her pause. And something… unusual about his cravat, which was wrapped all the way to his chin in a deviation from his usual style.

Suspicious, she reached for it, and he flinched away. “What has happened!” she barked crossly, when he retreated from her reach.

“Goldbourne’s hired killer happened,” he said shortly, his words gruff and brutally honest. “But only because I allowed myself to be caught out at the bank. There is no need for concern; as you can see, I survived. You need to go home, Charity. Lock your doors and put a guard outside your balcony. Two of them. I can plan a trap to catch the bastard if he thinks I have inadequate protection. If he thinks I will be an easier target than you .”

His words felt like a slap, and Charity’s head snapped back.

But she had his measure now, and rather than be hurt by his words, they only made her furious.

“Perry,” she began slowly, as if speaking to a dimwit, “if you think it would grieve me one whit less to have something happen to you because I let myself leave you too unprotected, you are a very stupid man.”

A small, bitter smile curled his lip. “Well, Sparkles, that would make two of us who think so. And both in the same day.”

His voice—something was broken and hoarse about it. Charity stomped back to face Peregrine, lifting both hands to the knot of his cravat with an expression that dared him to argue with her.

But Peregrine simply inhaled softly, resigned, and let her start to unwind the loosely tied neck cloth. As she got down to the bottom, and the darkening bruises the exact size and shape of fingers wrapped around Peregrine’s neck were revealed, she stared blankly, dumbly horrified.

Finally, she let her eyes sweep up to his wary, closed expression.

And to her mortification, the moment their eyes met, her composure cracked entirely.

Its suddenness was shocking. Barely, she managed to spin away in time as hot tears burned and overflowed onto her cheeks.

The ache in her own throat was robbing her of the ability to breathe.

“Charity.” Peregrine rested his palm lightly on her waist, trying to turn her back to him, but she resisted, struggling for control.

Abruptly, the world revolved, and she stumbled against him as he forcefully turned her by the shoulders this time. But though his movements were rough, his expression was… gentle.

He let his hands run down her arms and drop to her waist, tracing her shape before he pulled her to his chest. “Don’t. Don’t cry. Not for me,” he murmured, letting his lips skim her brow and wet cheekbones.

When she lifted her face, astonished, he captured her mouth with his.

This was a kiss very different from the one Peregrine had let her take before. She had been clumsy, having exchanged only chaste kisses in her marriage, and Perry had held back to let her make her own explorations. This time was?—

He was firmly in command and showing her all the difference that experience could make.

His tongue prodded her lips open and swept between them, plundering her mouth with a skill that undid her entirely.

She hung in his arms, helpless to do anything other than thread her fingers through his white blond hair, pulling him closer.

Uncertain what she wanted from him, but still demanding more .