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T he following morning, Michael stood in front of Number Fourteen, St. James’s Street, the Graf von Reischor’s residence. All night, he’d thought of Lady Hannah.

He’d never intended to kiss her again. It had been a monumental mistake, and one he wouldn’t repeat. She’d been distraught after the events of the afternoon, and he’d taken unfair advantage. Again.

But when she’d clung to him, kissing him back, he hadn’t been able to stop the rush of desire. Like a train crashing through him with unstoppable force, he’d touched her the way he’d wanted to. Like the bastard he was.

She was well rid of him. Though he intended to keep his promise of ensuring that she didn’t have to wed Belgrave, the sooner he was free of Lady Hannah, the better.

He had his own mess to unravel. The Lohenberg ambassador had left him with no other choice but to see this through. Michael intended to get his answers today, no matter how long it took.

A sense of uneasiness rippled inside. Last night, he’d had the nightmare again.

In his dream, he’d seen pieces of images, one after the other.

Falling from a high distance, wounding his leg.

A hand gripping his, dragging him down the street.

Frigid waves, striking against a ship’s hull.

He’d woken up shaking, his body cold with fear.

But whenever he tried to recall the details, the dreams faded into nothingness.

Though he wanted to pretend that this was nothing but a distorted trick, that these were nothing but idle visions, he wasn’t convinced. As he stood before the door, he quelled the anxiety in his stomach, steeling himself for whatever confrontation lay ahead.

Michael removed his shako, tucking the hat beneath one arm when the footman led him into the drawing room.

The ambassador’s residence held a deceptive opulence.

At first glance, the room appeared no different than the others he’d been inside.

But the mahogany side table was polished to a sheen, the wood almost warm in its deep color.

Inlaid wood formed a geometric pattern of shapes, like a fine mosaic.

The silver tea service was polished and gleaming, and the tray probably cost more than his yearly salary. Two porcelain cups painted with blue flowers rested upon the tray. The butler offered to pour him a cup, but Michael refused.

He waited for a full half-hour in the drawing room, ignoring the refreshments. His frustration mounted with each passing minute until finally, he rose from his seat.

“I see you’ve had enough of waiting,” a cultured voice spoke. The Graf von Reischor entered the drawing room, leaning upon his gold-handled cane. The man’s bald head gleamed, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a gnarled face. “Have you finally decided to confront your past?”

“No. Only the present.” Michael strode forward, standing directly in front of the Graf. At the sight of the ambassador’s smug expression, his anger sparked. “You had no right to interfere with my orders.”

A faint smile tipped at the Graf’s mouth. “You enjoyed being shot, did you?”

“I need to return to my men and finish the campaign. I owe it to them.”

The Graf’s expression grew solemn. “Yes, I suppose you must feel an obligation. I apologize for that, but it couldn’t be helped.” He gestured for Michael to sit and withdrew a cloth-wrapped parcel.

“I made some inquiries after you refused my initial invitation to come and discuss this mysterious resemblance. I learned from your commanding officer that you had an anonymous benefactor who ordered you brought back from Malta.”

Michael’s gaze narrowed, not understanding what the Graf meant. “I was sent back because of my gunshot wounds.”

“Did you never wonder why your return to service was delayed for so long? Or why none of the others were brought back to London?”

He hadn’t, not really. But then, he’d been in and out of consciousness, fighting for his life. He doubted if he’d have been aware of anything, not after nearly losing his leg. “I thought other soldiers had returned with me.”

“None but you.” The Graf held out the cloth-wrapped package. “I find that rather curious, don’t you? It must have cost a great deal, both to locate your whereabouts and to bring you back to London. Someone obviously wanted to keep you alive. But who?”

Michael took the cloth package and unwrapped an oval miniature. He didn’t know what he expected to see in the painting, but it wasn’t an aged version of himself. The resemblance was so strong, he couldn’t find any words to respond.

“You see?” The Graf held out his palm, and Michael returned the miniature to him.

Right now, he felt as if the ground had cracked open beneath him, sending him into a darkened chasm of uncertainty. Though he’d successfully ignored the frequent nightmares, now he could no longer be sure.

“It could be a coincidence.” But even as he spoke the words, he knew it wasn’t.

The ambassador leveled a piercing stare at him. “That, Lieutenant Thorpe, is what we must find out.” He poured two cups of tea, but Michael refused the hot drink. The ambassador added milk and sugar to his own cup.

“There is a legend in Lohenberg. One that has persisted for nearly twenty-three years, of a Changeling Prince.”

“Changeling?”

“Only a fairy tale, perhaps. You know how rumors spread.”

Michael waited for the Graf to continue. The ambassador rubbed his beard, lost in thought. “Some believe the true prince was stolen away, switched with another child on All Hallows Eve.”

“Wouldn’t the king or queen have noticed if the boy was different?”

“The king saw the child for himself and proclaimed that Karl was indeed his son. He silenced the rumors.” The Graf sipped his tea.

“Do you think the king was telling the truth?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know. But I want to be sure that the right man is crowned.” The Graf finished his tea and set down the cup. “Forgive me for interfering with your orders, but I saw no other choice.”

Michael preferred to face enemy bullets rather than unlock a past that might or might not belong to him. He knew, deep down, that he was the very last sort of man capable of leading a country. He hadn’t been able to protect his own men.

“If I am wrong,” the Graf offered, “you may return to the Army with no further interference from me. I will repay you handsomely for your cooperation, and I will see to it that Lohenberg provides several ships full of supplies and clothing for your fighting men.”

“In the meantime,” Von Reischor continued, “you’ll want to pack. I’ve arranged for your passage upon a steam packet, and we sail for Lohenberg at the end of the week.”

A full day passed before Hannah’s parents addressed the subject of Lord Belgrave. She heard not a word of gossip from the servants, only that the baron had returned home with a headache.

An understatement, that.

After dinner, her parents awaited her in the parlor. The silence was so grim, Hannah wondered if they could see the guilt she was feeling right now. Did they know she had kissed the lieutenant in the shed yesterday? Had any of the servants seen her after she’d gone out the window?

Already, she’d chastised herself for her act of rebellion with the lieutenant. The kiss had gone too far, but he’d warned her, hadn’t he? She could blame no one but herself.

Just thinking of it made her body go warm, her shame multiplying. All she needed was a scarlet letter to brand upon her gown to make her sins complete.

“Lord Belgrave has withdrawn his offer of marriage,” her father began. His tone was flat, his face careworn. “I imagine you are not surprised.”

“No,” she managed. Few men would appreciate being bashed upon the head. Twice.

“Your mother has something she wishes to say to you.” The marquess sat back in his chair, nodding to Lady Rothburne.

Her mother paled, her gloved hands twisting a handkerchief. “Your father...was unaware that I allowed Lord Belgrave to speak with you privately.”

From the dark look on her father’s face, she realized with shock that he was on her side. A frail flame of hope burned within her.

“I never dreamed Lord Belgrave would lock himself inside with you.” Her mother’s face appeared sickly, and suddenly, she began to weep. “Hannah, I am so sorry. I was na?ve to think he would behave like a gentleman. You were right about him.”

“Then you’re not...angry that I struck Lord Belgrave with the candlestick? Or—” she thought wildly for an explanation “—or the dictionary?” She directed her query towards her father, who cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable.

“There were other ways to handle the matter, but no, I do not blame you. Hannah, I must ask you this—how on earth did you get out of the study? It took us nearly half an hour to find the other key. I was so worried, I nearly ordered Phillips to break down the door.”

“Belgrave was starting to wake up, so I went out the window.” There. Best to tell as much of the truth as she could.

“You could have broken your ankle,” her mother protested. “I can’t believe you risked such a fall.”

Hannah shrugged. “Better an ankle than my virtue.”

Her mother’s expression was incredulous. “Why didn’t you cry out to us for help?”

“What good would it have done?” she shot back. “You didn’t believe me when I told you what sort of man he was.”

Her mother blanched, staring down at her handkerchief. The marquess regarded Hannah with a solemn face. “We needn’t discuss Belgrave any further. That matter is closed.”

And thank heaven. Hannah let out a sigh of relief. But there was no satisfaction on her parents’ faces, only worry. It led her to wonder what they intended to do next.