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A knock upon the open door earned a groan from the lady and brought Deirdre’s gaze up. The butler stood there, silver salver in hand.

“Not more callers, Mr. Vander. I’m not at home. I’ve run off on safari.”

The butler smiled and bowed. “A letter, my lady. Addressed to both you and his lordship.”

The baroness grinned, though sure and her smiles had none of them been very bright since she returned in a huff after her drive with the duke following her debut. “In that case, thank you very much.”

“And shall I tell your next callers you’re on safari, Lady Berkeley?”

She chuckled as her father stood to accept the thin envelope on the tray. “I leave that to your discretion.”

Deirdre threaded her needle and tied the end while his lordship picked up the letter opener from the salver and made a neat slit in the envelope. Putting it down again, he nodded his thanks and dismissal of the butler.

And frowned at the letter. “This looks suspiciously like . . . Brook, it is from Major Rushworth!”

Deirdre’s hands went still even as the baroness leaped to her feet. “What does he say?”

His lordship looked up from the page with wide eyes. “That he’s back in Town and will call tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. He requests a private audience with the two of us.”

“Back in Town?” Deirdre realized she had spoken only when
the two looked at her. She drew in a quick breath. “Pardon me. I . . . my uncle usually travels with the major.”

Lord Whitby frowned for a moment, though it quickly cleared. “Of course, I’d forgotten his batman is the one who recommended you to us. How long has it been since you’ve seen him, O’Malley?”

She turned her gaze back to the gown. Sure and she hadn’t meant to steal the floor. “Many years, my lord. Not since I was a girl, though he is always most faithful in writing. He and my da were close, and he’s done his best to see to the family since . . .”

Lord Whitby’s warm smile reminded her of why Uncle Seamus had recommended his house to her. “The major is staying at the Hendon Hall Hotel, it seems. Why not take your afternoon off and see if your uncle is with him?”

“Oh.” She hadn’t felt such a swell of joy since Da yet lived—because seeing Uncle Seamus would be a bit like seeing her father again. Her gaze flew to the baroness. “May I, my lady?”

“Of course. Go.” Her ladyship made a little shooing motion with her hands.

She didn’t need to be told again. Smiling her thanks, Deirdre put needle and dress aside and dashed from the room.

She changed quickly into a matching skirt and jacket, grabbed her handbag, and fastened a hat over her chignon. Then it was down the stairs with her, and to the kitchen, where she found Lady Ramsey’s housekeeper. “Pardon me, ma’am. Do you know how to get to the Hendon Hall Hotel?”

The woman pursed her lips. “They’ve turned Hendon Hall to a hotel, have they? Pity. But yes, I know it—it’s in the north part of the city. You’ll want to take the tube.”

New excitement joined the flutter in her stomach. She had yet to have cause to use the underground railway. “How much?”

“Two pence is all.”

“Thank you.” Her grin felt as though it would split her cheeks. “Have you need of anything while I’m out, ma’am?”

The old woman returned her smile. “No. Go on with you.”

Letting herself out the back door, Deirdre circled around to the street and all but skipped toward the heart of London.

And screamed when a hand closed around her mouth and tugged her into an alley, though her cry was muffled behind the fingers.

“Quiet.”

Pratt.
Shuddering, she nodded.

He let go her mouth and spun her around. His eyes were two black slits. “Where are you off to so merrily, my lovely?”

Why was he always there to spoil everything? She backed into the brick wall behind her. “To see my uncle is all, my lord.”

“Uncle.” Pratt lifted a single brow.

She swallowed and pressed her hand to the cool bricks. “Aye. My da’s brother. If you’ll excuse me—”

“Not so fast.” He shifted when she did, to block her from making an escape back to the street. “I have missed her at every turn.”

Deirdre lifted her chin. “And why should you care? You’re betrothed.”

“And will be married within a fortnight by special license, if Rush has anything to say about it.” He put on a cold, unfeeling smile. “Which is why I must act now.”

“Special license?” Deirdre felt her eyes widen. “Is Lady Catherine—”

“A liar? Most likely, but her brother believes whatever she tells him. I’ve a task for you, Deirdre.”

For a moment she could only stare. He had gotten Lady Catherine with child and still he meant to pursue Lady Berkeley? Deirdre’s breath shook when she released it. “What?”

Pratt withdrew a bundle of envelopes from his inner pocket,
secured with a feminine-looking ribbon. “It’s very simple. You aren’t to open them; you aren’t to glance at them. You’re just to put them in the bottom of Lady Berkeley’s trunk, where she’ll not see them. Do you understand? Under something, hidden away. And whenever you return to Yorkshire, put them away with all the correspondence she’ll have collected in London.”

Her hands shook as she took them and slipped them into her handbag. She pressed against the wall again when he loomed nearer. “What are they?”

He backed away a step. “No questions—or your family goes up in flames. I’m watching you, my lovely.”

She shivered, closed her handbag, and said no more as he turned and strode away. It took her a long moment to push the fear down and convince her feet to move. Forward, she must go forward. She must push down the question of what he meant to do. Soon she handed over her two pennies at the tube station and climbed aboard the electric train with all the other passengers.

Pratt’s black eyes kept flashing before her, sapping the joy from the experience. When she finally climbed off in north London, she had only a blurred memory of the stops and starts, the small windows, the tunnel walls hurtling by outside them.

The sunlight near to blinded her when she stepped back outside and asked a tube worker for directions to the hotel. It took her ten minutes of striding, then wandering, to find the columned exterior of what had so recently been a family’s mansion.

She stood on the street and stared up at it. Once a grand home—now open to strangers to sleep and dine in for a price. Heaven help her, she hoped such a fate never befell Whitby Park. Shaking it off, she followed the walk toward the back entrance and knocked on the door.

A harried woman in a white cap and apron answered. “Yes?”

“Good day, ma’am. I’ve come inquiring as to whether Major Rushworth has an O’Malley with him as batman.”

“And who’s asking?” The voice boomed from behind her, deep and displeased.

Deirdre spun, hand splayed over her heart, and spotted who could only be the major striding her way from the garden. He was in uniform, but for the missing hat. His head gleamed bald in the sunlight, his drooping moustache accentuating his frown.

She dipped a curtsy. “Major. I’m Seamus O’Malley’s niece, Deirdre. Please, did he come with you? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“I should think you haven’t.” His scowl didn’t lessen. “No one was to know we were here now. How did you learn of it?”

He looked as though he would as soon toss her into the shrubs as listen to her answer. She let her gaze fall to his boots. “I’m in service to the Baroness of Berkeley. I was there when she and Lord Whitby got your letter, and they—knowing as they do that my uncle is your batman—said I might come looking for him.”

“Whitby.” The major spat it out like a curse. “Naturally he would ignore the part that said to tell no one where I was staying, or that I was even in Town.”

Her shoulders went tight. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to step into a family quarrel. I only want to see my uncle.”

The moustache twitched. “Not at the moment, you don’t. Old boy is ill—he’s resting now.”

“Ill?” All her hope sagged within her. “Mightn’t I see him, Major? Make sure he’s comfortable?”

“I said he’s
resting
.” His nostrils flared, but then his eyes softened. A mite. “Come back around tomorrow, girl. Or the next day. We’ll be in Town for the week—then it’s home to India.” He turned back for the garden. “Too dratted cold and rainy on this godforsaken isle.”

With no other recourse, Deirdre gripped her bag in both hands and dragged her feet back the way she’d come. She’d go home. She’d put Pratt’s envelopes in the baroness’s trunk. And she’d wish she’d never stepped foot outside today.

Brook wished, as she paced to the far corner of the music room, that they were at home. In their library. Books surrounding her instead of instruments. She had tried to play to soothe her nerves, but soft music wouldn’t come—and she couldn’t very well play thunderous songs while Aunt Mary and Melissa were still abed.

She paused beside the window and looked out at the rain-soaked city. As always, her gaze sought a familiar form, a familiar car, and she chided herself for it. Justin wouldn’t come any more today than he had the last fortnight. Apparently when he said she could let him know when she’d made up her mind, he meant he wouldn’t grace her with his presence until she did so.

How, then? How was she to apologize for comparing him to his uncle? How was she to tell him how miserable she’d been without him? How was she to tell him that she was sure, so very sure now, that she loved him?

“Major Rushworth, my lord.”

Brook turned but didn’t advance. Better to stay where she was, half-hidden behind the harp, and put Justin from her thoughts before she focused on the major.

He strode in. Dressed in uniform, his skin was tan and leathery. His bald head gleamed in the chandelier’s light, his moustache framed his mouth, and his brows were furrowed. He halted a few steps inside the door and glared at her father. “Whitby.”

“Major.” Papa had stood to greet him, though he didn’t move forward to offer a hand. “Kind of you to finally reply—though a letter would have sufficed.”

Major Rushworth snorted. “I think not. If I learned anything eighteen years ago, it is that letters are not secure.”

Papa darted a glance her way. They had learned that truth as well. Otherwise she’d have sent one to Justin. “Did you have a safe trip from India?”

“I arrived, didn’t I? And I’m eager to get back, so if we might dispense with the pleasantries—you said you found a letter I sent Lizzie in your name. What else did you find?”

Papa’s expression barely flickered, but Brook could read the frustration in his stance, and in the way his hands curled. “Mysteries.”

Brook edged out from behind the harp. “What are the Fire Eyes?”

They both looked at her when she spoke, but it was the major she watched. He washed pale, his eyes bulged, and his larynx bobbed as he swallowed. “Lizzie.”

A corner of Papa’s mouth tugged up. “We call her Brook.”

“Your daughter.” He shook his head, though his gaze didn’t shift. He still looked at her as though she were a phantom. “She is the exact image of . . .”

Papa motioned her forward. “Not quite. Her nose is narrower, her forehead not so high. And their chins—they have very different chins.”

Brook grinned at her father and stopped at his side. He
would
remember her exact words from their first meeting.

The major’s nostrils flared. “But her smile. Her eyes.”

It took all her will to keep from stepping half-behind her father. She could not imagine her mother ever being close to this man before her. “The Fire Eyes, Major. Not mine. What are they? And why was I nearly killed over them?”

Rushworth spun away, spitting out an expletive. “It has found you. I thought . . . with ignorance would come safety—that the curse could not strike those who didn’t know about it.”

“Curse.” Papa’s incredulity saturated his tone.

The major turned back to them with a glare worthy of the Russians. “Don’t patronize me, Whitby, as if
I
am the fool. You think you can believe in your precious Lord in heaven without admitting there is another side? You think there is no power in darkness? I have felt it—I have heard it howling in the jungles while you’ve been safe in your mansion.”

Lightning and thunder
and darkness
. Brook suppressed a shudder and made no objection when her father rested a hand on her back.
Children
of the light. Children of the day.
“The Fire Eyes—whatever they are—carry a curse?”

His eyes found hers, and they were a roiling brown. “So goes the legend—that hatred and eventually death will follow whomever holds them. I dismissed it when I heard it. And when my every relationship crumbled to pieces, I called it man’s greed, not a devil’s curse. But perhaps the two are not so different.” He nodded, and his gaze fell to her throat. “Your mother’s pearls?”

Her fingers sought and found the familiar dangling globes. “She was wearing this necklace when she died—it was all I had of her until I came home last autumn. I always wear it.”

Though the major’s lips turned up, it scarcely resembled a smile. Though he laughed, it carried no mirth. “Then you have always been wearing the Fire Eyes.”