In the next moment, he made his expression inscrutable and knocked on the door.

They were shown inside by a tall and wiry butler, with thick Prussian brows and hair that was brindled in shades of steel and white. Ethan kept his face low. “Tell Jenkyn I have the delivery he wanted,” he said hoarsely.

“Yes, Mr. Gamble. He’s been expecting you.” The butler didn’t spare one glance for Garrett as he led them through the house. The interior had been designed with an abundance of curved forms: oval niches, circular ceiling recesses and apses, and sinuous hallways. Ethan found the serpentine layout disconcerting, preferring the neatness of right angles and corners and edges.

They crossed a circular anteroom to a private suite. The butler showed them into a gentleman’s room lined with rich dark paper, gold trim and millwork, with thick crimson carpeting underfoot. Heads of exotic animals had been mounted on the wall: a lioness, a cheetah, a white wolf, and other carnivora. A fire had been lit in the heart, flames springing and writhing as they consumed crackling splits of oak. The air was as hot as blood.

The butler departed, closing the door behind him.

Ethan’s heart thumped uncomfortably as he saw Jenkyn sitting by the fireplace, a sheaf of papers in hand.

“Gamble,” Jenkyn said without looking up from the pages. “Bring your guest over here, and deliver your report.”

Ethan caressed Garrett’s wrist surreptitiously before releasing it. “The job didn’t go exactly as planned,” he replied curtly, tugging the handkerchief out of his collar.

Jenkyn’s head jerked up. He fixed Ethan with an unblinking gaze, his eyes dilated to black surrounded by bleach-white.

Something vicious and ugly stirred inside Ethan as they stared at each other. For a few appalling seconds, he felt suspended in some mad place between murder and weeping. The place where he’d been shot seemed to throb. He fought the temptation to cover it with a protective hand.

Jenkyn was the first to speak. “Gamble was so certain he’d be the last man standing.”

“I didn’t kill Gamble,” Ethan said flatly.

That seemed to surprise Jenkyn nearly as much as the sight of Ethan having returned from the dead. Remaining in his chair, the spymaster withdrew a cigar from a stand on a nearby table. “I wish you had,” he said. “Gamble’s of no use to me if he hasn’t managed to dispatch you after two attempts.” His tone was cold, but there was a visible tremor in his fingers as he lit the cigar.

Ethan realized that neither of them were entirely in control. Garrett, by contrast, was self-possessed and almost relaxed, wandering slowly around the room to investigate shelves and cabinetry and paintings. Since she was a mere woman, Jenkyn paid little attention to her, keeping his focus on Ethan.

“What is the nature of your connection to the Ravenels?” Jenkyn asked. “Why did they decide to harbor you?”

So he didn’t know. Ethan was inwardly amazed to discover there were some secrets beyond Jenkyn’s reach. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“Never tell me that,” Jenkyn snapped, reverting to their usual dynamic. “If I ask a question, it matters.”

“I beg your pardon,” Ethan said softly. “I meant to say ‘none of your business.’”

An incredulous look came over Jenkyn’s face.

“While I was recuperating,” Ethan continued, “I had a chance to finish reading Hamlet. You wanted me to tell you what reflection I saw in it. That’s why I’m here.” He paused as he saw the flicker of interest in the older man’s gaze. The astonishing realization came to him that Jenkyn did care about him in some undefinable way, and yet he’d tried to have him killed regardless. “You said in a fallen world, Hamlet realized there’s no good or bad, no right or wrong . . . everything is just a matter of opinion. Facts and rules are useless. Truth isn’t important.” Ethan hesitated. “There’s a kind of freedom in that, isn’t there? It lets you do or say whatever you want to achieve your goals.”

“Yes,” Jenkyn said, the reflected firelight dancing in his copper eyes as he gazed steadily at Ethan. His face had softened. “That’s what I hoped you would understand.”

“But it’s not freedom for everyone,” Ethan said. “It’s only freedom for you. It means you can sacrifice anyone for your benefit. You can justify killing innocent people, even children, by saying it’s for the greater good. I can’t do that. I believe in facts, and the rule of law. I believe something a wise woman told me not long ago: every life is worth saving.”

The light seemed to die out of Jenkyn’s eyes. He reached for a match and heated the clipped end of the cigar binding, taking refuge in the ritual. “You’re a naïve fool,” he said bitterly. “You have no idea what I would have done for you. The power you could have had. I would have brought you along with me, and taught you to see the world as it really is. But you’d rather betray me, after all I’ve given you. After I created you. Like any simpleminded peasant, you’d rather cling to your illusions.”

“Morals,” Ethan corrected gently. “A man of high position should know the difference. You shouldn’t be in government, Jenkyn. No man who changes his morals as easily as he does his clothes should have power over other people’s lives.” A sense of peace and lightness came over him, as if he’d been untethered, cut loose from a burden he’d carried for years. He glanced at Garrett, who appeared to be browsing over objects arranged on the mantelpiece, and he felt a surge of intense tenderness mingled with desire. All he wanted was to take her away from here, and find a bed somewhere, anywhere. Not in passion . . . at least, not yet . . . He longed just to hold her safe in his arms, and sleep.

Ethan pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted the time. One-thirty in the morning. “The presses have started by now,” he said casually. “One of the editors at the Times told me they can churn out twenty thousand copies of the paper per hour. That means they’ll have at least sixty, perhaps seventy thousand copies ready for the morning edition. I hope they don’t misspell your name. I wrote it out carefully for them, just to make sure.”

Slowly Jenkyn set the cigar on a crystal dish, staring at him with emerging fury.

“I almost forgot to mention the meeting I had with them today,” Ethan said. “I was full of interesting information, and they seemed very eager to hear it.”

“You’re bluffing,” Jenkyn said, his face darkening with rage.

“We’ll find out soon, won’t we?” Ethan began to tuck the pocket watch back into the waistcoat, and nearly dropped it as he was startled by the sound of something whipping through the air, a sickening impact of blunt force on flesh, the crack of bone, a scream of pain.

Ethan’s entire body tensed in preparation for action, but he stopped in response to Garrett’s staying gesture. She stood beside Jenkyn with a fireplace poker in hand, while the older man was doubled over in his chair, gripping his forearm and crying out in agony.

“My aim was at least three inches off,” Garrett said, regarding the iron in her hand with a perturbed frown. “Probably because it’s heavier than my cane.”

“What did you do that for?” Ethan asked, bewildered.

She picked up an object from the small table and showed it to him. “This was fitted into the cigar stand. He took it out when he lit the cigar.”

As Ethan came to take the gun from her, Garrett said, “Sir Jasper seems to believe he created you, and therefore has the right to destroy you.” She regarded the groaning man in the chair with cool green eyes and said crisply, “Wrong on both counts.”

The butler and a footman burst into the room, followed immediately by the two warehouse guards. As the room erupted with questions and shouts, Garrett stood back to let Ethan handle it. “After we’re finished here, darling,” she asked, just loudly enough for him to hear over the commotion, “could we possibly find a place where someone doesn’t want to shoot you?”

Chapter 25

In the tumultuous days that followed, Garrett found many reasons for joy. Her father returned from his holiday at the Duke of Kingston’s seaside estate, and the healthful regimen of sun, fresh air, and sea bathing had done wonders for his health. He had put on a bit of weight, and he was rosy-cheeked and in high spirits. According to Eliza, who was also refreshed and glowing, the Duke and Duchess, and everyone in the Challon family, had spoiled, indulged, and made much of Stanley Gibson.

“They laughed at all of ’is jokes,” Eliza had reported, “even the old one about the parrot.”

Garrett had winced and covered her eyes with her hands. “He told his parrot joke?”

“Three times. And they all liked it just as much the third time as the first!”

“They didn’t like it,” Garrett had moaned, looking at her through the screen of her fingers. “They were just being remarkably kind.”

“And the duke played draw poker with Mr. Gibson twice,” Eliza had continued. “You’d faint if I told you how much he won.”

“The duke?” Garrett had asked weakly, while visions of debtor’s prison had flashed before her eyes.

“No, your father! It turns out, the duke is the worst draw poker player in the world. Mr. Gibson gave him a fleecing, both times. Your father would have beggared the poor man if we’d stayed longer.” Eliza had paused to regard her with bemusement. “Doctor, why is your head on the table?”

“Just resting it,” Garrett had said in a small voice. The Duke of Kingston, one of the most powerful and influential men in England, owned a gaming club and had run it himself in his younger years. He was not the worst draw poker player in the world, and had almost certainly used the game as a pretext to funnel money into her father’s empty pockets.

Her discomfort over having imposed on the Challon family’s generosity was quickly forgotten in the joy of returning to the clinic and having patients to see again. Her first day back began with a bit of much needed fence-mending with Dr. Havelock, who approached her with a hesitancy that wasn’t at all like him.

“Can you forgive me?” was the first thing he had asked.

Garrett had given him a radiant smile. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said simply, and caught him thoroughly off guard with a spontaneous embrace.

“This is most unprofessional,” he grumbled, but he hadn’t pulled away.

“I will always want your honesty,” Garrett had said, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “I knew at the time you were trying to do what was right for me. I didn’t agree with your position, but I certainly understood it. And you weren’t wrong. It’s just that I had some unexpected luck, as well as a patient who was as tough as whit leather.”

“It was a mistake for me to underestimate your skill.” Havelock had given her a rare, fond glance as she pulled back. “I won’t do so again. And yes, your young man is an uncommonly durable fellow.” His snowy brows had lifted as he had asked with a touch of waggish anticipation, “Will he be stopping by the clinic to pay a call? I’d like to ask him a question or two about his intentions toward you.”