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The marquis held court in the opposite corner, all flash and charm. The diamonds on his cravat pin caught the light, just as he did, holding attention in a different manner, his blue coat the color of bluebird feathers. Whereas the Devil had a certain sinister air, it was the marquis who made her uneasy.

Bram leaned against the gold damask wallpaper, their opposite, and yet holding every bit as much interest. Clara saw it in the way the guests circled, constantly glancing between them all, most without even realizing it. He caught her gaze, held it. His stern, uncompromising expression did not change, and yet she felt the difference. She felt it in her thighs and in the sudden tightening of her nipples.

And then the energy changed.

Suddenly. Without warning.

There were too many guests for her to see exactly what was happening, but one moment it was all the clinking of wine glasses and candlelight, and then a figure pushed through the crowd. Someone shouted. A goblet fell, smashing to pieces.

A dagger flashed, held high.

Impossible to see what happened next, as Clara was suddenly thrown to the parquet floor, Bram’s body shielding hers completely. His eyes were fierce, savage. She caught her breath under the weight of him.

“Are you all right?” he demanded. “Clara, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she squeaked.

Cacophony erupted, but it was the milling of those songbirds pecking at seeds, fluttering bright feathers. He tracked them for a moment before helping her up. The marquis wiped wine off his blue coat, like spilled blood. His hands were shaking.

“Chin up, Eastbourne.” Devil laughed coldly from the melee. “It’s not a Devil’s Night until someone attempts a murder.”

That someone was already crashing through a window left open to help cool the heated, perfumed air. “Red hair,” Bram said. “Clara, can you run?”

She grabbed the skirts of her boring dress and shot his own words back at him from the first time they had chased a man with red hair who was keen on knives.

“Keep up, Captain Thorn.”

It was much easier to find a horse this time.

The marquis had extensive stables, a great number of horses, and a veritable army to care for them. In fact, they had already seen to a horse for a man with red hair who was staying only long enough to deliver a message.

Perhaps he had nothing to do with Sybil, but he clearly had something to do with the event, Devil, and, therefore, possibly the marquis. Enough to try to kill him, which was an immediate hanging offense.

And there was that minor detail where he had tried to stab Bram.

It was providential that he was clearly not very good at stabbing. And murdering.

Less providential that it was raining again.

But then, it was March in England, and that was no very great surprise. Bram stripped off his coat as they ran for the stables and bundled Clara into it before helping her up into the saddle. Every part of him screamed at her to stay behind. But he knew she wouldn’t. And the safety of the Hall had not markedly improved with the removal of a single man with a dagger. “You’re safer with me,” he muttered.

But not safe enough.

The light flashing off that dagger, the shocked screams, all within feet of Clara, was enough to make him feel sick. Furious. He was supposed to protect her.

And yes, the man hadn’t been there for her, and even the bloody marquis was taken by surprise, though he had burly footmen at his disposal. None of that mattered. There had been violence entirely too close to Lady Clara Prescott. Again.

Bram liked it better when she pasted up posters in ladies’ retiring rooms or delivered messages to Priya in her plain little reticule. At least she was safe then. But it didn’t take a genius to know she hated being safe all of the time. A blind man could see it.

The clouds thickened, stealing every bit of the dying light that struggled to pierce them. The world was gray and shadowy and wet, and it was still better than the warm, perfumed drawing room. Her nose was cold, her dress little shield to the elements. And he knew she preferred it. Her grin told him everything he needed to know, as did the steely expression of determination. He would have to tie her up to keep her away from any of this.

Unbidden, the image of Clara wearing nothing but those red silk ribbons around her wrists, securing her to his bedposts, flashed though his mind.

Those damn red ribbons had been driving him mad since he’d seen them secured around her thighs in the attic. He had wanted to undo them with his teeth. To lick at the faint marks they left behind on her pale skin. Wanted, wanted, wanted.

Even now, riding through the cold spring rain, soaked through, his body responded to the image. A little wet weather meant nothing. Clara meant everything.

“You madwoman,” Bram called from his horse as rain dripped off her nose. “How many times do I need to tell you that you’re not supposed to be enjoying this?”