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It was a tiny motion. A hair of darkness widened along the edge of the panel, and a pale line of light fell in. Leonora found herself fixed on it, wondering what it was that was moving through that narrow pathway she had tried to escape from. Perhaps, one of the kidnappers was making his way into the room.

But from the wardrobe?

Before she could make sense of it, the wardrobe door swung open, and Anthony stepped out of it.

He wore no coat. His shirt was torn at the collar, his hair was wild, and his face was a color she had never seen on it. His eyes found hers across the room, and for one stopped moment nothing else existed.

Then George turned.

He was quicker than she had thought possible. His hand went into his coat and came out with a pistol, and he leveled it at Anthony’s chest as if he had done it a hundred times.

“Ah. The Duke. I confess I thought you would be later. When we were settled in our new lives and I had to tie up loose ends.”

“Let her go, Brighton” Anthony said.

“Not today, I think.”

Anthony charged. She had no time to scream. He crossed the carpet and struck George at the ribs, and both men went into the washstand with a crash. The ewer shattered. She saw Anthony’s hand clamp on George’s wrist and force the gun toward the ceiling, saw George’s fist swing and catch him across the jaw, and she was shouting something, anything, tugging at the cord until the silk burned like fire.

Then the pistol went off in a loud bang and she froze.

“Anthony!”

It was louder than anything she had ever heard. Anthony staggered back, but he did not make a sound. His jaw locked, as he moved. He caught George’s wrist again and wrenched it back until something gave. George cried out, the pistol flew from his hand, and it skittered under the bed.

George came at him anyway, white-faced, with both hands reaching for his throat.

“Matthew!”

It was not loud but it stopped George as surely as a rope.

The wardrobe door stood open where Anthony had come through it, and Rose stepped out of the dark behind it. She wore a plain brown cloak, her hood had fallen back. She was breathing hard, as if she had taken the servants’ stair at a run. Her hands hung at her sides, and her face was perfectly calm.

“Mama, no!” Leonora gasped.

Leonora forgot to breathe.

George did not move. The color drained out of him. “Rose,” he whispered. “Rose? I cannot believe it. You are dead.”

“I am not, Matthew.”

“I mourned you.” His voice cracked. His whole face came apart. “You came back. I always knew you would. Oh, my darling. Let me...”

He stumbled toward her with his arms wide, and Rose lifted a blue-and-white vase from the chest beside the wardrobe.

“No,” she said, tightening her grip on the vase. “I came back to make sure I will never see you again.”

She lifted the vase and brought it down on him. It struck him squarely on the crown of the head, and the vase broke into pieces on the carpet. George looked at her with bewildered reproach. Then his knees folded, and he went down among the shards without a sound.

For a moment nobody in the room moved. Then a clamor rose from somewhere below, a door slamming and many voices at once. Then a man’s voice carried clearly up the stairs. “In the name of the magistrate! Search the house!”

They came up the stairs together and filled the doorway, six men with truncheons in their fists. They stopped short at what they found. Lord Brighton lay senseless on the carpet among the pieces of the vase, and a small gray woman stood over him with the broken handle still in her fist.

“That one,” said Rose, pointing. “He has a great deal to answer for.”

Leonora was still tied. The pin had cut her palm but she had barely noticed. “Cut me loose,” she said, and her voice broke on it. “Please, somebody, cut me loose!”

Anthony had sunk to one knee. He put his hand to his shoulder, looked at it with surprise, and tried to stand.