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“Yes, yes,” Dixon murmured. “But then she was the one sent by the English—by Selwyn. Am I right?”

He considered, but it didn’t matter. Jacob Dixon wasn’t freely walking the streets of London again. “Yes.”

“Ah.” The man in chains sounded relieved. “When will she be back?”

“At any moment, I expect.” Nate was beginning to wonder about that himself. He’d thought she would have followed him upstairs already.

“Then we really must talk before she arrives. You see, I believe you’ve been fooled—if she is sent by Selwyn, she has no intention of letting you take me back to New York.”

Nate kept his face impassive even as foreboding flickered in his mind. “We’ll have to ask her when she returns.”

Dixon rattled his chains in agitation. “No, no! Please, Mr. Avery, I beg you to listen to me. I want to go back to New York. I am eager to cooperate. I confess! I stole the money!” Dixon nodded vigorously at Nate’s start of astonishment. “Indeed! I did it, and I am overcome with remorse. Take me back to New York and I will return the money and face my punishment.”

Nate’s eyes narrowed. This was quite a turnaround, and not an expected one. Why did the name Selwyn—just some stuffy lord in the Foreign Office, very officious and full of himself—have such an effect on Dixon? How the hell did Dixon know him? “Well, where is it?” he asked in a neutral tone.

Dixon’s gaze darted to the door and then back. “Nearby. I can get it.”

“Excellent. Let’s go at once.” Nate reached for his coat.

“No!” Dixon scrambled backward until the chain brought him up short. “I must have some security, some guarantee…”

“Of what? You’re not in position to bargain.”

The thief licked his lips. Nate could almost see thoughts stampeding around the man’s head. “Of my safety. If you kill me, you’ll never find the money, nor prove your case.”

“It would give me some satisfaction.” But he put the coat back on the hook. “You’re safe enough. I never meant to kill you.”

But Angelique…suddenly he wasn’t quite so sure about.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Angelique climbed the stairs to the attic room as quietly as she could. It had been several hours since they’d brought Jacob Dixon back to Varden Street, and she had fled the house, leaving Nate alone with him to extract as much information as possible about the missing funds. She would have preferred to wait a few days, but felt hemmed in. What if Stafford had set someone to following them, and already knew that they’d caught Dixon? Ian said he would delay as long as he could, but if Stafford grew impatient, he might turn to his network of informers, just to be certain.

And so for her to be certain, she had to act sooner rather than later. If she delayed, Stafford might well decide all of them—Dixon, Nate, Angelique herself—had grown too troublesome and unreliable, and task another of his spies with eliminating them. For Dixon, she didn’t care; for herself, she had brought this risk upon herself when she started with Stafford; but Nate had done nothing but try to right a terrible wrong...and shown her the meaning of love. For his sake alone she couldn’t wait any longer.

The door at the top of the stairs was locked, but the key hung on a hook nearby and she let herself in. It was chilly in the room, since no fire burned this time. There was still enough light to see Dixon, huddled against the wall, his mouth open as he snored softly. She set her lamp on the mantel and drew her knife. It was not the Wyandot knife Nate had given her, but one of fine French steel, good for every purpose from throwing to close attacks. She kicked Dixon’s ankle.

His face wrinkled as he blinked awake, then he sucked in his breath as he saw her standing over him. For a moment he just stared, his mouth hanging open.

“Where is it, you stinking pig?”

“Wh-what?” he stammered. “I d-d-don’t know what…”

“Tell me where the money is,” she said in the same detached voice, “before I cut your throat.”

Dixon began babbling incoherently. She kicked his ankle again, and he whimpered. “Is that what Selwyn wants from me?” he panted, trying to pull his feet beneath him. “The money? I’ll give it to you, I swear, he can have it all⁠—”

“No. That is not what he wants.”

He wheezed, his face gone stark white. “I told him—Avery. I told Avery, I’ll get the jewels, and the money, all of it, but you have to let me go back to New York⁠—”

“I do not take orders from you.”

“But he—he—” Dixon was almost choking on his own breath. “Who are you, that he can just order you to kill me?”

She smiled darkly. “You do not want to know who I am.”

He squeaked, and the smell of urine soured the air. Angelique went down on one knee and put the tip of her knife at his throat. He tried to jerk away, but she batted his hand aside and the man shrank on himself. “Our Father who art in Heaven,” he gasped. “Hallowed be thy name…”