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“Ian,” she cried, looking up at him. “Please!”

“Madame, you have gone too far,” shouted Stafford at the same time. “Wallace! Take care of her!”

Anguish flashed in Ian’s blue eyes. “Hold still,” he murmured, and then he turned her wrist, pointing the knife at her ribs. Angelique froze, and the tip of the knife pierced her bodice.

Blood welled up at once. It stained the front of her pale blue dress with a garish purple-red blotch that seeped and spread. Angelique stared at it, touching the rip in her bodice as the blood poured forth. Ian pulled the knife from her fingers and stepped back.

Selwyn made a sound that would have been a scream from a woman. Phipps’s eyes were popping out in slack-jawed shock. Stafford stared blankly. Angelique pressed her hands to her chest, and more blood bubbled up; the stain spread down her dress and soaked her skirt. She trembled, holding up her blood-slicked hands. The whole room seemed frozen in place, mesmerized by the sight.

With a curse Ian threw down her knife, and the spell was broken. Angelique swayed on her feet, stumbling a step forward before falling to her knees.

“Good God,” said Nate in a stunned voice. “He’s killed her.”

“Mr. Phipps, escort Mr. Avery out, now,” snapped Stafford. “Now, Mr. Phipps!” Nate made little protest as Mr. Phipps seized his arm and hustled him from the room. He stared at her until the door banged closed behind him, and then she heard his voice, shocked and upset, echoing in the corridor outside.

“Stay where you are, sir,” Stafford said coldly to Lord Selwyn, who had started to rise and was eyeing the door with obvious intent. At Stafford’s command, he froze, then stood back against the wall, his face pale and alarmed.

John Stafford walked around his desk toward her. Angelique sat down with a thump, her skirts twisting around her, and stared accusingly at him.

His eyes fixed on the tear in her bodice, where blood flowed in a steady trickle. “Oh, my dear,” he said almost inaudibly. “Why did it have to come to this?”

“You lied to me,” she whispered. “You lied to us all.”

Something like regret etched his face. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But it was for a good cause.”

“Not all,” she wheezed. “Not all… Not what he wanted.”

Stafford barely acknowledged her gesture at Selwyn. “He will pay for that.”

She swallowed, her head drooping forward. “Good.” She groped for him. “Promise me… no more killing. It’s not right…”

He recoiled from her bloody hand, but not in time to avoid her entirely. Her fingers left dark red stripes down the front of his gray jacket. “It is what had to be done.”

“No,” she gasped. “It never was. But you did it anyway.”

Angelique slumped backward and let her eyes drift closed.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Nate strode down the street, his heart thundering. He clenched his hands into fists to hide how they shook.

She was fine. Wallace would sooner stab himself than hurt Angelique. It was all part of the plan. He should be relieved it was over, and seemed to have worked, even though they’d had to resort to the most drastic part of it.

But he kept seeing her sliding to the floor, drenched in blood. His hands shook as if he had the palsy.

He walked along at a rapid clip, unable to sit still even for a hackney ride. He noticed the stocky figure who emerged from the alley behind the Bow Street offices and drifted after him, and his stomach knotted. As expected, his part wasn’t over yet.

Near the docks where the Water Asp was moored, he turned into a public house, a dingy little pub with a good view of the ship. Several members of his crew looked up from their ale as he threw open the door. “On board, all of you,” he barked, loud enough to draw the attention of every man in the room. The crew leaped to their feet and began rushing out. “Where’s the rest?”

“Back there, sir.” One of the men pointed to a narrow hallway.

Muttering curses, Nate walked to the end of the corridor and pounded loudly on the door there. “The Water Asp sails tonight!” he shouted. “All out now, or be left behind.” He pushed open the door.

Five men, including Prince, were hurriedly collecting their winnings from a table covered with cards and coins. “Make haste, make haste,” Nate growled, glancing over his shoulder. No one had followed him down the corridor, and his crew was making a racket in the tap room as they settled their bills. He turned around and glanced at Prince. “Everything ready?”

Prince nodded, uncorking a large bottle that had been sitting on the floor by his chair. “Yes, sir. Just as you instructed.”

“Good.” Nate grabbed one man by the scruff of his neck and hauled him out of his chair. “Good and drunk, I see.”