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Murderers, many times over, Desmond and his men wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

“Stay sharp.” He wrapped his hand tighter around the gun’s grip. “We act now.”

With a smart salute and firm nod, Honeybrook and Robyn disembarked and soon disappeared into the hedgerows, their figures swallowed by shifting greenery.

Shelby stepped from the carriage, inhaling deeply, grounding himself.

Stately and serene, Fernleigh House stood ahead, but did an unseen peril lurk within its grounds?

He steadied his breath and prepared to move toward the garden entrance, his footfalls soft against the grass.

Today, this would end.

If Desmond did indeed skulk about inside Fernleigh House grounds, how many henchmen had he brought with him?

Or—Shelby’s stomach plummeted to his dusty boots.

Had Desmond come and gone already, abducting Roxina again?

The thought cleaved Shelby.

He forced himself to breathe, to focus.

Daring to peek over the wall, he surveyed the garden.

No overturned furniture or broken statuary littered the manicured grounds. The air carried no scent of gunpowder. Everything appeared undisturbed. But appearances meant nothing. Danger could hide behind a silk-draped window as easily as in a darkened alley.

Desmond had set an ambush for him at The Angel Inn.

Surely, the arrogant man believed his ruse had succeeded.

Desmond’s haughtiness worked to Shelby’s advantage.

If Desmond believed him dead, then he would not expect an attack.

Good.

Pressing into the nearest shadow, Shelby scanned the mews.

All looked as it should.

No lumbering ruffians loitered about with battered faces and corrupt souls. No unfamiliar figures moved in the dimming afternoon light—only a stable boy hauling a bucket of water and a few chickens pecking at the dirt. The scent of clipped hedges and sun-warmed soil lingered in the air, mingling with something faintly floral—honeysuckle, perhaps, winding along an unseen trellis.

Keeping his back to the cool brick, Shelby stole toward the garden gate.

It stood open.

Alarm sluiced over him, turning his blood cold.

A feminine voice filtered out through the opening toward him.

Then another.

Familiar, but not Roxina or Matilda.

“You are intruding,” the first said, her tone sharp as honed steel. “Leave. Now.”

“You have no business here,” the second cut in, each clipped syllable laced with unwavering courage and authority. “You are not welcome.”