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Was she forever tied to the man who would one day kill her?

Was Honoria dooming her by hiding in the shadows?

* * *

That night, Honoria couldn’t sleep. The sheets that normally cocooned her in comfort now felt restrictive, almost suffocating. Her mind kept returning to Bradshaw’s wife.

Now, in the quiet sanctuary of Jacob’s bedchamber, she allowed herself to analyze everything she had observed. Lady Bradshaw’s gaze had been blank—resigned, even. She moved stiffly—Honoria had initially thought it regal, but perhaps there was a more sinister reason for her ramrod-straight posture. Perhaps her ribs hurt the same way Honoria’s had after Bradshaw’s rage had manifested physically years ago.

And those bruises on her neck, concealed by the high neckline of her day gown…

She wasn’t certain of any of it, of course. She could have been wrong. Perhaps she was imagining things, letting her view of Bradshaw cloud her reason.

But it wasn’t that big of a leap to assume Bradshaw wasn’t treating his new wife any better than he had treated his first. The thought made her stomach twist.

“What are you thinking about?” Jacob asked, though he hadn’t opened his eyes.

Honoria started slightly, turning to face him. “How did you know I wasn’t asleep?”

“I can feel your mind working.” He turned toward her then, his face illuminated by the pale glow of moonlight streaming through the gap in the curtains. His eyes, now open, studied her with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Honoria drew a shaky breath. “I saw Bradshaw today.”

Jacob tensed immediately, his body going rigid beside her. His warm, protective hand covered hers. “We can leave for the country if you wish,” he offered without hesitation.

“No, it’s not that.” Honoria turned her palm, lacing her fingers with his. “It’s his wife. I think… I can’t prove it, of course, but I think she has bruises.”

Jacob propped himself up on one elbow, fully alert now. “You’re saying she is being mistreated—like you were,” he said, his voice dark.

“Yes, but I don’t know how to be certain.”

Jacob fell silent, and Honoria could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. She had seen him do this countless times with business problems—examining each angle until the best course revealed itself. Finally, he said decisively, “I can invite him to dinner.”

“Pardon?” Honoria blinked, hoping she had misheard him.

“Just listen.” He squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles on her skin. “I can invite him and his wife, along with another couple, for a small, intimate dinner. Under the pretense of discussing business opportunities. You can stay hidden for the early part of the evening, but after dinner, when the men retire for cigars and the ladies for tea, you could join them and observe her more closely. Maybe even speak to her.”

Honoria bit her lower lip, considering. “How am I supposed to start that conversation? And if she’s dressed from head to toe again, I’m not sure it will help.” But even as she voiced her doubts, plans began to form in her mind. “Perhaps I could spill something on her clothes, accidentally of course, and offer to help her clean up. That way, I might see if there are bruises. And maybe I could ask her about it. Or…” She let out a frustrated sigh, her free hand gripping the bedsheet. “I’ll have to think on it. But that could work.”

“You want me to invite them, then?” Jacob’s voice was calm, steady, offering her control in a situation that felt wildly out of her hands.

She nodded. “Yes. But promise me you won’t punch Bradshaw in the face?”

Jacob was quiet for a beat, then exhaled, his muscles relaxing slightly. “I will do my best.”

“Thank you.” Honoria turned to lie on her back, mentally sketching the outlines of their plan.

“Honoria,” Jacob said again after a moment, his voice deep and thoughtful, carrying a note of caution.

“Yes?” She turned to him, noting the serious set of his jaw in the moonlight.

“And what if she does have bruises?” His eyes held hers, unflinching. “What are you going to do about it?”

Honoria swallowed hard.

If she had absolute proof that he was hurting another woman—if she held the key to that woman’s escape…

She knew what she would have to do.