Returning downstairs, she struggled into her coat. Her fingers trembled as she pinned her hat.

“Your ladyship, is this wise?” Stapleton said from the stairs. The man had an unnatural way of simply appearing. “If you’ll wait, Lady Lambourn will return with the barouche after tea.”

“I’ll walk.” Annabel fixed him with the glare that was her own unique gift. “You and Travis will be here when Lady Lambourn and the girls return, and you will stay here until Lord Ramsbury instructs otherwise. When he arrives, tell him…”

Her brain whirred. If she said too much, Stapleton would delay her departure or try to prevent it altogether. If she said too little, Jasper would never find her at all.

“Tell him he can find me at home.”

She looked in her reticule to check for the key. It would never do to get to Ramsbury House only to be stranded on the street where Jasper had almost died.

“My lady?” Stapleton opened the door for her. “Please be careful.”

She squeezed his arm as she passed. “It’s nothing but a walk.”

The street was almost empty, given that it was teatime. It would have been the perfect time to get a look at Collins, but Annabel didn’t dare. This only worked if he thought her oblivious.

She quickened her pace. It was also important that he didn’t grab her close to home.

Her breath came easier when she put Grosvenor Square at her back and marched toward Piccadilly. The streets were busier; shops were full of people. Hyde Park was to her right.

Annabel couldn’t see the park and not think of Jasper and the first time he’d kissed her, and their delightfully scandalous ride after the theatre. He’d helped her be brave, time and again. He’d given her the courage to do this.

Though he’d never see it that way. He was going to be furious.

At Piccadilly, she entered the sea of people on the thoroughfare. People shouted to be heard over the near-constant rattle of passing carriages.

Annabel stayed close to the brightly painted and decorated storefronts, dodging patrons as they came and went. Bits of music floated through the doors, teasing her to stop and listen. Food smells, both sweet and savory, set her stomach grumbling over missing tea.

She reached St. James Street deafened and dizzy, yet determined to revisit Piccadilly when she could enjoy it.

The tree-lined street in front of her made her smile, despite the chilling memories of their last visit. The old marquess, Jasper’s grandfather, had meant it to be a place to work away from the social bustle of Mayfair. Jasper wanted to make it a home.

In the distance, the new giant clock at the end of Westminster Palace looked like a toy. Parliament.

Jasper. Annabel’s toes twitched. If she kept walking, if she quickened her pace, she could reach him. She could lead Collins straight to him.

Or the man could catch her in between, leave her dead body in the gutter, and still have time to return to Mayfair to kill her husband.

The traffic here centered on Green Park. Barouches and gigs passed her, the women frowning at her choice to walk alone while the men touched their hats in greeting. The few pedestrians comprised couples and families.

Annabel stood out. As did the triple step of a man with a cane walking behind her. Clip. Clop. Tap.

Clip. Clop. TAP.

Clip. Clop. BANG.

She quickened her steps, one hand in her reticule and panic building as the house key eluded her. When she found it, she clung to it like a lifeline.

There was no stopping to admire the front door or the flowers under the windows. There was only the keyhole and her heart hammering in her ears.

She was inside in a breath. The dark, quiet house wasn’t as welcoming as she’d hoped, and a chill crawled up her back as she struggled to lock the door.

It flew open, shoving her backward as Collins shouldered his way into the hall, a pistol in his hand.

“Hello, Lady Ramsbury.”

Annabel had never been certain what to expect of the man, but it certainly wasn’t someone who could have passed for a Society grandfather. His eyes, though, were hard—like bright stones in a shallow pool, and his leer was just as cold. Looking closer, years of heavy drinking had left a map of broken veins and ruddy splotches across his face. His red and swollen nose looked painful to touch.

“Get out of my home, Mr. Collins.”

He advanced. She retreated, never taking her eyes from his. She found the library by touch and then, continuing backward, the stand where the bust of Plato rested.

She twisted and lifted the plaster likeness. Earlier in life, she had been disappointed to discover the cheapness of the reproduction. Now, as she lifted it over her head and hurled it at her stalker, she was thankful.

It hit him on the chest and shoulder, just enough to push him against the wall in a daze. His pistol hit the floor and fired in a thunderous roar. Annabel shrieked and leapt backward as the balls thudded into the opposite wall, burying themselves in the newly painted plaster.

She made for the back of the house and the servants’ stairs.

Her hat blocked her view, and its wide brim and bright color made her a moving target. She unpinned it and tossed it aside, wincing as the pin pricked her thumb. Blood bloomed across her glove.

She reached the landing and dithered over which direction to go. Collins’s heavy steps on the front stairs made the decision for her.

Hiding the hatpin in the folds of her skirt, Annabel turned toward the rooms at the end of the hall in search of a place to hide until help arrived.

*

“Why didn’t you stop her?” Jasper asked as he tightened his grip on his pistol.

Stapleton, a shotgun in his lap, gave a long-suffering sigh. “Sir. I could hardly lock her in her room like a child.”

Jasper didn’t blame the man for his impertinence. He’d asked the same question at least twice since they’d all climbed into the carriage, not to mention shouting it while standing in the hall.

“Tell me again.” Anything to keep his mind from what could happen to Annabel as they crept down Piccadilly toward St. James Street.

“The…lady knocked on the back door, brandishing your card and demanding to wait until you returned. Since your mother and sisters were expected home, I thought it best to ask Lady Ramsbury for assistance.”

So he’d asked Annabel to meet with Sally in the drawing room, which still smelled of cloying roses.

“After a few moments, she showed the visitor out the way she’d come. I thought the meeting had gone well—they both seemed in good spirits, as much as I could tell—but then your wife went upstairs for her hat and coat.”

And said she was going home.

It was easy to believe she’d been upset after meeting a doxy from the docks who bore his calling card. He’d spent precious moments raging that she’d assumed the worst of him—again.

But then he’d calmed and seen past the superficial. Sally wouldn’t have come to Mayfair on a lark, and the only connection they had was a knowledge of Collins.

If Kit’s campaign to split Collins and Spencer had worked, it would be predictable for the man to travel from Wales to London and confront his partner in crime.