Sensing it before he heard it.
And then it came . . .
From down the opposite corridor, a lone floorboard squeaked a long, damning creak, announcing the visitor before he saw him. A steady tread of just one set of footfalls, not a pair to signal lovers sneaking off for a different night’s pleasures.
He’d been followed.
Slipping inside the marquess’s office, Hugh pushed the panel a fraction, taking care to not allow so much as an incriminating click. He layered himself along the right side of the entryway, blinking slowly to adjust his vision to the darkened space. Hugh remained absolutely motionless.
His soldier’s ears caught the quickening footfalls, swifter and sloppier than they’d been when he’d first detected them.
And then they came to a stop directly outside Prendergast’s offices.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Hugh braced, willing the interloper gone.
Instead, the stranger pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The smaller man did a turn, looking slowly around the room . . . when his gaze caught on Hugh.
The stranger opened his mouth to announce both their presences to the world.
With a silent curse, Hugh shot a hand out, muffling that cry, and catching the other man lightly by the throat, Hugh pressed him against the wall . . .
A sharp heel came up, unexpectedly, catching Hugh in the right kneecap.
A hiss exploded from between clenched teeth as he hit the floor hard.
Hugh’s assailant dealt a swift uppercut to his solar plexus, briefly knocking the air from his lungs, and lights danced behind his eyes.
“Hughhhh?”
And when his vision cleared, horror-filled brown eyes stared back.
Very familiar horror-filled eyes.
Lila . . . She was here. Attired in the same breeches she’d donned from their earliest time together, she’d now paired with them a fine lawn shirt. Her thick curls had been plaited and tucked under a top hat affixed to her head.
How was she here? “You’re here.”
She nodded. “I am.”
She’d braved the crowds to come . . .
And then it all came rushing back: her brother’s return. Peterloo.
And Hugh’s heart knocked dully in his chest for altogether different reasons. When she remained staring at him with those hopelessly wide eyes, he shoved to his feet. “I see we must retire the name of Flittermouse for you.” He’d taught her well.
Giving her head a shake as if she’d been yanked to the present along with him, Lila pressed a fist against her mouth. “My God, I’ve hurt you.”
“Aye, actually you did.” He winked in a half-hearted attempt at humor. “You had a good teacher.”
The full moon’s glow lent light enough to illuminate the glare she shot him. “This is not a matter of jest. I. Hurt. You.”
“I’m fine, Lila,” he soothed. “I’ve endured worse.” Far worse.
Except it proved the wrong thing to say. For resurrected between them were those very darkest memories. The ones her brother had forced out into the light. Yet in fairness, Hugh had owed her the truth long before. It shouldn’t have required an intervention from her deservedly outraged brother.
“Why are you here?” he asked in a low voice, mindful that in lurking in the marquess’s offices, they both flirted with different forms of danger, the least of which was her ruin. The greater risk being that of their very lives, should their intentions be discovered.
Had it been for him . . . ?
And how desperately he wanted that answer to be yes.
“I needed to see you,” she said softly, giving breath to that dream. Stealing a hasty glance at the door, Lila rescued her bag, and fished out a small black book from within. “You don’t need to be here. Everything you need . . . is here. My sister discovered it amongst her late husband’s belongings.”
Wordlessly, he accepted the small diary.
“You were not altogether correct. It was not the marquess who was responsible for the Fight Society.” She spoke on a frantic rush, and as he opened the book, his mind struggled to keep up with what she revealed. “It was his wife, the marchioness. She is the one responsible for the death of her son because my brother-in-law disapproved and intended to see her brought to justice. There was a woman he . . .” A wave of grief contorted her features. “Loved. A woman who was not my sister, but rather, one by the name of . . . Valerie.” Hugh stilled as the weight of her revelation sank in.
He breathed. “Bragger’s sister?”
Lila nodded. “She is alive. My sister has met her.”
Emotion threatened to drown him—at everything she’d learned . . .