have French ships up the St. Lawrence and the Mississippi. I have the Iroquois Confederacy walking out of conferences. It is only a matter of time until we are overrun, and Peter Eliot is the greatest threat to our unity, and our loyalty to the crown. It won't be home rule he gets us. It will be French rule. I need—"
"I won't," she said, her tone like a cracked bell. Without resonance. She lifted her chin. "Do your worst."
He stopped as if run through, and took a breath, and watched her eyes as he said, "Vampirism is a capital crime in the Colonies."
She hadn't actually believed he was capable of what he threatened. But she read his resolve, and knew he would do as he said. He'd burn Sebastien to make her obey.
She'd always admired his ruthlessness before.
"Richard," she said, bending her knees to collect her bag, "it's time you accepted that things are over between us."
"You have a day to decide," he said, and held open the door.
* * *
Garrett was still shaking with fury as she settled against the hard cushions of a hansom cab and crossed her arms over her carpet bag. She'd never let Henry make her cry, and she wasn't about to grant any greater power over her to Duke Richard. She drew a shaking breath, experimentally, jolted as the driver shook the reins and the horse jerked into a trot. Your first breath as a free woman, she told herself.
It wasn't true, of course. She still owed service to the King. And as long as Richard could extort obedience from her, she had no freedom worth speaking of.
It didn't change the fact that for the first time in years she felt free.
Richard, apparently, had been worse for her than she thought.
It was stupid to go directly to Sebastien's house, but of course she did it anyway, as fast as the rainsoaked driver could get there. Thank God the Lord Mayor had cobbled the streets; just thirty years earlier, they would have been ankle deep in mud already, a death-trap for hurried horses. They were slick, now, and the wheels clicked and squeaked over them, but they were not a mire of earth and refuse.
She made sure to have her money ready when she dismounted the carriage, and paid the miserable cabman while dodging the water that dripped from the brim of his hat. He was eager to be gone; he shook up the reins while she was climbing the three steps to Sebastien's door. Fortunately, there was an awning. She huddled under it, rain spotting her dress, while she fumbled the brass knocker, her carpet bag tucked under her arm.
Silence greeted her. It was Wednesday, the servants' half-day, and she was unhappily reminded of this as she knocked a second time to no reply.
The cab had long since rattled and squeaked out of sight.
"Hell," she muttered, and rattled the door handle. And shockingly, the door swung in.
She stopped it before it opened more than a crack, her pulse—which had subsided a little—thundering again. Surely, the Duke's men could not have come already. Could they have taken Sebastien while she was at Richard's house?
She could still shut the door behind her and leave, walk down the block until she found another cab, go home and let Mary put her into a hot bath. She could lie for Sebastien, do what Richard—do what the Duke demanded of her—and Sebastien would have to forgive her, wouldn't he? She held the power in their relationship. And he had said himself, he was disinterested in human politics.
She could walk away right now, and he would never know what the Duke had threatened. She could keep him—at least, for as long as he would stay.
And give the Duke the opportunity to use Sebastien against her any time she showed the slightest disinclination to play the game the way Richard preferred.
She was already pushing the door open completely when she heard the crash. She swung her heel against the door to make sure it shut behind her, then hurried through the dim entry, slipping her wand from its sleeve, the fingers of her left hand white on the handle of her carpetbag. For a moment, she thought of sneaking—but she was a peace officer, and she held her weapon in her hand. "Sebastien?" she called, "Mr. Priest? It's Abby Irene."
There was no answer, but the orange cat catapulted past her ankles and vanished into the entryway. At lest she wouldn't have