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He stopped, scraping his drenched hair back from his forehead with an impatient sweep of his hand. For a moment, he simply stared into the rain where his attacker had fled, chest heaving, before turning back to her.

Audrey was still standing there, the sword held awkwardly at half-mast, her gown clinging wetly to her shins. She barely registered the cold seeping to her bones.

Trafford reached out, covering her trembling hands with his own, coaxing the weapon down before releasing it and offering his arm instead. She took it without a word, grateful for the steady support as he led her back toward the yawning front door. Her knees felt weak, untrustworthy now that the terror had passed.

Realizing belatedly that she still clutched the sword, she let it drop onto the marble tiles with a loud, echoing clatter while Julius leaned his battered cane against the wall.

Audrey drew in sharp, shaking breaths, trying to calm the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She was panting, heart still racing from the shocking violence.

But even in her breathless state, one truth rang in her ears with cold certainty. She had been in time. She had seen the gleaming knife poised for Lord Trafford’s abdomen.

He could have been killed.

Lord Julius Trafford, the heir to the Earl of Stirling and honorary Viscount of Trafford, encountered few calls to truly apply himself. A lamentable character flaw, one he now regretted keenly as he assessed the mess he found himself in.

Miss Gideon stood shivering in the grand entry, her gray mourning gown sopping wet, leaving dark puddles on the marble. Averting his gaze from the clinging fabric, his eyes landed on the battered trunk in the middle of the hall, water dripping from it to pool on the floor. Atop it rested a birdcage. Inside, a tiny starling with a neatly bandaged wing cocked its head, blinking bright eyes at him, chirruping as it fluttered the free wing.

Was he dreaming? The bloodthirsty attack outside already felt absurd. The incongruity of that birdcage suggested this was but a nightmare.

Julius tugged off his soaked gloves with deliberate care and shoved them into his coat pocket. Then, with stubborn theatricality, he pinched his forearm hard. It hurt as it ought to.

So he was awake. His heart still thundered in his chest as proof.

By Jingo, he had not even had breakfast yet!

“That dirty-dish tried to kill me,” he declared in dismay, voice cracking slightly at the memory.

“Was he trying to rob you?” Miss Gideon asked, still panting from her exertions and, most likely, the shock of it. Her pale hair clung to her cheeks, water dripping onto the floor with steady, embarrassing rhythm.

She just saved my life.

Julius frowned, pressing his lips together as he tried to think. He scrubbed a hand across his damp forehead. He shook his head slowly, reluctantly.

“No, his intent was to kill me.”

“Kill you?” Miss Gideon’s silver eyes were enormous with shock and fear. “Why would he do that?”

Julius twisted his lips, heat rising to his ears as embarrassment set in now that he was no longer actively dodging a blade. His plan had been far more foolish than he had admitted to himself.

“I … may have done something stupid.”

Miss Gideon nodded, though her expression was bemused, as if she had not truly heard him. “Will he try again?”

That was a sobering thought.

One of the suspects on his list must have ordered him followed. It had been pitch-dark, thick clouds smothering the morning light, the attacker’s hat pulled low to obscure his features. But Julius was certain the man had been the wrong build to be any of the gentlemen he had been investigating.

No, he was a retainer. Or worse, a hired thug.

He had to presume the scoundrel had followed him home to confirm Julius’s identity. Once they knew who he was, the next command would have been clear.

“They know where I live. It is only a matter of time before they ascertain who I am, and then … yes, they shall try to kill me again.”

Miss Gideon raised her hands to rub her bared upper arms, teeth chattering violently as she responded. “They?”

“I am afraid I have involved you in a murder plot, Miss Gideon. We ought … I need to …” Julius clenched his cold, wet hands at his sides while he tried to think what to do about the young woman. Was she in danger now that she had interceded? From the perspective of his attacker, Miss Gideon might now seem an accomplice in the attempted blackmail.

He unbuttoned his heavy, damp overcoat, looking around vaguely for a place to toss it. Water dripped steadily to the marble at his feet.

Across from him, Miss Gideon’s gaze dropped. Her brow furrowed gently, and she bit her plump lower lip in obvious worry, scattering his already ragged thoughts into complete carnal disarray.

“I should … take care of that.”

She pointed a trembling finger toward his jacquard waistcoat.

Julius followed her gaze. The rich fabric had been neatly slashed through. Blood was welling, seeping dark into the brocade in slow, ugly blooms. His nostrils filled with the coppery stench.

Before another thought could form, the room tilted violently.

He dropped to the cold marble floor with a painful thud as the bright vestibule spun and faded to black.