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Helen pulled away, their breaths mingling. Ian touched his forehead to hers, and she closed her eyes, taking in this tender, magical moment.

He brushed her cheek with his knuckles and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “We have to go.”

Helen nodded. They needed to go. Or she risked staying there forever.

* * *

The trip back to St. John’s house was filled with tension.

They sat on opposite sides of the carriage, their eyes directed to the window, but something had changed in the air between them and it would never be the same again.

She had been crying in the dressing room after the lovemaking. She hadn’t even tried to hide it from him. He still remembered the taste of her salty tears on his lips. He still remembered the taste of other parts of her as well.

Emotions rioted inside him, but Ian couldn’t make sense of any of it. So he didn’t even try. He just sat, looking out the window, and she did the same. Because one simple conversation wouldn’t change anything more than it had already changed.

The carriage jolted to a stop, and Ian helped Helen out. They walked into the garden arm in arm and he led her toward the servants’ entrance.

She turned to him, a question in her eyes.

Ian swallowed. “I think I shall leave you here. I shouldn’t come inside.”

“Will you come tomorrow?” Her voice was full of hope and also dread. He could feel her body vibrating with doubts and insecurities.

Ian wished he could have squashed them. Alas, he could not. “It’s… unlikely.”

Helen gave a slight nod and a smile. Then she turned away and disappeared behind the door.

Ian didn’t know how long he stood in that garden, alone with his thoughts, staring at the door to the servants’ entrance of the viscount’s home.

But he could smell the dawn about to break when he finally shifted to move. He walked slowly along the garden path, just to find out if he could see through the window whether Helen still had candles lit in her room.

Before he could satisfy his curiosity, a small figure caught his eye from the other side of the house. He quickly, but silently moved toward it. He peeked out from the corner of the house to witness a boy of about nine or ten handing a note to the viscount’s valet.

The valet folded the note in his hand and disappeared behind the door.

Ian frowned. This was rather unusual.

This was the first time since he’d started watching the house that someone other than the postman brought correspondence.

It could have been nothing. Perhaps a note one of Lady St. John’s friends sent her. Or it could have been something important.

Ian couldn’t risk it being the latter and not finding out.

He retraced his steps and walked into the house through the servants’ entrance. He silently walked through the house and spotted Elkins slipping away from his master’s study.

He had probably left the note on the viscount’s desk.

Ian tiptoed toward the study and rattled the door handle. The door was unlocked.

He looked around to make certain that no one was watching and then slipped inside.

The air was still, and an eerie feeling enveloped Ian from head to toe. He didn’t know what was happening, but something was wrong.

Ian’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he quickly walked toward the desk. The note that the valet had placed there was still in place. It was impossible to see the writing on it, but Ian didn’t want to risk lighting a candle. Instead, he stuffed the note inside his coat pocket.

If it had nothing incriminating on it, he’d return it a bit later. There was no rush.

He quickly walked toward the exit, took a step out of the study, and was greeted by the barrel of a pistol aimed at his temple.