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Perhaps he wasn’t sincere. Perhaps he was simply trying to lure his fiancée into marriage with flowery declarations of affection.

Lydia winced, unsure whether it was the thought of Art falling for his fiancée—never mind that she was the one impersonating the woman—or the guilt of her deception that unsettled her more.

Shaking off the thought, she sat at her desk and penned a reply to Thorn. He was to wear a red flower in his front pocket, and she would wear the same but in her hair—that would be their signal at the masquerade. After detailing the rest of the evening’s instructions, she quickly scrawled a note to Honoria.

Honoria would need to copy the letter and send it off to Thorn using Lydia’s network of street boys.

Lydia exhaled slowly, trying to shake the tension from her shoulders. It was almost done. Almost over.

A few more days, and they would both be free.

Her nerves coiled tight, Lydia threw on a cloak and slipped out to her secluded garden for some air. Her rented townhouse wasn’t nearly large enough to contain her restless pacing anymore.

Those letters she had shared with Thorn had just opened a gaping wound in her heart she thought had long since scarred over. She remembered exchanging letters just like these when she had worked in his household and he was away at Cambridge. She smiled at the clever ways she used to sneak her letters with the rest of the correspondence to be sent to his residence, then stole Thorn’s letters addressed to her before his father could get them.

Perhaps that had been her first foray into thievery.

Through these letters, she was reliving the dream—the foolish, impossible dream—of becoming his viscountess. Of becoming his.

She let out a frustrated breath—almost a growl.

That’s when she heard it. Footsteps.

Close. Too close.

For a split second, she thought it was one of her servants, except not one of her servants stayed overnight.

She turned sharply, but before she could register the figures approaching, a coarse sack was yanked over her head. A massive hand clamped over her mouth, crushing her against a solid male body. Something cold and slick—knife steel—pressed against her throat.

“Do not scream,” a hoarse voice rasped in her ear, thick with an unsophisticated accent. “Or you shall regret it.”

With that, she was dragged from her garden and shoved into a waiting carriage.

Two men flanked her. One of them yanked her arms forward and bound her wrists.

“Now remember, I’ve got a knife,” the same voice warned. As if she needed the reminder.

She wasn’t worried, though. If they hadn’t killed her outright, they wanted something from her. But what?

To steal something? Impossible—no one knew she was the Mist. No one except the closest people to her and… Miss Monroe. She swore under her breath.

Miss Monroe would not give away her name to just anyone. She was too clever for that. She would never waste such valuable leverage, not when she could wield it to her advantage, blackmailing Lydia for as long as she pleased.

And that was just one of the many reasons Lydia needed to leave London.

The carriage rocked into motion, its pace unhurried, almost leisurely.

So, where was Lydia being taken? There was a way to figure it out.

Lydia sat still, calm, counting in her mind and noting each turn. They had gone straight for three hundred beats, then turned right. Another hundred beats, then left. Fifty-six beats, then right. Another right. Then a curving road tilting left, another left turn, then straight for 460 beats, and if they stopped now—

The carriage jolted to a halt.

The door swung open, and a rough hand shoved her out. She stumbled, and if not for a steadying hand, she would’ve tumbled to the ground. Her wrists were freed, and the sack yanked off her head.

“Welcome to the ‘Ades’ ‘Ell,” the hulking thug announced, sweeping open the back door with a theatrical flourish.

Lydia stifled a groan.