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It was him.

Bradshaw.

His tall, broad figure loomed over her, his face—that face she had once feared more than death itself—set in lines of cruel disdain. Six years had added silver to his temples but had not softened the hardness in his eyes. He looked straight through her as though she were not there at all.

“Watch your step,” he said curtly, his voice sending ice through her veins. Before she could speak, he turned to the woman beside him—young, painfully young, draped in pastel green silk and diamonds but with downcast eyes and a tension in her shoulders Honoria recognized all too well—and guided her away with a hand at the small of her back. “Come, love.”

Honoria stood frozen, unable to breathe, unable to move. The noise of the crowd receded until all she could hear was the thundering of her own heart.

“Nory?” Elise’s concerned voice seemed to come from very far away. “Nory, are you unwell?”

Honoria forced herself to inhale. “I—” The room seemed to spin around her.

“Honoria!” Warm hands grasped her by her shoulders, snapping her back into focus. “What’s wrong?”

The buzz of the crowd, the people jostling her while pushing their way through, came rushing back. Honoria took a deep breath. “Forgive me, I—I believe I’m experiencing a most unexpected migraine.”

“Shall we return to the box?” Elise asked, her brow furrowed with concern.

“Yes,” Honoria managed. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

She allowed Elise to guide her back through the crowd, and every step was an exercise in will. Her mind raced. Bradshaw was here, in London. Of course, he was. What did she expect?

She’d gotten too comfortable in her country life, had convinced herself she wasn’t vulnerable anymore. What had she been thinking, going out in public like this?

The answer was easy. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d simply wanted a glimpse of her prior life.

Well, she’d gotten it. Except, it had slapped her full force instead.

Idiot. She was a complete idiot.

At the door to their box, Honoria stopped. “Miss Elise, I fear my migraine is worsening rapidly. Please make my apologies to Lady Somerville and Lord Caldwell. I believe I shall wait in the carriage until the performance concludes.”

“But surely you don’t mean to sit alone—”

“Please,” Honoria said, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. “I need air.”

Concern clouded Elise’s features, but she nodded. “Very well. Shall I escort you outside first?”

“No need,” Honoria said, already backing away. “The fresh air will do me good. Please enjoy the second act.”

Before Elise could protest further, Honoria turned and fled, weaving her way through the thick crowd. She barely registered the curious glances as she pushed through the doors and burst into the night air.

The cold hit her face, and she welcomed it, gulping great breaths as she stumbled down the steps. The carriages waited in neat rows, and she spotted Lord Caldwell’s among them, the driver huddled against the chill.

“James,” she called, her voice trembling.

The driver looked up. “Miss Hartwell? Is something amiss?”

“I am unwell. Just a bit, nothing to worry about. May I sit in the carriage until the others are ready to depart?”

He jumped down immediately. “Of course, ma’am. Let me help you.”

Once inside, Honoria huddled into a corner. Her hands trembled violently, and she pressed them together, trying to steady them.

She had seen Bradshaw. After all this time.

The memories flooded back—the pain, the terror, the night she fled, Lydia dragging her out. Six years of careful hiding, of building a new life, all potentially undone in a single moment.