Anne wrapped her arms around herself. She felt the burden of secrets along her shoulders, the heavy press of concealment and uncertainty. She longed for the comfort of maps and their defined borders—but even this solace was illusory. Maps could be drawn only when men took to the seas, facing uncertainty. How often did those sailors stand upon the deck of a ship and see the stain of an approaching storm? And how often did they have no choice but to sail into the teeth of that storm?

Anne suddenly felt a kinship with those nameless sailors, for now she stood at the railing and saw the portentous black clouds of a storm nearing. She could not outpace its fury or circumnavigate around it. It must strike. She hoped she would not drown.

“I received a letter from Lord Whitney.”

Leo paused in the act of pulling off his coat. He stood in the middle of the bedchamber, the candles extinguished, only the fire in the grate illuminating the room. Anne hovered near the foot of the bed, still in her gown of heavy green silk, her hair up, her eyes wide.

“What?” He could not have heard correctly.

Anne wrapped her hands around a bedpost, like a woman clinging to a treetop as floodwaters rose around her. “Lord Whitney. He put a letter for me in the carriage.”

“When?”

“Several days ago.”

Leo went very still. “Why have you said nothing until now?”

Her hands tightened around the bedpost. “I wanted to forget.”

“Show it to me.”

“I burned it.”

He strode to her, and though she did not shrink away, he saw the smallest wince in her face. “Tell me what it said.”

At this, her wide gaze slid away. “I cannot remember.”

Leo knew a lie when it was spoken. He witnessed many of them on the Exchange. Never did he expect to see the same prevarication from his own wife. Something in his chest hurt, and he spoke around its cutting edges. “Anne.”

She was no hardened man of commerce, no gamester. Of everyone he knew, including himself, she was the most truthful. And falsehood could not last long within her. Firelight gleamed in her eyes as she returned her gaze to him.

“Mad allegations,” she finally admitted. “Too outlandish to be believed.”

“Tell me.”

“He said ... that you and the other Hellraisers had made a bargain with the Devil. That you each gained powers in exchange for your souls, and ... you’ve unleashed a terrible evil upon the world. A growing danger. But that is all ludicrous. A Bedlamite’s ravings.” She forced out a laugh, hollow as a husk.

Fire coursed through Leo. His heart slammed inside his chest, and every inch of him tensed, ready for battle. A momentary paralysis. It did not last, for he had to act.

He strode to the bedchamber door and threw it open. “Munslow,” he bellowed, calling for the head footman. The hour was late, the remains of the dinner already cleared away, the house put to rights. Leo shouted again for the footman.

The servant appeared a moment later, buttoning his waistcoat and smoothing his wig. “Sir?”

“Have you seen Lord Whitney?”

“No, sir. Not recently, sir.”

“Or a Gypsy woman?”

“Not her neither.”

Leo could not feel any sense of relief. Simply because Whit had not been seen did not mean his threat was any less present. He’d put a damned letter in Leo’s carriage. For Leo’s wife to find. Fury tore through him, his body shaking with it. Leo’s fears were coming to pass. No. No. Whit would take nothing from him, especially Anne.

“He isn’t welcome in my home,” Leo said. “If any servant sees Lord Whitney, even a glimpse, they must tell me immediately. I want at least three footmen to accompany Mrs. Bailey whenever she goes out. The biggest and strongest we have. Hire more, if necessary. I can apply to my boxing salon. I want bruisers, brutes. If I am not present, they must be with her at all times when she leaves the house.”

From behind him, Anne spoke. “Leo, I—”

“And if Lord Whitney should attempt to approach her, he must be stopped. You understand. There is to be no communication between him and Mrs. Bailey. None. Do whatever is necessary to keep him from talking with her.”

The head footman nodded. Like most footmen, Munslow was young, tall, and strong, and the ready shine in his gaze showed that he welcomed the chance to brawl.

“Tell the rest of the servants to keep a watchful eye. Housemaids, coachmen. All of them. And if anyone sees anything, I am to be notified at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leo sent Munslow off with a jerk of his head. It did not matter to Leo what the head footman told the rest of the servants. If they thought him mad, or wondered at his reasoning. All that mattered was keeping Whit away. From Anne, above all.

Turning back to her, Leo shut the door behind him. Locked it. The protection offered by the lock was minimal, but he would seize any means of warding off the man Leo once considered one of his closest friends.

Leo advanced on Anne. She continued to hold fast to the bedpost, her features drawn tight.

“Should Whit attempt to contact you again,” he said, “tell me. If I am not here, send a running footman to Exchange Alley. Swear that you will do it.”

Her eyes were round, her cheeks pale, even in the hot gleam of the firelight. “He speaks nonsense, doesn’t he? There is no Devil. Not truly.”

“Swear it.” He stepped closer.

She released her death’s grip on the bedpost, and though he could see the furious beat of her pulse in her neck, and heard her agitated breathing, she did not shrink away. “This is not what we have built together.” She tipped her chin up. “All this time. We’ve made more, you and I, than a husband who threatens and a wife who meekly obeys.”

“Whit is dangerous, Anne. Understand? He is a threat to everyone. You and I, especially.”

“Why?” she cried. “What is it that he threatens?”

Leo’s jaw tightened. “Everything.”

He would not allow it. He refused. Leo had built his entire life with his own hands. From the foundations laid by his father, he had constructed an existence, borne the weight upon his own shoulders, his hands scraped raw and bloody. Whatever he possessed belonged to him on the strength of his will. A foolish, lazy man would have squandered the Devil’s gifts on ephemeral pleasures, but not Leo. He took the granted power and became even stronger, more ruthless, more determined.

Like hell would he sit idly by as Whit tried to steal from him.

Anne. His own wife. The woman he had come to know almost as well as his own heartbeat. By revealing the truth, Whit wanted to take her away.

Leo’s rage knew no limitation. Never.

“Nothing,” he amended, his voice barely more than a growl, “and no one will take you from me.”

“I am not leaving.”

To keep her, he would commit any crime, destroy anyone who sought to tear them apart. For now that she was in his life, he could not imagine it without her. He would bind her to him, as he was bound to her.

“I cannot ...” He struggled to speak. “No one means more to me than you do.”

The wariness in her gaze sifted away. “Leo—”

Words were not enough. He was a man who spoke plainly, and had no interest or skill in constructing artful webs of words. There was nothing he could say that could equal what he felt within the innermost reaches of himself. So he had to use his body to do what his words could not.

He closed the remaining distance between them. Their bodies pressed close, and against his abdomen he felt the swift contraction of her own stomach as she drew in a sharp breath. He threaded his fingers into her hair, cradling the back of her head, and tipped her chin up. Her lips parted. For a moment, they only stared at each other, gazes locked. Her eyes were the shifting hues of forest shadows, holding depths few ever realized.