He must tell Wansford to avoid the investment, but for some reason, he could not speak. The room tilted as he staggered to his desk. Anne’s concerned voice floated around him, yet he grabbed a sheet of foolscap and a quill. A dip of the nib in ink, and he readied his hand to write his warning.

The sharpened nib touched the paper. He moved his hand, willing the words to move from his thoughts to his pen.

ABCDEFG. There are ships at anchor in Portsmouth. O, what a jolly lad is he.

Spattering ink like black blood, the quill fell from his fingers. He stared at his hand as though it belonged to someone else. Powerless in his own body.

Anne appeared at his side, a pleat of worry between her brows. She looked at the sheet of foolscap, the nonsense he had scribbled there, and her face paled. “I should summon the physician.” She ran her hands over his torso. “Perhaps you suffered an injury last night. You need to be attended.”

“I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. The Devil had given him a gift, a gift that he had always exploited to his own benefit. It had never failed him, not once. And indeed, it worked perfectly this morning. Save for one critical element: he couldn’t warn Wansford about the mining disaster.

He had never needed to caution anyone before. Never knew this one fatal flaw in his gift. Now he did.

As he stared at his wide-eyed wife and her father, coldness seeped through him. If this vital failing existed in what he once thought infallible, what other damned defects existed in his agreement with the Devil? Of a certain, they must be there. Any investor knew that one flaw led to another, and another. Until what had once appeared to be a perfect opportunity became merely the presage to disaster.

She did not want him to go out. Something clearly was not right with her husband. Not illness, precisely, but a profound sense of wrong, as if he found himself inhabiting another man’s life. Surely it was on account of their exhaustion. Yet he would not remain at home.

“I have to get to the Exchange.” Standing by the glass in their bedchamber, he shrugged into a coat of dark blue wool. His hair was still wet from his bath, yet he had not shaved, and he looked as dangerous as a primed pistol, ready to fire.

“Then I will come with you.” She plucked at the ribbons fastening her wrapper. A few minutes was all she required to change from her dishabille into something suitable for the outdoors.

His hand stayed hers. “I need you to stay here.”

“Because it is scandalous if a lady goes to Exchange Alley?”

He scowled. “Don’t give a damn about scandal. I only want you safe.”

“The safest place for me is with you.”

Yet he shook his head. “Not after last night. Not with London verging on chaos.” He stepped back, and she felt the strained brittleness of the connection between them. “You’re safer at home, behind these walls. Munslow is here, and a dozen footmen. No one will be able to hurt you.”

His concern touched her, though a little, venomous voice whispered, Is it the rioters he fears, or Lord Whitney?

She had no answer. She could not explain what had transpired in the study with her father, the strange humor that had gripped Leo. He had spoken of inanities, written nonsense—alarming in and of themselves. But most frightening was the look on his face, the confusion and angry powerlessness. So utterly unlike him.

Something was happening, something strange and terrible, and yet nowhere could she find meaning.

Leo brushed a kiss across her mouth, and she saw it again, fleeting, in the gunmetal of his eyes: doubt. A doubt that unnerved him deeply.

“I’ll return soon. And when I get back, we’ll begin your fighting education.” Then he was gone, his footsteps sounding in the hallway, down the stairs, and finally out the door.

The fire in the bedchamber sputtered, and died.

God, why could she not keep a fire lit? She grabbed a china figurine of a drowsing shepherd, and threw it into the fireplace with a frustrated cry.

A moment later, a footman appeared at the door, drawn by the sound of shattering porcelain. “Madam?”

“An accident. But don’t send a maid to clean it. Not yet.”

The footman bowed and retreated. Anne sank down to the carpet, exhausted, despairing. She felt herself in a cavern. All around her was darkness, and she had neither candle nor lantern to light her way. Her only option was to stumble forward, hoping she did not fall and suffer a fatal injury.

They had just finished dinner. The servants had cleared away the dishes, and the candles burned low as a distant clock struck the hour. It had been a meal marked by silence, the sounds limited to the clink of knives against china, wine poured in goblets. She had tried to speak, to draw Leo out, yet every thrown lure was met with distracted responses. A word or two was all he had managed, his gaze withdrawn and preoccupied.

Anne rose from the table. Leo did the same. They went up together. In the hallway, he guided her toward the parlor.

“I’m for bed.” Weariness oppressed her.

“You should have rested when I went out.”

“Rest was impossible.”

“The bedchamber door was closed, else I would’ve come in.”

She could only manage a shrug, unwilling to tell him that she needed distance to make sense of the uncertainty twisting within her. Gazing up at his hard, handsome face now, gentled slightly with concern for her, she wondered how the plays she used to watch from the theater gallery could have been so very misguided. They ended when the two lovers pledged their devotion to each other, and with that, all obstacles fell away. As though love were the answer, demolishing every impediment.

What lies those sentimental dramas were. For her heart cracked and bled.

Leo frowned—he was an astute man. He had to feel it, too.

“Sir,” said an approaching footman. “Lord Wansford has returned. He would speak with you.”

“Bring him up to the parlor.” He turned to Anne. “I’ll see you in our chamber.”

“I’ll join you in the parlor.” She had not forgotten the strange scene from that morning.

His gaze turned opaque. Yet he offered her his arm, and together they went to await her father.

He came into the chamber, bearing the cold air of evening and an angry expression. “The deuce, Bailey?” Her father’s gaze shot to her, as if too late remembering he was not to use such language in the presence of a lady.

“Wansford.” Leo did not get up from where he was draped against a settee. Nor did he offer her father a glass of brandy.

“You said you would invest in that iron mine. And yet you did not.”

“No.”

Anne stared at her husband. He kept his gaze on the brandy in his glass, contemplating it. His face was a mask.

“Why the Devil not?” demanded her father.

She could not stop her small flinch at those words, and saw Leo’s mouth tighten, as well. Still staring at his drink, he seemed about to speak, but whatever he meant to say appeared to lodge in his throat. He took a drink, swallowing hard, then set the glass down on a low table.

“I made a better investment.”

“We agreed—”

“I said I would investigate the Gloucestershire mine. I did not consent to invest in it.”

Her father reddened. “The opportunity is lost.”

“If Leo did not make the investment,” Anne said, “he must have a good reason for doing so.” That was one reliable truth about her husband: in matters of business, he always acted in the best self-interest.

“You will still earn a profit, Wansford,” said Leo. “I made a counterinvestment in another iron mine.”

“Why not the Gloucestershire mine?”

“I don’t need to explain my decision.” Leo’s voice was sharp, his gaze likewise cutting. Her father recoiled at the tone. “But mark me, you will make a profit. That is a certainty.”