He had bought this place to serve as a dare to the elite. His challenge: You cannot make me disappear or slink off to the gutter. I am here. See me. Respect and fear me.

And the magic given to him by the Devil served to shore up his challenge. It made sense that this house—the emblem of his desire for approval from those he did not truly esteem—now was to be the battleground for the fight for his soul.

Anne stood beside him and also looked up at the house. Trepidation tightened her mouth. Yet she glanced over at him and seemed to sense the swirl of emotion within him. Cautiously, she reached out and took hold of his hand.

He stared at their linked hands, feeling a tightness in his chest that came not from fear but from wonder. Whatever happened in the coming minutes and hours, he had this, this shared moment that she had crafted. Even when her hand slipped from his, he continued to feel her strength resonating within.

When Whit and Zora joined them, Leo drew a breath. He mounted the stairs. A gaping Munslow opened the front door, all sense of professional demeanor gone in light of the strange vision standing at the top of the steps: the master of the house, laden with weapons and wearing another man’s clothing, the mistress in her torn and dirty gown, the errant Lord Whitney, and a Gypsy. Not precisely the sort of gathering one found in Bloomsbury minutes away from midnight.

The footman recovered enough to say, “Welcome home, sir.” He held the door open, and the group moved inside.

“You and all the other servants,” Leo said. “Gather your belongings and leave immediately.”

Munslow stared. “Sir? Have we displeased you?”

“Not at all. But this place is not safe, and in a few minutes, it will be even less so.” He handed the footman a key. “This is to my strongbox in my study. Take all the money you find there and dole it out amongst the servants. I’m trusting you to be fair in its distribution.”

“Yes, sir,” Munslow said, his face still frozen in shock.

“And if I’m still alive in the morning,” Leo added, “I’ll be happy to give anyone a character so they may find further employment. Go now,” he said when the footman could only gawp at him.

Wearing a look of utter bafflement, Munslow headed belowstairs. Presumably to tell the other servants that the master had gone mad.

“Word will get out,” murmured Anne once the footman had gone.

Leo understood. Servants told tales amongst themselves, and gossip spread from household to household. What one servant might learn would soon reach the ears of their masters. By the time lords and ladies made their morning calls the following day, everyone would know that Leo Bailey had lost his mind. Which could imperil future trade transactions. No one wanted to do business with a madman.

“I can’t find it in myself to give a damn,” he answered.

The chandelier overhead was unlit, and a single candle illuminated the entryway. Shadows engulfed the house, swallowing up the expensive trinkets and costly furnishings. A clock on a mantel measured time in relentless ticks. He thought of all the chambers in this house, chambers in which he had hardly ever ventured, rooms full of objects but empty of life. His house was a sugar sculpture that decorated the dining tables of the elite—ornate, extravagant, utterly useless. Existing only to be admired, but never truly used.

He never saw, not until this moment. “How did you stand this place?” he asked Anne now. “Hour upon hour, day upon day.”

Her eyes were dark but clear. “If I wanted the man, I endured the house.”

The things he made her suffer, the strength she had to weather it all—it was a wonder he could stand to be within his own skin.

Though his heart beat hard at the thought of the struggle to come, resolve was iron in his spine. Soon, the servants would be gone. When they were, Leo would take back what he had foolishly squandered. He might not survive, but he had never backed down from a fight. And none was so important as the battle that lay ahead.

Anne’s throat was tight, as though an unseen hand gripped her, slowly constricting. There seemed not enough air, no matter how she tried to breathe it in. Yet it was only fear, and she forced herself to calm. She could not face the approaching challenges if she collapsed in a faint.

Once the servants had cleared the house, she followed Leo toward the study. Lord Whitney and Zora remained in the front hallway. As Anne trailed after Leo down the corridor, she heard the hiss of steel as Lord Whitney drew his sword. A blaze of light that meant Zora had summoned her magic. The Gypsy did that so easily—conjuring up her power and wielding it with such confidence—it was clear she had used it many times in battle.

Both Zora and Whit made ready for the fight. They would form the defense against intruders when the inevitable assault happened.

Pressing her hand against her mercilessly pounding heart, Anne could scarce believe that this elegant Bloomsbury house would soon be the site of a pitched battle. It made as much sense as calling the house a home—for it was just as ill-fitting a title. She had never been at home here. Only Leo had made it bearable.

She kept her gaze on his wide shoulders as he walked toward the study. He appeared so strong, so potent. Surely he would survive this. He had to. They could not return to how it had once been between them. Yet he meant far too much to her to lose him.

He reached the open door of the study. They did not go in, but saw that a lamp had been lit. True to Leo’s command, his strongbox sat atop his desk, the lid open. The strongbox had contained hundreds of pounds, well beyond what any servant might earn in several years. The men and women who had served him might not have employment, but they had been well compensated. Perhaps it might buy their silence.

Leo turned to her. His mouth flattened into a grim line, the angle of his jaw hard with determination. She’d never seen him more resolute. A warrior on the brink of combat.

Words formed on her lips, yet she could not say them. They gazed at each other in silence. The candle in Leo’s hand flickered and cast shimmering shadows upon the walls. He looked both golden and dark, a terrifying figure from the depths of dreams, and it amazed her that this tough, fierce-eyed man had given her such pleasure only hours before. Not merely pleasure, but the truth of his heart.

Would it be the last time they ever made love? The dawn would have her answer, but dawn was far away.

“Ready?” Leo closed the study door, and he and Anne stood in the corridor outside. They had agreed that this place offered the right location for their needs, with few avenues for getting in or out. A battle would take place here, in this hallway covered with French silk damask.

She exhaled shakily, wiped her hands on her skirts, then nodded.

He started to speak, then stopped. He moved quickly. His arms came around her, pulling her close. And then his mouth was on hers.

Anne sank into the kiss, as hungry and demanding as he. They consumed each other, straining tight, savoring taste and sensation as those about to undertake a fast luxuriated in the flavor of the final morsel of food and last drop of wine. She tasted him and inhaled his scent and felt the hard, lean length of his body, knowing she might never experience these sensations again.

“Anne,” he rasped against her mouth. “My unexpected gift. A gift I never earned. But I’ll have you however I can, for as long as I can.”

She did not think she had pieces of her heart left that were big enough to break, yet they shattered anyway.

He ended the kiss, releasing her as if by force of will. She let him go, but the distance between them tore through her as they stepped back.

“Please,” she whispered, “do this now.” She could not stand prolonging this.