Lucien crossed to his desk and set the package down. It was wrapped in some kind of newsprint with a caricature of lords lashing a skeletal worker with their whip. A note was tucked under the string tied around it. He slipped it free, reading the words in blotted ink.
Spark to flame,
flame to powder,
lay waste what was,
new world order…
“What is it?” Simon asked.
“Another warning.” Lucien handed Simon the note. “At least they didn’t break a window this time.”
“What is in the package?”
Lucien carefully peeled back the crumpled newsprint.
His pulse stuttered, ice flooding his veins as he recognized what lay inside.
Grace’s battered toy soldier.
Lucien wanted to throttle someone.He had all but terrified the footman, demanding the description of the lad who had delivered the package. He and Simon had searched the nearby area with the servant in tow. But there were swarms of delivery boys thronging the streets of London, all but invisible in their worn coats with hats pulled low over their faces. In the end he had known it was futile. The lad had melted into the crowds.
There was nothing to do but break the news to Grace.
Windblown and frustrated, he and Simon returned to the parlor. Lucien’s chest felt too tight as he surveyed the room where he and Grace had spent such warm, pleasant hours.
The women were industriously gathering groups of pages between covers of bright calico and stitching them in place. Lucien noticed for the first time that the pictures contained a tin soldier amidst various adventures. Stranded on a lily pad, sailing in a toy boat, facing down a fierce cat and defending some little mice in waistcoats or frilly bonnets.
Grace, offering children whose lives were bleak a glimpse of something whimsical. The thought that some cowardly bastard threatened to put that light out filled him with rage.
“We have had a change in plans,” he said so gruffly the women all looked up, startled. “You will all stay at Raven’s Court until the charity event is over.”
Cassandra looked decidedly uncomfortable. “But I thought we agreed?—”
“There has been an incident.”
“What happened?” Grace rose and Lucien reached into the pocket of his coat, the toy soldier all but lost in his hand. Slowly he opened his fingers, showing it cradled against his palm.
“Lord Admiral Nelson!” Grace cried, so pleased Lucien winced. “Wherever did you find him?”
“It arrived today in a package with this.”
He handed her the note, watched as the color drained from her face. The other women gathered around, reading over her shoulder with worried frowns. Even Cassandra seemed stricken.
Simon lay a comforting hand on his wife’s back. “We’ll go to the hotel now. Gather our things and return in the morning.”
Lucien barely registered what was going on around him as the women said goodbye. When the last skirt had disappeared into the dark interior of the coach, Simon paused and turned to Lucien. “I am going to send word to McLeod. Have him come to London to help with the search for whoever is making these threats. There is no man I trust more.”
Lucien swallowed hard. “I am in your debt.”
“We’re family. We will find these bastards and put an end to this together.”
Lucien watched his brother climb up into the equipage and the horses swing out onto the road. Somewhere, in those streets, an enemy was waiting. An enemy who had targeted Grace because of him.
He turned and reentered the townhouse where Grace was already bustling around, giving orders to servants, her face taut.
He stared for a moment at the note laying there amid the innocent drawings, then ordered up his hat and cloak, fury he’d suppressed since boyhood pouring through him.
