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“My love,” he said. “Let me release Perry. Then you can tend to me all you wish.” Wynford reached down and righted Perry’s chair and began to undo his bonds. “I’m sorry I got you into this, my friend.”

“It’s my fault,” Perry said in a broken voice. “Those waistcoats were my idea, and they never fooled her for a moment. And then...” Perry hung his head. “I led her right to you.”

“Rubbish, my friend,” Charles said gently. “You did more to unmask her than I did. Now sit here until we can get a surgeon to look at your face.”

Harriet inwardly applauded her love’s good sense. A surgeon was needed. She looked around to see whom they could send.

John Jowers stood over the unconscious would-be robber, holding the man’s own pistol. Charles handed Perry’s loosened bonds to Wilde, who sprang forward and tied up Cat’s victim and dragged him to a corner. The youth then turned to the big man behind the desk. The russet-haired giant appeared clear-headed in spite of his bleeding head.

“Kirby and Miranda?” he asked Wilde.

“Safe,” Wilde assured him. “What do we do with her?”

Wilde carefully approached the fallen Dashkova.

“She breathes,” Wilde announced. He kicked her pistol away from her side.

“She could still be armed,” the big man warned.

“Her right arm looks crooked. It may be broken.” Wilde gently lifted the fur hat from over her face.

Her eyes opened, narrow slits of pain and rage.

“Can you stand?” Wilde asked.

She let out a torrent of words in what Harriet surmised must be her own tongue, the hatred in them unmistakable.

Wilde offered her a hand to rise, ignoring her attempts to kick and claw at him. She stood for an instant on her own and spat at the big man. Then her legs folded, and with a groan she sank to the floor again.

Charles strode forward, taking a position behind her. At his nod, Wilde secured her feet while Charles lifted from under her arms.

Guessing their intention, Harriet swept the huge desk of burnt and bloodstained papers. Dashkova groaned and lapsed into a faint as Charles and Wilde laid her down.

“She’s no cousin of ours, is she, Charles?” Octavia asked. “What will become of her?”

Charles turned Dashkova’s face to one side, examining the wound to the back of her head. “If she wants to live, transportation is her only chance. If we imprison her in England, her Russian colleagues will quickly find a way to silence her.”

“Oh Charles,” Octavia said. “You never got my message.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re safe.” He put an arm around his sister, his eyes closing briefly, and Harriet worked to subdue her impatience that his wound should go untreated. She saw him differently now. He was a warrior in spite of his absurd waistcoats, a man who would protect his own whatever the cost.

“Forgive me,” Octavia mumbled against his side. “I sent a message as soon as I could. To tell you I was safe and the marchioness was a fraud. I heard her talking, you see, to Captain Fanshaw. He said I was a bird that had flown and he couldn’t help her. She said he had proved worthless, unable to seduce a peahen.” Octavia paused for breath. “I knew then that I was being used. Fanshaw had taken my cloak, so I talked my way into a lady’s carriage. She gave me a great scold, but she took me to Mr. Jowers’s house, where he lives with his Aunt Louisa.”

Charles glanced across the top of her head to acknowledge his gratitude to John Jowers.

The sound of more voices and footsteps, male and authoritative, rose from the stairs. A small, round-faced man strode into the room at the head of five scarlet-coated soldiers. The gentleman wore gold-rimmed spectacles as round as his bald, freckled head and emitted a palpable air of importance and command.

His frowning gaze took in the room’s disorder and settled on the big man behind the desk. “Goldsworthy, I’ve always distrusted your methods. Too bloody by half. I warned you, you could be shut down.”

“So you did, Lord Chartwell,” Goldsworthy replied with unimpaired cordiality. “Look what we’ve got for you this fine morning—Sophia Dashkova. Straight from Zovsky she comes. A bold baggage she is.”

Charles cleared his throat, and Chartwell’s gaze swung to him. “Last night she murdered Major Ashton, sir.”

Chartwell took in the information but returned to his earlier theme. “How the devil did she find you out?” he asked Goldsworthy. “No one knows you exist except a few drudges in the Exchequer.”

“Would one of those drudges be Edenhorn, sir?” Charles asked mildly. “Edenhorn has been one of Dashkova’s admirers from the beginning.”

When Chartwell showed every sign of continuing his attack on Goldsworthy, Harriet could stand it no longer. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” she said. “Can assessing the full measure of blame wait until a surgeon is summoned to tend to the wounded?”