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The flame cast shadows through the main hall, dismantling the familiar space and turning her house into a strange land. A shadow-Reina followed, just to the left and a step behind. She paused at the landing and turned to glance at the dark shape so determined to cling to her.

More stairs, down to the quiet lower ground floor level. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it at the surface of her skin, as if someone were tapping on her chest from the outside.

A blade of light edged the bottom of John’s door.

Reina lifted her free hand, intending to knock lightly with the back of a knuckle. But she hesitated. What if he was annoyed at having his privacy invaded? What if he was distant, or mocking? She had no idea how different he was from the man he’d pretended to be.

What if she’d fallen in love with an illusion? She would rather stand out here in the dark than find out. This would be a kind of death, from which she would emerge as someone she didn’t want to become.

Just as she began to step back, the door opened.

John stood there, big, dark, and breathtaking, dressed only in a pair of trousers and a white shirt with an open placket. He was barefoot, rumpled as she’d never seen him before. No longer a butler, more like a lion out of its cage.

He took in the sight of her with a swift glance, coming to focus on the tiny lamp that rattled in her hand.

“What is it? What do you need?” The note of concern, the vibrant depth of his voice, were familiar.

Before she could utter a single word, John drew her into his room and closed the door. Carefully he pried the finger lamp away and set it on the nearby desk.

“Reina—” He broke off as he turned to face her. She heard his breathing stop and resume at a different pace, a little faster, a little deeper.

Slowly, as if in a dream, he reached for a lock of her hair, taking it between his thumb and forefingers, letting the rippling strands slide along his open hand.

Abruptly seeming to realize what he was doing, he snatched his hand back. “Is there a problem?”

That unlocked so many questions and accusations at once that for a moment Reina couldn’t speak at all.

“How do you know Dr. Gibson and Mr. Ransom?” she finally burst out. “You were already acquainted with them both.”

He muttered something in Welsh and slid her a brooding glance. “You want to do this now, Reina?”

“Yes. I can’t sleep at all, and—why aren’t you calling me ma’am?”

“You don’t like it when I call you that.”

“That’s never stopped you before! Something’s different.” Her voice began to fray. “I think . . . I think you’re not who you said you were.”

John’s gaze turned alert. “Cariad—” he began, moving forward as if to take her in his arms.

She stepped back instinctively, even though she yearned to be gathered up and comforted.

John stopped, his expression unreadable. “No one’s going to harm you,” he said. “Least of all me.”

“I think you may have already harmed me. I’m just trying to find out how.” Feeling brittle and frail, she made her way to the chair by the hearth.

John went to lean back against the desk in a relaxed and informal posture she’d never seen from him before. Second by second, a stranger was being revealed to her.

“What I’m about to say to you is in confidence,” he said. “I need your word.”

“You have it.” She stared at him fixedly. “Is John Pembroke your real name?”

“Aye, it is. Everything I told you about my past is true, up until I left the ironworks job.”

“Then . . . you never went to prison? You’re not ticket-of-leave . . .”

He shook his head. “I joined the Manchester Police and was eventually promoted to detective service.”

Reina was silent and bewildered as he went on.