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Fighting his rage, Andrew stepped back. He could storm the house, but the chances of him finding the prince before one of the Duke of Livingston’s staff took him down with a well-placed shot from a serving tray or a flying tackle were slim.

The door slammed in his face, the brass knocker smacking against its metal plate in an emphatic punctuation of his rejection. He stared at the black-painted wood, hands still balled up into fists. If they weren’t going to let him in to speak to the prince, he’d have to opt for a less conventional route.

He marched down the pavement to the edge of the square and turned into the lane behind the huge houses that made up some of the most prestigious addresses in the entire city. To his right was a row of small, two-story homes with massive clapboard doors next to the front entrance. The carriage houses. Lightening his steps to stop the click of his boots on the cobbles, he hugged the shadows until he was two doors down from what he guessed was one of the duke’s several carriage houses. Parked in front of it was a massive black carriage with a crown and feathers crest in gold on the side. The prince’s carriage.

With a sigh of relief, he sagged against a wall. The prince hadn’t left yet. There was still time.

The shrill squeaking of a door echoed through the lane and several sets of boots scraped against the cobbles.

“Bloody cold out tonight,” muttered a footman in a long cutaway coat and britches.

“Stop complaining,” shot another one.

“Just a few minutes now,” a third, pulling out a pocket watch to check the time.

A glint of metal flashed in the lantern light as the man lifted a pistol out of his pocket and settled it into a better position. What footman carried a pistol?

A man who wasn’t a footman at all.

Bloody hell. This was the plot. Not attacking the prince at the ball but here, in a narrow street, where it would be easy to overwhelm members of the royal household and the prince himself.

Andrew had to stop them, even if he knew the odds weren’t in his favor. He couldn’t tell from where he was standing, but the men would’ve been foolish not to come armed to the teeth. He took inventory of the weapons on his person. He had a small pistol holstered under his arm, and knives in his jacket pocket and strapped to his left calf. It wasn’t enough, given how outmanned he was.

He sucked in a deep breath and drew the pistol, but before he could step into the lane, he was slammed against a wall.

“Don’t move,” a voice hissed in his ear, shoving the barrel of a gun into his back.

Andrew grunted when his face scraped against the stone.

“Drop the gun,” the man ordered.

Andrew twisted, throwing the man off as he whipped his hand around, catching his attacker across the brow. The man grunted and fell, but before he could fire off a shot Andrew was grabbed from behind by two sets of hands, and his legs were kicked out from underneath him. One of the false footmen punched him in the side of the head, sending stars cascading across his field of vision.

“We don’t need this,” said the man who’d punched him as he shook out his hand.

“The prince is due out any moment.”

“Shove him in the house with the others,” said another.

“He can identify us,” said the man holding the gun. “The others can’t.”

“Bring him with,” grunted the largest of the bunch.

“How?” asked the puncher.

“Strap him to the undercarriage,” said an older man with silver hair that caught the light from the big houses spilling out into the street. “If he manages to survive it, we’ll give him to Mrs. Wark.”

Lavinia didn’t wait for the cab to stop before unlatching the door and jumping down to the street. The cabdriver shouted something at her, but she didn’t care. Every bit of her was focused on one thing: getting to Andrew.

She raced up to the Duke of Livingston’s door and began slamming the brass knocker down over and over. Inside, she could hear scrambling feet, and a moment later the door was wrenched open by a tall, elegant man who wore a horrified expression.

“Madam, what are you thinking?” the butler asked.

“Is Andrew Colter still here?” she asked.

“Who?”

Her stomach twisted.