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The viscount stepped forward, selflessly shielding both women with his body. Not that Ian had planned to shoot, but the man couldn’t have known that. In his mind, Ian was the enemy.

And perhaps, Ian was that. But he had no intention of shooting anyone. Not even the treacherous viscount.

“Lower the gun, McAllistair,” St. John said evenly. “It’s over.”

It wasn’t over. It wasn’t over until Ian exposed the viscount for what he was and erased that look of mistrust and terror in Helen’s eyes.

For that to happen, he needed to escape first. St. John wouldn’t hurt Helen, of that Ian was certain. But a part of him was loath to leave her behind.

“What’s going on?” Helen asked on a breathless whisper.

“What’s going on, Helen,” the viscount said roughly, “is that you bedded a spy.”

Helen flinched at the words. The viscount’s gaze was ruthless, the gaze of a man who was ready to kill. “Tell her, McAllistair. Or are you going to kill her in order to get out of this place? You’re going to get caught anyway. And if you hurt her or anyone in this house, I am going to personally slit your throat.”

“I am not the killer in this room, St. John,” Ian said calmly. At least, not the only killer. But all his kills were justified by the mission. He served the Crown. Could the viscount claim to do the same?

“You think I am a killer?” St. John narrowed his eyes.

“I know you are. I know you killed Bradshaw. Possibly three more people.”

“It’s not true!” Lady St. John took a step closer, but the viscount shoved her back behind him.

“Bradshaw was a raving lunatic and a criminal. He died in prison. What does it matter what led to his death?” St. John asked.

“It matters because he wasn’t a part of the Shadows as everyone thinks he was, but he was shot by one. Wasn’t he, St. John?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the viscount lied smoothly.

“I am not the villain here, Helen,” Ian said as he took a step back. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

He quickly shoved the gun behind his back and dove toward the study. Something whistled just an inch from his ear and embedded in the study door. Ian dashed toward the window of the study, quickly opened it, and jumped out.

* * *

Helen’s head spun.

One minute Ian was standing right in front of her—pointing a gun at her!—the next, he disappeared into the study. Jarvis had thrown a dagger at him, almost catching his face, and then ran to follow him.

This all had happened in one short moment and Helen didn’t know what to think.

“Elkins! Order my horse to be saddled and brought to the front of the house!” Jarvis barked out as he passed Helen, Olivia at his heel. “I need to contact the others and then I’ll follow the bastard.”

“No!” Helen cried out, and Jarvis stopped in his tracks. “You won’t leave until you tell me what in the world is going on.”

Jarvis let out a controlled breath. “He used you, Helen. He used you to get to me. And he got a piece of correspondence from my colleagues. He is out to ruin me.”

“I don’t believe this,” Helen whispered. Her heart drummed an incessant staccato against her chest. Nothing made sense. The only thing she knew for certain was that Ian had betrayed her.

“He must be a part of the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist if he’s looking into Bradshaw’s death. And those people are vile, Helen. Be glad that I found him out before he had a chance to hurt you.” He turned on his heel and stalked up the stairs.

Poor Olivia looked at Helen, then back at her husband, and decided to follow him.

Helen stood on the same staircase landing, her mind in turmoil.

What in the world was the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist? And what did it have to do with Ian?

Did it matter? He’d used her to get close to Jarvis. To uncover secrets that Helen’s cousin-in-law held.