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“What is it, Hobbes?”

Both men looked up. The stranger twisted his cap in nervous hands.

“Your Grace, we need help. The carriage overturned, and the lady’s trapped inside. The door’s stuck fast.”

“Shall I wake the footmen?” Hobbes asked.

“No. Let them sleep.” Gideon was already heading back upstairs. “I’ll deal with it.”

He dressed quickly, tugging on his breeches, stockings, and boots. A simple shirt and a hat on his head. He grabbed his sword-cane on the way out, the silver wolf’s head cool against his grip.

The storm hit him the moment he stepped outside. Rain stung his face, and the wind tried to rip his hat away. He pressed it to his head and hurried toward the carriage that lay on its side—one door crushed against the cobblestones, the other wedged shut by the twisted frame.

How in the hell did this happen?

Through the half-open window, he could hear the soft muttering of a young woman and the sloshing of water. Rain was pouring in through the broken window, slowly filling the carriage.

“Don’t worry, madam,” he shouted over the rain. “I’m going to get you out.”

Gideon examined the stuck door. The hinges were bent but not broken. He shook his head, again surprised this could have even happened.

“Were you struck by something?” he asked the footman.

“You see, sir, there’s no way to open it!” the footman shouted over the downpour, not having heard Gideon’s question. He was demonstratively tugging on the door handle, rattling the carriage.

“Right, right, stop!” Gideon yelled, tapping the man on the shoulder.

He paused, a strange feeling raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Gideon looked around, suddenly certain he was being watched.

“Help!” came the soft voice from inside the carriage. “I’m going to drown in here!”

Gideon shook off the strange feeling and focused on the door. He raised his cane and brought the wolf’s head down hard on the upper hinge.

Metal shrieked.

Another blow, then another, until it snapped.

“Now, that wasn’t hard,” he murmured under his breath.

The lower hinge was more stubborn, but eventually, it gave way. He wrenched the door free and, with help from the footman, tossed it aside.

The carriage was half-filled with water, and the woman—completely soaked—was crouched inside.

“Are you hurt?” Gideon asked over the sound of the rain.

The woman looked up at him from the wreckage, and he instantly recognized her.

Even soaked and disheveled, looking like a drowned rat—no, she looked like a drowned cat… a slick, black cat with eyes shining like diamonds in the night. Her raven-black hair stuck to her face and neck, only deepening her resemblance to a slick feline.

A little panther.

“Your Grace?” Her accented voice was musical despite her distress… Was she distressed? She seemed rather calm. “That was quite impressive.” She glanced at the door lying to the side of the road.

Gideon offered his hand. “Lady…” he paused, trying to remember her name. It was on the tip of his tongue. Lydia? Lily? He decided not to guess. “…of Smyrna.”

She smiled and placed her cold hand in his. She wasn’t wearing any gloves, and neither was he. The contact of skin on skin sent a jolt through him. Surely, it was the shock of her cold limbs. “Leila. Please, call me Leila.”

“I can’t use your Christian name,” he said evenly. “It wouldn’t be proper.”