"I need someone to take a clear and concise message to Francesca's uncle."

"Ah, I see." Devil's gaze followed Osbert down the steps. "Charles Rawlings?"

"Yes. He and his party are staying at Bertram's in Duke Street. He said he'd be busy getting ready to leave tomorrow, but I need him to come to St. Margaret's in Cheapside. Tell him Franni's there."

"Francesca's cousin?"

"Yes. I don't know what's going on-what Franni's up to-but..." Every instinct was screaming. Gyles met Devil's green gaze. "Can you make sure Charles gets the message?"

"Of course. And then?"

"Just that." Gyles hesitated, then added, "Whatever comes after, I suspect it'll be best kept within the family."

Devil held his gaze, then nodded and clapped Gyles on the shoulder. "I'll make sure the message gets through with all speed."

Devil strode off toward Duke Street, two blocks away. Gyles made for the hackney Osbert had waiting.

"St. Margaret's in Cheapside," Gyles ordered the jarvey. "Fast as you can."

Francesca sat on the leather seat of her carriage, swaying as it rolled through the streets. Beyond the windows, the day slowly faded. She recognized the great houses along the Strand, then the road narrowed through the Fleet. At one point, John Coachman pulled up and the groom scurried around, lighting the carriage lamps. Then the carriage rocked on, slowing as the horses climbed the hill to St. Paul's, then, the clop of their hooves echoing from the stone facades, started down the farther slope, into a part of London Francesca had never seen.

Soon, wisps of fog laid pale fingers across the windows. The road angled nearer the river; the fog grew denser, shops and taverns shrouded in the sulfurous murk.

Francesca frowned; the pricklings of unease, the stirrings of presentiment, were growing too strong to ignore. Why had Franni chosen such a place? Osbert had been right-Ginny would never have taken Franni walking here. The chill outside penetrated the carriage; a shiver slithered down Francesca's spine.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

She would only find out what was going on if she went on and met Franni. Even here, the environs of a church would be safe, and she had four burly men with her.

The road grew narrower. As the surface grew rougher and the carriage jolted along, she tried to think how to manage the coming meeting, how best to ensure their safety-Franni's, Ginny's, and her own-without throwing Franni off her stride.

The city's bells tolled four o'clock as the carriage slowed, then halted. The carriage dipped as the groom and footmen descended, then the carriage door was opened.

"Ma'am?"

John had halted the carriage beside the church's lych-gate. Francesca held out her hand; one of the footmen helped her down. Steps led to a path through the church's graveyard. Francesca studied the dark bulk of the church, barely visible through the gloom, then glanced back.

"You." She waved at the groom. "Stay here with John. You two"-she gestured to the footmen, both thickset and reassuringly solid-"come with me."

They didn't question her dispositions. One footman opened the lych-gate and stepped through. "Your pardon, ma'am, but I think I should lead the way."

Francesca nodded. What had Franni been thinking of?

Was she really here?

That, at least, was answered as they approached the church. Most of the building was dark but light shone from the nearer end of the transept. Flickering lamplight illuminated a chapel; Francesca glimpsed a figure pacing. The windows were stained and ornate; she couldn't see through them, but the figure's stiff gait left no doubt in her mind.

"That's my cousin." She looked around. "How do I get in?"

There was no direct access to the chapel; they followed the massive walls of grey stone to the church's main door. It was ajar. Francesca retreated, waving the footmen back. She halted along the wall, ten paces from the door. "You'll need to wait here. My cousin is simpleminded. She won't speak if she sees strange men with me."

The footmen exchanged glances. The one who'd led the way shifted. "It's just that, ma'am, we've orders to keep you always in sight." He glanced at the fog-shrouded night. "In such places, within reach."

Francesca shook her head. "I'm going in, and you are not, but you can see the door from here, so you can watch and make sure no one else goes in. I'll leave the door open, so if anything goes amiss, I can call and you'll hear." She held up a hand to stay any protests. "That is what we are going to do. Remain here."

She marched to the church door, sure they wouldn't disobey her direct orders. A quick glance as she reached the door confirmed that; the pair stood watching, fog draping their shoulders. Francesca stepped into the church.

It was old-ancient. And the cold was intense, as if it seeped from the very stones. Francesca quelled a shiver, glad of her pelisse and muff. There was no light beyond the distant glow shed from the chapel.

Ruts had been worn in the flags. To conceal this, threadbare runners had been laid over rush matting. Francesca's feet sank into the padding as she walked down the darkened nave, then turned left. A heavily carved screen hung with shadows partly hid the chapel. There were two archways, one on either side, worked into the screen. Francesca made for the one on the left through which the lamplight beckoned most strongly.

She halted in the archway. Before the altar on which a single lamp stood, Franni paced.

Relief swept Francesca. Franni wore a heavy cloak, the skirts jerking as she walked, the hood back so the lamplight sheened her fair hair, drawn back into the usual loose knot at her nape. Francesca stepped forward. "Franni?"

Franni whirled, pale blue eyes wide, then she recovered, straightened, and smiled. "I knew you'd come."

"Of course." Five rows of short pews flanked a central aisle. All empty. As she started up the aisle, Francesca scanned the area around the altar. "Where's Ginny?"

"I didn't need her-I left her at the hotel."

Francesca halted. "You came alone?"

Franni giggled, ducked her head, then shook it, her gaze locked on Francesca. "No. Oh, no."

Francesca remained where she was, level with the second pew. She stared at Franni, at the glow that lit her eyes, and listened to her high-pitched giggling. Fear slithered, ice-cold, down her spine. "Franni, we should leave. My carriage is waiting." She held out a hand, beckoned. "Come. You like driving in carriages."

Franni grinned. "I do. Yes, I do. And I'll be driving around in carriages a lot more soon." From the folds of her cloak, she raised a pistol and pointed it at Francesca. "When you're gone."

Francesca stared at the pistol, at the round black mouth. Fear locked about her heart. She knew nothing about guns, but firearms fascinated Franni; she loved the bang. Francesca had no idea if Franni knew how to load and prime a pistol, or if she could shoot one, yet the long barrel was pointed directly at her chest. Supporting it with both hands, Franni held the pistol steady.

A faint sound broke the spell, eased the icy grip of shock. Francesca realized she'd stopped breathing. Dragging in a breath, she lifted her gaze to Franni's face.

Her breath caught again. Franni's expression was triumphant, her eyes afire with undisguised intent.

"I figured it out, you see."

"Figured out what?" Francesca forced the words out. If she screamed, she'd be dead before the footmen reached her. Turning and running would end the same way. "I don't understand."

Talking-spinning out the time. That was her only option. While she lived, there was hope-she could see no further than that. She could hardly believe she was here, talking to Franni over the yawning mouth of a pistol. "What are you talking about?"

Franni's expression turned smugly condescending. "It was obvious but you didn't see it, and there was no need to tell you-not before. He married you for your land, you see. I didn't have the right land, and he had to have it-I quite see that. But he met me and fell in love with me-why else did he come back to speak with me a second time? He didn't even want to see you."

Francesca stared. "Gyles?"

Franni nodded, still smug, increasingly superior. "Gyles Rawlings. That's his name. Not Chillingworth-he's the earl."

"Franni, they're one and the same."