As Margaret studied the round golden brooch, her thoughts drifted to many possibilities.

Ida Devitt's brooch was oval. Cole's was round. Who else could have the same brooch? His father was dead, but if he had a connection with Osmond Trilby in the past, it was possible that the brooch found in Trilby's room belonged to him.

She stood by her window, gazing out into the quiet garden outside.

Proof.

The brooch was not enough. She already sent Calan Haverston a letter, inquiring more details on the brooch they found in the crime scene. Oval or round, it would lead her somewhere.

She drew a deep breath and turned toward the door. Night had come aboveground and the entire household had gone to bed. She grabbed her coat and silently crept out of her room.

Cole was waiting outside the side entrance of the Everard estate. He was older now, but she could still see the young man from a decade ago waiting for her in the same spot. He leaned away when Margaret emerged clad in a dark coat.

"You're wearing breeches again," he said as she stopped before him.

"Are we going somewhere else?" she asked instead.

His face tightened, perhaps at how proper she sounded. "The woods."

Her eyes widened. "Do you mean the cabin?"

"Yes," he said, leading the way to an unmarked carriage. "The last place we should be is the last place anyone following you will think of."

Margaret did not say another word. Careful no one was watching, they entered the carriage. Then, his coachman led them away from the manor in a steady pace.

She realized the closet in the opera was not the worst place she could ever be with Cole Devitt at this time. It was the cabin in the woods.

The moonlight shone through the holes above them, touching the trees and the ground like the lights in a theatre. It was almost magical, Margaret thought. She could almost hear the moonlight singing a fine tune.

After he ordered the coachman to wait, he turned to her, perhaps intending to take her hand, but she jumped off the carriage and walked to the direction of the trees. She could be blindfolded and she would still find her way to the cabin.

"How long had it been since you've been here?" she asked over her shoulder as she led the way.

"Long." His response was enough. He had not been here since he left.

"Not a lot has changed. It's still the same."

"As I hoped."

"Do be careful," she warned as they traversed down a slope. "Frances Highmore had quite an accident here," she said, smiling at the memory.

"Frances Highmore?"

"Mind not," she said with a wave of her hand. Frances Highmore was Benedict's fiancée before he married Agatha. Talking about her would mean talking about her brother to Cole. At this point, she would rather not.

"There is a natural stream around here somewhere," he said to her.

"I know," she said.

He said nothing after that. Neither of them talked as the familiar path led them to the cabin. It was not owned by anyone, just as many other cabins were in the Wickhurst woods. They were built for refuge to hunters. But when hunting season was off, they were mainly forgotten, especially this cabin. Situated against a wall of earth, it was mostly ignored. It was too far away from the hunting game.

He quickened his pace and reached the door first. She entered and stopped in the middle of the quiet room. As the rest of the cabins here, there was only one cot. There was a place for fire in the corner, a stove for cooking, and shelves with various things hunters left behind.

At the sound of the door firmly closing, and when his footsteps echoed in the room, Margaret faced Cole and started talking. "I believe Faye came from aboveground."

That gave him pause. It was clearly painted on his face that the information surprised him.

"She told me about a manor sitting on top of a cliff. It overlooks the ocean. You know what it is, yes?"

He nodded, looking bewildered.

"She described the sky and how it would turn in different colors. She talked about the wind."

Slowly, he shook his head. "They could be fantasies fed to her."

"Yes, I know. But the details she gave me are too specific to be brushed off."

"And who owns this manor?"

"She doesn't know. She and other women work in the background, only coming out to clean and return to their quarters belowstairs where they're locked until the next day." She walked closer to him. "She says there are other ladies who stay in bedchambers. They call them the favorites. They are the ones who receive the guests."

"Guests?"

Margaret nodded. "Guests from the Town. And guests from people aboveground."

Cole blinked, slowly shaking his head again. "That's... Meg, you can't expect me to believe this."

"Cole, you know there are passages out of the Town."

"They are heavily guarded. No one can pass through them."

"Do you truly believe that?"

His jaw tightened. "And not all passages are registered."

He scoffed, frowning at her. "How do you know all of this?"

"I'm a woman. I hear things around others," she said with a wave of her hand. "Rumors. Men talk when they think they're safe with friends at Grey's. A few glasses of spirits and their tongues loosen."

"If what you say is true, then someone can freely go aboveground, build a manor, and what—take slaves and turn them into prostitutes?"

"Yes." When he remained standing there without a word, looking baffled, she asked, "What do we do next?"

"Nothing," he said, meeting her gaze. "You don't do anything."

"I'm already a part of this. We agreed."

"I have to look into it."

"Until when?"

"I don't know." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't even know if I believe this."

Margaret nodded. "I understand." She stepped back and looked around the cabin before she focused her eyes on him again. "If you find anything—"

"I will tell you."

"Good."

Then she waited for what would happen next. What he would say, or suggest. But he was not saying a word. He just stood there, looking at her. Breaking contact, Margaret turned and murmured, "It's too dark in here."

He went to the shelf and lit a gaslight. Placing it on the small square table in the corner, he pushed his hands into his pockets.

"Do you think we are dealing with a group of individuals? Men who have enough power to make these slaves disappear without a trace?"

He nodded.

"Where will you start? Do you have connections?"

Cole shook his head. "I honestly don't know."

"I'll ask Faye where she emerged. She must have had a way into the Town."

Again, he just nodded.

With nothing else to say, she watched him think. And as she did, she saw the small brooch on his collar. Looking away, Margaret asked, "Can I leave now? Unless you have more to say?"

He turned to her. The fire danced on his face as it did around the cabin. Leaning against the wall, he asked, "Tell me why you're acting this way."

"What way?"

"This," he said, motioning his head at her. "You literally chased me around for help, Meg. And now, you seem too eager to get away since your encounter with my mother. What did she tell you?"

"Nothing. I don't want to talk about your mother right now."

"Whatever it is, don't believe it."

"She didn't say anything. At least nothing we both don't know. Benedict killed Leah and her death ruined your family."

"That's not true."

"That's not what I heard from you ten years ago."

Cole let out a harsh sigh and for a moment she thought he would not speak again. "There was more to what happened ten years ago."

Margaret's first instinct was to walk out and never discuss the past again. But his gaze kept her rooted where she stood.

"After the duel, I went home to my villa in Wickhurst and found Leah's letters." He moistened his lips and shifted his weight from one foot to another. "The letters spoke not of a woman in distress, but of someone hopeful. She was certain Benedict would come for her."

"But he couldn't. He was trapped in the mines."

Cole nodded. "He couldn't." He drew a long breath, his eyes looking straight at her. "Then, two years ago after my father's death, I inherited his title. Along with that is the estate. As I settled in, looking through everything in his study, I found more letters from Leah from ten years ago. They were addressed to me, but I never got them."

As he talked, Margaret grew more curious. "What did the letters say?"

"After she learned she was pregnant, she was forced to hide in the estate and wait for Benedict to come for her. She waited two weeks. And in those two weeks, she sent me letters every day. The last five days of her life, I found out Leah was frightened."

"About what?"

"She never wrote it down. But in the last letter she penned, she begged me to come and take her to Benedict. And if he would not have her, she wanted me to take her far away so she could raise her child on her own." Cole swallowed as he held her gaze. "Leah did not kill herself, Meg."

Her mouth hung open in disbelief.

"I discovered more things in my father's belongings that led me to believe he was involved in illegal activities. At this point, the only conclusion I have is that Leah may have witnessed something she should not have."

"And she was killed for it?" she incredulously asked.

"I believe so, yes."

"They killed her to silence her?"

"I cannot be certain. I'm still looking for more proof of that."

It was her time to shake her head in disbelief. "Does your mother know about this?"

"She would rather die than ever admit to anything. She is more comfortable blaming everyone else."

Her lips quivered and her eyes welled with tears. "Then Ben is..." She choked in her own words. "You do not have the least knowledge of how my brother suffered all these years. How he blamed himself for Leah's death."

"I know." He slowly nodded. "I intend to come to him after I have proof of everything. There is nothing to forgive Benedict for. Leah was waiting for him. She wanted to go to him. And he would have come for her after the accident." Margaret stumbled back, overwhelmed by all of it. "If there is anyone who has to grovel, that would be me."

She shook her head, the tears streaming down her face. "You should have told me. Or Benedict at the very least."

"I know. And I will." He paused to let the silence linger a while. "I could not tell anyone then. What I discovered about my father made me see just how powerful his friends were. I have nothing but letters passed between him and his friends that alludes to the slave trade, but they're not enough to throw anyone in jail. They didn't use names, and they used codes. The only thing I'm certain is that my mother might have had an affair with one of my father's friends. I know because my father was aware of it. He intercepted letters between her and a lover."

Her brow furrowed.

"My mother's anger is not because of you and your family. Her hatred is upon herself and she will never admit it," he said, his eyes keeping hers prisoner. "Know that you no longer have to restrain your hatred toward me. Do not hide behind your empty smiles. Show it. I deserve it."

"But that's the point," she quietly said. "I could not hate you."

An acrid smile curled his lips. "Why do I find it hard to believe?"

"I'm angry and disappointed because you kept this from me and Benedict all these years. But I also understand why you have to keep it to yourself, why you think it's dangerous to tell anyone. How could I hate you for that?"

"Hate me for leaving you."

His words brought back the wrenching pain. Mayhap he was right. Mayhap the pain was the hatred he was talking about.

"You were hurting."

He was silent for a very long moment, a lonely man standing there leaning against a wall. She did not like that he allowed her and her family to bear the burden of Leah's death, but it must also be hard to have kept it all to himself all these years. He had been alone.

Margaret took a step forward, then another. "All these years, I thought you despised us." A tear fell from her eyes, hot new ones brimming her eyes. Two more steps toward him. She reached him, standing just near enough to look up into his eyes.

Cole took a long breath, slowly shaking his head as he looked into her eyes. For a split second, Margaret saw something flash in his eyes. Longing. And instead of taking one more step closer, she backed off.

Wiping her tears, she bit her lips. Too much had changed between them. Too many things had happened. And even until now, when they were finally open about the past, there were still things they could not tell each other.

"I should return home," she murmured and heard no reply. "I think we've said what we need to say tonight."

He remained quiet.

Swallowing hard, Margaret veered her eyes back to his and froze. He was staring at her openly, his stance unguarded. He looked helpless, but the longing in his eyes was there and she knew it reflected in hers.

Her gaze went to his lips.

Suddenly she forgot what she had been planning to say and the only thought left was how close she was to kissing him because she knew he would not dare do it. This was Cole she was facing. He had a will stronger than any.

So, she did it. She crossed the distance between them and did it. She kiss him. She did because it had been too long and she wanted to know if it still felt the same. For years, the pain had numbed the yearning. Or mayhap it was the other way around.

The kiss was not explosive at first. He was stiff against her and she was on her toes, her hands anchored on his shoulders. One sway and she would have fallen on the ground.

Disappointed, her wits started to come back and she waited for it to scream profanities at her stupidity. Perhaps she read him wrong. Maybe he had forgotten this after all. Mayhap she had been the only one living in hell all these years.

There was still time to save herself, she thought.

She started to tear her lips off his unmoving ones but before she could completely step away, she heard a sound that was close to a groan and a growl. And the immobile form she was kissing seconds before was suddenly moving, gripped her upper arm and pulled, turning her around and press her against the wall. The unmoving lips opened, crushing against hers, sending her head to bump into wooden wall.

Margaret wound her arms around his shoulders, rumpling his dark brown hair with her hands and fingers.

A lump was forming in her throat as pictures of the Cole and Margaret of the past flashed behind her closed lids, as sounds from outside the cabin were replaced by distant memories of his laughter and teasing. Words from the past erupted here and there, ones spoken by him and her.

And she blocked them all.

Her mind and body wished to be filled with the present moment, with his lips hungrily devouring her, his teeth nipping at her lower lip as he took a breath, his tongue joining hers in a dance they had both mastered so well long ago.

His upper body pinned her to the wall. One hand drew her hips closer to his, the other cradling her head, deepening the kiss.

And all of a sudden it was over.

He stepped away. Too far away, in fact. Running his fingers through his hair, he said, "I'm sorry."

Margaret was still pressed to the wall, and fortunately so. She did not know if she had the strength to stand on her own at the moment. "Why?"

He blinked at her in confusion, still breathless from the kiss. "What?"

"Why are you sorry?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I honestly do not," she said, honestly confused.

He sighed, dropping his hands to his sides. "You ought to be out there with someone who would not callously attack you the way I did. I knew this was a wrong idea from the start."

"Well, good for you. I did not!"

He shook his head in frustration. "You should not even be here in the first place."

"Where else should I be? With another man?"

"Yes—No. I mean, no. You should be home."

She smiled at his frustration. "I do not seem to understand what you mean, Cole."

"Good Lord, woman," he growled, running his fingers through his hair again. "What I mean is that you should not be here in the first place. You should not even be home in the Everard House. You ought to be home somewhere with a husband and children and everything else a wife relishes."

His words caused her to stiffen. "I shall find myself a husband at the time and day I wish," she snapped. "If you have nothing else better to say after what we shared, I would prefer that you give us both the silence we deserve. I could literally still smell you in my sleeves, for heaven's sake. So, please, stand there as far away from me as you must while I gather myself together in silence. Five minutes and I'd be ready to leave."

His jaw tightened, but he did as she asked. He closed his mouth and placed his hands on his hips. His hair was tousled, his shirt, with two buttons popped, was in disarray. Did she do that? Well, hell. She could not remember.

She rolled her eyes and stared at one corner of the room as she waited for her breath to return to her, leaning her head back against the wall.

"Stop staring, my lord." When he did not comply, her jaw tightened. "Stop staring," she bit out as she straightened against the wall.

"I can't."

She rolled her head to look at him. There was not enough distance between them, she thought. She did not know how it was even possible to shed more tears, but she did. "Has it always been this easy for you?" she asked, harshly wiping the tears with the back of her hand. "Brushing things aside for honor?"

His face hardened, and his eyes shook with alarm at her words. He took a half-step toward her, then stopped.

She chuckled bitterly, sniffled. "I've never regretted anything despite the past. But now you're giving me so many reasons to wish everything never happened—"

As she talked, he saw his face harden with intent as he stalked toward her. And before she could finish, the words were gone, replaced by his breath as he claimed her mouth. Or as he stole hers.

Before he came back to his senses, Margaret worked on the buttons of her dress shirt. She heard his breath hitch and the sound that was almost close to a growl rolled out of his throat as he brushed her hands aside to work on the buttons himself. Shivers ran through her spine when he kissed her bare shoulders as he tugged the shirt lower along with her coat, until the sleeves slithered down her arms.

Memories of the same act flashed before her eyes.

This was supposed to be different, she thought to herself.

Her coat and shirt dropped and pooled around her feet. In nothing but he chemise and breeches, heart pounding hard against her chest, Margaret swallowed.

When he took off his coat, she knew then that he would not stop.

She reached out to help with his shirt as his hands expertly popped the buttons of her breeches, leaving it loose around her hips before stepping closer.

Her mouth opened in a silent gasp as his hand slipped inside. She rose on her toes, closing her eyes and she burying her face in his neck as she rode on the old sensations only he could give her. She bit her lips when a whimper escaped her as he fed the fire at her core. Her hands clasped his shoulders, silently begging, lost in something familiar because it had been too long. Then he slowed, bending and seeking her mouth for a thorough kiss.

Margaret moistened her lips, swallowing the anxiety and excitement raging inside her. She did not speak. Could not speak. She was afraid to because then it might just break the thin barrier between sense and fantasy. His hands freed her hair from its restraints. Running his fingers through the silky strands, his eyes forced hers to look into his.

Spoken words were not needed for the kiss that followed.

His muscles tightened as her palms ran up his chest to his shoulders.

The sounds of the woods outside mingled with their breaths, and the sound of fabric and buttons, of the aimless drag of footsteps across the room. Gray, translucent shadows danced on the walls, the steady dance of the gaslight a contrast to the flames that erupted between them.

They fell and tumbled on the cot and in one swift motion, her breeches were gone and her chemise was pulled over her hips.

She chuckled when he cursed his own boots, and then his trousers.

Everything that had anything to do with her mission for the League was stripped off with every fabric thrown to the floor. And when the last piece laid her bare under him, Margaret new things had changed and there would be consequences.

And like the typical fool, she thought she would deal with that later.

She arched when his right hand traced up and down her curves and paused over her breast. Her muscles, remembering his touch, tightened in anticipation as he followed the trail with his mouth, stopping just where she ached for him, covering the tip of one breast as his hand retraced its journey down to her waist, her hips, cruising through folds and creases with complete familiarity as if a decade had not passed.

She was lost in sensations both old and new, silently begging for more. Never, not even once, had she ever begged him for anything save for that night she asked him to spare Benedict's life. And when he left, even if she wanted to, she did not ask him to come back.

Now, she knew why. It was fear that held her back. If she begged him to come back those years ago, he might have not. If she begged him now, he may snap to his senses and leave.

All she could do was hang on to what he was willing to yield. Her fingers dug into skin, her breaths whispered the need, her restless body arched and stretched. A language old as time they both understood.

Rising over her, breath dancing with her own, Cole rested his forehead against hers. She met his eyes for a long moment, their conversation silent. Clasping her hands behind his neck, she pulled him in for a kiss. A groan escaped them as the kiss turned urgent, the fire building faster. His teeth grazed her jaw as his hand pushed her knee to her breast, and he settled between her thighs.

Heat was too weak a word to describe the burning. Her hands tugged at his hair, leading him to places that yearned for his mouth, gasping with each suckle, each sensual bite.

His mouth traveled back up to her throat where it lingered, tracing her hairline, nipping at her jaw, and moistening the throbbing pulse. All the while his hands left no part untouched.

Everything from then on was a blur for her mind seemed to have completely drowned in sensations that rushed through her veins. Yet what her mind may not remember, her body did, because hours later, Margaret would still feel how he claimed her in a manner so slow that it was almost vengeful, how his slick body moved above hers and with her; his mouth claiming hers as his body did, sending her to that place she almost forgot existed. The sound of his muffled cry of release would always vibrate through the skin of her neck, his hot breaths imprinted there. Her fingers would still feel the strands of his hair between them for hours the next day, and her heart would always carry the weight of his heaving chest against hers.

Her mind may have been in a frenzy, reason and logic pushed to a corner, but she knew the moment they regained control of their wits. As blood slowed down, as his breaths in her neck evened, and as the sounds of the woods outside grew louder, seeping into what was an impenetrable space mere moments earlier, Margaret swallowed hard, realizing what they had done.

How frail she had been.

This was not supposed to happen, she thought, but she could not yet move because it felt wonderful to be wrapped in his arms, to feel his hands wander mindlessly down her waist and hips as he caught his breath, his head buried in the crook of her neck, lips pressed on her skin. The marks of his mouth would be present there as well as everywhere else.

"Bloody hell," he murmured into her skin. His breath was in her ear where he softly whispered, "Meg."

Margaret blinked a few times up at the ceiling, trying to think of what to do next. But it was impossible with him this close, with his body pressed against her.

Hoping she would not regret it she gently pushed him away and turned to search for her chemise.

"What are you doing?" he asked almost angrily behind her as she hastily put on her clothes.

She stumbled her way to her boot. "I have to leave," she said over her shoulder.

"I will take you home." He was reaching for his clothes, too.

"No. I can find a hackney."

He threw her an incredulous look as his head popped out of his shirt. She was motionless for a moment, seeing his state of undress. Oh, good Lord, what had they done?

"In the middle of the woods?"

"Well, then, I can walk." She knew she was being unreasonable. But there was nothing reasonable to what they just did. She should have known better.

This was not part of her mission—and he was her mission!

"Meg, can you stop for one bloody second and look at me?" he asked as she restlessly tied her boots.

Brushing her fingers through her hair, she snapped. "It's late. I need to go home before anyone finds out I'm gone."

Seeing his state of confusion, Margaret's guilt built heavier upon her. He looked around, at the little signs of what had just transpired, before he glowered. "Why do I feel I've just been used?"

"Do not be stupid. We both enjoyed it, but now that it lasted, I need to go." She sprang to her feet, heaving and wide-eyed.

"We need to talk about this," he sternly said, pulling his trousers over his hip.

"Not tonight." She picked up his coat and threw it at him.

"Margaret—"

"Cole, please. Not tonight." She gathered her hair to one side and shrugged into her own coat. "I can't think."

His face hardened. "But we will discuss this."

She nodded. No, she did not think she could. This was a mistake. If he found out why she was even with him, why she even dared approach him in the first place, he would hate her for it. And what if he was guilty? What if he was the one using her? Could she appear any more of a fool in front of the League?

As he put on his coat, he caught her gaze. "I have to travel to Ashmore, but we shall talk the very moment I return."

"Very well—" She froze and frowned at him. "Ashmore?"

He nodded. "I have matters to attend to, but I will not be there long."

"When are you leaving?"

"On the morrow." Fully dressed, he stood before her, his brown hair tousled. "That's why I invited you here tonight. I needed to know what you had to say before I left."

"Apparently too much," she murmured under her breath.

"What was that?"

She absently brushing her hair off her face. "I said we'll talk upon your return."

He nodded and she did as well. For what seemed like eternity, they stood a good three feet away from each other as if they had not breached the line of propriety moments ago. She could still feel him in her, every stroke and heat and friction, the moist glide, the rough trails of his touch. She needed it again, needed him one more time. Or even more. His eyes told her he wanted the same thing.

It was just as it was ten years ago. The hunger was not easy to tame. They struggled to not be too close whenever they were together, to not find a secret place and disappear from everyone else so they could lose themselves into each other.

The good thing was that they both knew better now. If ten years ago, they knew they were in love with a promising future, now they were just lost in the pain of the past and the uncertainty of tomorrow.

He could be a murderer, and she was a spy trying to prove it.

Taking a step back, Margaret said, "Please, I need to go home."

Cole tore his eyes off her, jaw tight. "Very well."

***

Cole would not leave Wickhurst if Ashmore did not need him. The estate had been missing a master for months and there were matters he must do that he could not do in Wickhurst. So, mere hours after he took Margaret home, he prepared to leave.

The risk was too great, especially now that he had managed to gathered promising information on the slavery case, which he knew would ultimately help solve Leah's murder. However, he could not do everything in Wickhurst because it was not safe for secrets.

He would begin to piece everything he had gathered so far in Ashmore while he attended to other important matters of the estate.

In the carriage, Cole pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling weary. He had not gotten a blink of sleep and it was all because of Margaret Everard. He knew what he wanted from her, but there were things more important he had to deal with. There was Leah's death, and then there was the problem with Edmund Trilby.

Once he came up with a good plan, he would go back to Wickhurst and talk to Margaret. It was time that he be fair to himself and her.

***

She must be there.

This might be her only chance. If there was anything to discover, it would be in Ashmore.

So, while her brothers, Maxwell, Nicholas and Ralph were openly talking about Rock'oles, a very exclusive brothel just outside of Wickhurst, Margaret wrote Tori a letter.

Dear Tori,

I hope my letter finds you well.

I shall go straight to the point. I wish to ask you for a big favor.

Please do send me an invite to visit Standbury. But know I will be going somewhere else instead. This is a very important matter only you can be an aid of.

Please.

Yours,

Margaret

"I heard that their time are quite expensive," Ralph was saying as Margaret folded the letter.

"Is Rock'oles the brothel carved into a massive rock?" she asked, curious. "I wonder how the ventilation is in that place?"

"Rock'oles is not a place a lady such as you should discuss so openly, Maggie," Nicholas said.

"I'm sorry, brother, but you have been talking about it for almost an hour now. Since I'm here and you very well know I'm here, I assumed I can talk freely about the place," she wryly retorted. "Well? Are you not going to answer me? Is the ventilation of that place any good?"

They suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"You have been there, yes? Acquired their services? Are the chambers truly decorated with elaborate stone carvings?"

They all shifted in their seats, but offered no reply.

"Really, I do not mind that you frequent the place. You spend your nights at Grey's. It wouldn't be a surprise to know if you come to Rock'oles at all."

"Maggie, stop," said Maxwell, standing up. "But to answer your question, yes, the place is quite magnificent."

"It's not everywhere that you find an entire edifice carved instead of built," Ralph added.

Maxwell started for the door and said over his shoulder, "Who would care for a game of cards in the drawing room?"

Nicholas and Ralph jumped to their feet to follow, eager to leave Margaret's presence. "Do not tell the twins!" Ralph told her before he disappeared from the room.

Shaking her head, Margaret rang for Jefferson and gave specific instructions for the letter. Once she was alone again, Margaret mentally prepared herself for her journey to Ashmore.