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was this the person behind the blackmail attempt? It was too much of a coincidence to not be related. If so, what was this person’s link to him and the twenty-first century?
    Stealthily, Marc edged around the table, cursing his squeaky leather shoes, praying he was being quiet enough. He touched the greatcoat as he crept by—both it and the top hat identical to those James would wear.
    He paused at the edge of the hallway, listening again. Nothing. No one.
    Should he say something? Try to lure the person out?
    As usual, he felt no fear, just the heart-pounding rush of adrenaline. He had spent over twenty-five of his thirty-two years studying martial arts and street-fighting. His bare hands had always been protection enough.
    Cautiously, Marc peered around the door frame, through the trapdoor in the floor and down into the cellar. The wooden stairs descended steeply to packed earth, empty. But he couldn’t see into the back of the dark cellar where the portal hummed. Was someone down there?
    Cloth suddenly clamped around his mouth, a strong hand pressing into his face. Hard.
    Marc breathed in a sickly sweet smell, making him instantly woozy. But years of martial arts training sprang into action, despite his suddenly spinning head. He shot back an elbow, delivering a sharp blow to his attacker’s ribs, getting a low grunt as a response.
    Male , his mind absently noted. His attacker was definitely a man.
    Marc hooked the unknown man’s leg with his own, while simultaneously grabbing the arm which held the cloth over his mouth and twisting it outward painfully, breaking the man’s hold. Allowing Marc to snatch a breath of much-needed fresh air. Even so, the room spun crazily.
    Marc sensed blackness creeping in at the edges, enhancing his light-headedness, making his movements less precise than usual. Relying on muscle memory, Marc used the twisting momentum of his body to throw his attacker to the ground.
    But the man was not entirely unfamiliar with street fighting, and Marc was sluggish. So instead of tumbling down the stairs alone, the attacker had time to grab Marc, sending them both spinning toward the ground. Marc found himself face-to-face with a brass button embossed with a vine-covered crest. And then they were both rolling, rolling down the wooden stairs.
    Marc instinctively braced for impact, but it never came.
    Instead, he just continued on . . . falling, falling, falling . . . the button flashing before his gaze, searing into memory.
    Until blackness took him.
     

     
    The Old Boar Inn
    Marfield, Herefordshire
    February 19, 1814
     
    Lady Ruby’s instructions had been extremely clear:
    Take this letter straight to Mr. Millet at the Old Boar Inn to be posted. My nephew’s butler has shifty eyes and is not to be trusted with my correspondence.
    Kit had stared at the letter as she drove the Knight’s gig into the nearby town of Marfield.
    Firstly, the Knight’s butler, Finley, seemed a perfectly fine fellow with nary a hint of shiftiness about his person.
    Secondly, Kit could not imagine—even if the butler were shifty—why he would be interested in letters to a Mrs. Boring of Quiet Street, Bath.
    Yes. That really was the address, neat and plain. Mrs. Boring. Quiet Street. Bath.
    It was fairly ridiculous.
    But nearly every day, Lady Ruby sent Kit into Marfield on some errand or another.
    “Poor Jedediah is in need of more blacking for his boots. Off with you.”
    “See that Mr. Millet posts this letter to Plymouth. And be sure to ask if any correspondence has arrived for me.”
    “The feathers in my purple velvet turban have quite drooped. I believe the haberdasher has some lovely peacock ones you can fetch.”
    Kit had become quite adept at navigating the few miles between Haldon Manor and Marfield in the gig. Fortunately, the roads were well-maintained, allowing for easy travel despite the gloomy February weather.
    Today, the sun broke through the ever-present clouds.
    Away, away, away, Wicked Angel