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And her driver!
    Regan planted her hands on the ground and dug her toes into the muddy stones. She pushed herself up and staggered for a moment toward the coach. The coach swam before her. Holding out a hand, she brushed the side of the vehicle then leaned against it and took a deep breath.
    “Mr. Brent?” Using the side of the vehicle for support, Regan walked toward the driver’s box and peered up at it. The reins hung slack over the side.
    The box stood a good five feet off the ground. Even with the carriage lanterns swinging gently as the horses shifted hooves, she could make out no one. Regan grabbed hold of the side and dug her foot into the step.
    Pulling herself up with shaking arms, her dress caught on the break and ripped. She yanked the material free and stepped up into the box. Mr. Brent’s broad body was sprawled face down on the floor. Black blood matted his russet hair.
    Regan’s stomach twisted. Crouching beside him, she pushed aside the collar of his brown coat and placed two fingers at his neck. “Please, Mr. Brent,” she whispered. A pulse, slow and sluggish, pressed against her fingertips. Oh, thank goodness . Regan blew out a breath, straightened, and turned her attention to her driver, Mr. Hopkins.
    The driver sat twisted in the seat, his body resting against the side of the box. His black tricorn hat hung lopsided from the crown of his head.
    Regan reached out and gently shook his arm. “Mr. Hopkins? Mr. Hopkins?”
    The driver moaned.
    Regan shook him again, her eyes searching his body for any sign of injury. No blood spattered his coat, face, or hair. None that she could see. “Mr. Hopkins, please.”
    He moaned again and shifted in his seat. His head rolled towards her. A black and purple bruise bloomed on his forehead. He blinked.
    How could anyone do anything so hateful?
    Gently, Regan laid her hand on his shoulder. “Hopkins, I do not know how to drive the coach. And Mr. Brent—“ Regan lowered her gaze to Brent’s limp body. “Mr. Brent is incapacitated. We must leave.”
    She let out a shaky breath. “Are you able to drive the coach?”
    Hopkins sat for a moment, his eyes drifting shut. Slowly, he opened them then grasped the side of the box and pushed himself upright. “Of course, Milady.”
    Home was a good deal too far away. “Take us to Hazard’s.”
    It was the only haven she had now.
    The driver leaned over and grabbed at the reins. Hopkins swayed to the right. “Right, Milady.”
    Regan reached for his gnarled hands, steadying him.
    “Let me help you,” she whispered as she grasped the leather strips just behind his fingers.
    The carriage lumbered off into the night-blackened street. Deep within her heart, a place Regan wanted to shut away, she doubted that she would ever be truly safe again.

Chapter 6
    Jack jabbed at the burning coals in the hearth with the poker. The fire crackled and he stepped closer to the grate, letting the heat seep into his legs. The flickering red flames reminded him of Lady Regan’s hair. Yet, her flames were tame and caged in pins and ribbons.
    Had any man ever slid his fingers through her hair? Not likely. Lady Regan was a woman to be looked at, not touched. She valued being in control far too much to allow a single strand of hair to be out of place.
    Jack hung the poker on its hook and turned back to his desk. Piles of parchment called him, needing to be seen to. Little more than five years ago, he never would have believed his plans for revenge would make him one of the richest men in London.
    Placing a hand on the leather arm, Jack forced himself to sit in his chair. He placed his hands on the desk, and stared at the stacks of parchment.
    Where to begin?
    Every noble that had ever been guarded by Hazard’s was catalogued in such files, along with every detail about them and their case. Hell, he knew what dressmaker Lady Markby bestowed her gold upon. What wine Lord Dandridge drank. What whorehouse young Lord Tatteridge frequented.
    He