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followed by the sweep of a skirt brushing along the steps. Gilda appeared in the corridor, led by the Duke of Sutton in a ridiculous purple suit, his thin, pale hand clasping hers, as if leading her to dance.
    She laughed again, high color in her cheeks, her blue eyes sparkling.
    Nathan felt his teeth grind.
    Perhaps the Duke is not yet retired.
    She’d said it even as she rubbed against him, even as she sighed and teased him, encouraged him to take her right there against the wall.
    He cursed under his breath, furious that he’d been so patently idiotic, as naïve as ever when it came to her games. Poor Nate. I suppose you thought that night would lead to a beautiful spring wedding…
    “Damn you,” he said softly, slipping just out of sight as the Duke led her through the exit hatch. For both our sakes, just let me go…

3 Hours Prior to the Attack
    G ilda winced, holding her breath as several maids tightened the laces of her corset, the fine boning creaking in protest, her breasts crushed together under the stiff fabric. The job was neatly done, and neatly hid under a red satin bodice with off-the-shoulder bows for sleeves, the luster of garnets sewn into the low neckline. She stood awkwardly in the heavy skirt, its draping crimson sashes iridescent in the glow of crystal lamps.
    Moving to the oval mirror, she frowned. Ball gowns were as truly monstrous as battleships, and both were instruments of war, things one kept in close inventory but hoped never to use in anger.
    The maids continued layering her delicate armor, fitting a draping diamond collar around her neck, and drop earrings that flashed hot white sparks in the looking glass. They braided her hair and pinned it with rosebuds, slipping long satin gloves up her arms and clasping pearl bracelets at her wrists.
    When complete, the vision in the mirror was surreal, a woman unrecognizable, shimmering and bright against the shadows of teak walls and oriental carpets. An illusion, surely.
    One of the maids placed a fan in her hand, arranging her fingers on it, as if she had suddenly lost the sense to hold it on her own.
    “Yes, thank you,” she said faintly.
    “Mr. Lanchard will be greeting his guests in the study, your ladyship. Dinner will be served in the Green Room,” the maid replied, careful to keep her eyes on the fan. “There is no place set for you, as you were scheduled to be piloting this evening.”
    Piloting. Yes, Nathan had been quite clever in making his arrangements. She was indeed scheduled to be making a delivery of medical supplies to the Intrepid , three hundred nautical miles to the south. It was not a mission he expected her to cancel under any circumstances—and she had not. Substitute pilots were in short supply on the island, but they could be found, and bribed, with reasonable efficiency.
    The Intrepid would receive her supplies on time, and Nathan would receive his just desserts at roughly the same hour.
    “Add an extra place setting,” she told the maid. “Directly opposite Mr. Lanchard, if you please.”

    Nathan glanced over the table. From what he remembered of table dressings, it all seemed vaguely in order, its flowers and silver trays of sugared fruit glistening, small cakes and breads surrounded by jewel colored jams and pale globes of chilled butter. Candlelight played in the crystal facets of wine goblets and water glasses, catching fire in the bright gold detail on porcelain and gleaming across rows of silverware set with the precision of surgical instruments. The mantel glowed with crackling logs. The emerald wall hangings were suitably…green.
    What else could possibly be expected?
    His guests seemed satisfied enough, bits of their conversation preceding them as they shuffled into the room, the smell of cigar smoke wafting from their sleeves. The second Earl of Tewklesbury confused his place almost immediately and laughed, side-stepping around the rich shipping magnate Jean Letoures to reach his proper seat, both