""You Promised You'd Behave Tonight,"" She Warned — ""I Promised Nothing of the Kind,"" He Said, Locking the Door

The ballroom instantly fractured into chaotic panic. Debutantes shrieked, glasses shattered against the marble floor, and dozens of bewildered aristocrats surged toward the heavy oak exits, only to find them barred by armed constables.

""Take my arm,"" Julian commanded, his voice an anchor of ice amid the rising storm. ""Do not run. A running rabbit is the first to be shot.""

We moved swiftly along the perimeter of the room, gliding through the panicked crowd toward the darkened hallway that led to the Duke’s private library.

Behind us, Inspector Vance began barking orders, demanding that every lady and gentleman present their invitation cards and remove their masks. Wathbone himself was marching down the center aisle, his hateful eyes scanning every woman of petite stature.

""Josie,"" Julian murmured, pushing open an ornate side door into a dimly lit gallery of oil portraits. ""The library connects to the conservatory, which has a glass terrace leading to the gardens. We can slip the perimeter.""

""Not without the naval ledger,"" I insisted, digging my heels into the parquet floor. ""Julian, Wathbone is here. That means his private study across the courtyard is unguarded. If we run now, we escape with our lives, but they burn the records tomorrow. Arthur’s death remains an unsolved drowning, and Wathbone walks away a free man.""

Julian stared at me, his gray eyes burning with raw, turbulent emotion. For the first time, I saw genuine hesitation in him—not for his own safety, but for mine.

""If they catch you, Josie, they won't put you on trial,"" he said, his voice shaking with a rare, fierce protective rage. ""They will kill you in a dark cell.""

""Then we make sure they don't catch us,"" I replied, grabbing his lapels and pulling him down to look at me. ""Trust me, Julian. The truth doesn't shake in your hands. You told me that my father's iron was just metal. Well, their warrants are just paper. Let's finish this.""

A slow, brilliant fire ignited behind Julian's eyes. Without another word, he caught my hand and bolted down the gallery corridor.

We reached the Duke's private smoking parlor at the rear of the mansion. Julian kicked open a locked French door with the heel of his boot, leading us out into the rain-slicked inner courtyard. Thunder rumbled across the London sky, drowning out the shouting from the ballroom.

We crossed the courtyard into the administrative wing where Wathbone’s private safe was housed. Julian didn't bother picking the lock; he took a heavy brass bust of Julius Caesar from a side pedestal and smashed it directly through the glass panes of the office door.

Inside, the room smelled of cigars and stale ink.

""The safe behind the painting,"" I said, pointing to a massive portrait of King George on the wall.

Julian tore the painting down, revealing an iron wall safe with an alphabet combination lock. ""It could take thirty minutes to crack this.""

""It won't,"" I said, pulling my black ledger from the lining of my skirt. ""I ran the numbers on Wathbone's missing charity funds. The total amount he siphoned each quarter coincided exactly with the baptism dates of his four illegitimate children. The sequence is 1-8-1-2-J-A-N-E.""

Julian spun the brass dials. Click. Click. Clack.