Luc lifted his hand with the ring above his head. Footsteps splashed on the bridge behind him, approaching at a jog.

“Cap’n,” Claude said as he came beside him.

Luc passed the ring to him. “Is it as I described it to you?”

“Yessir.”

“The markings and color?”

“Exactly, Cap’n. It don’t look like a fake, sir.”

There was no way to know for certain except when Arabella saw it. He could only hope that Fletcher hadn’t had sufficient time to commission a paste copy in the few hours since he’d contacted him.

“Can you see these men’s faces?”

“No, sir.”

“Where are they?”

“Three yards and another three yards farther.” Claude’s voice grinned. “Would you like me to take care of them, Cap’n?”

“No, thank you.” God bless the loyalty of sailors to their captains. “I want you to walk to the horses so that you do not lose sight of these men, but watch about you as well.”

“So they can’t jump me and take the ring while you’re standing here.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Cap’n,” he said. “I don’t like to—”

“Then I want you to mount and with the other horse in tow call to me as you leave. Ride directly to the house and give that ring to Mr. Miles, but do not tell him how you acquired it. Do you understand?”

“Yessir.” The sailor’s voice was no longer amused, instead grim.

“Go now.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

His footsteps smacked along the bridge, receding. A moment passed, then another. Hooves clacked on the cobbles.

“I’m off, Cap’n!”

The rain had become a fine mist, cold on Luc’s cheeks.

“You have your trinket again, Lucien. I trust you are satisfied.”

“Adina’s child is not Theodore’s.”

“Come now,” Fletcher chuckled. “You cannot hope to play these games now, when you are beaten. Look at you, blind, ruined. What sort of duke would you be?”

“I seek only the good of my family. That child is not my family, and neither are you.”

“My sister is a virtuous woman.”

“Your sister is easily led by you. If you tell her to make a public confession, if you insist that it is for the good of her soul, she will do it.”

“I have no such interest.” Fletcher’s voice was flat. To Luc it sounded like the Devil’s.

“There are dozens of people who will testify that the old Duke and Duchess of Lycombe did not once meet during the fourteen months prior to his death.”

“Half the titled nobles in English history have been bastards. Your claim will be laughed out of Lords.” A hint of bravado marked the bishop’s tone. Unusual. He never wavered from serene confidence.

Discomfort built behind Luc’s eyes, deep. The scar ached, but the left eye sizzled with pain. He wanted to close it. He could not. Fletcher would see it as weakness, even with his blindness.

“I don’t make the claim for myself,” he said.

“Then for whom? For your poor, feeble-minded brother?”

“For the people whom you have hurt and seek to hurt more gravely through this child who is not the rightful lord of Combe. I will—” The pain spiked. A pinpoint of golden light darted across the blackness. His throat constricted.

It was his imagination. It had to be. His hand tightened on the rail. The palest smudge of gray floated before him.

“What will you do? Claim the duchy? Come now, Lucien—”

“I will petition Parliament.” The golden dart came again, like a hummingbird, there for an instant then gone. “I will make my claim to the title, and if you fight me I will tell them everything. About the extortion. About the innocents. About my brother if I must.” The gray smudge widened, deepened. The gold star sparkled. Dizziness. He gulped in breaths and closed his eye. The gold star vanished with the gray.

“You are as mad as him,” he heard as though from a distance.

The rain had stopped and the air off the river was frigid. Luc opened his eye and the star flickered before him again in the smudge of gray. His heart pounded.

He stepped forward.

“Remain where you are.”

“I am blind, Fletcher.” Not forever. Dear God. “What do you imagine I can do to you at such a distance without a weapon?”

Fletcher laughed, but it was not an easy sound. Luc blinked. The smudge of gray was a patch the color of early dawn marked by a dot of pale cream. Fletcher’s face? Below it, the flickering star. The pectoral cross.

“You are angry, nephew. Anger discolors judgment. It is a sin for a rational man to succumb to anger, and inconvenient. If you do something rash now, you will harm yourself.”

“You are afraid,” he said. “Even of a blind man. You are so afraid you will burn in eternity for your many sins that you fear death beyond reason. Even now you fear me because of what I would do to you if I could see.” With each moment he spoke, his world expanded, shadows, shapes in the dimness, the bridge’s railing, the silhouette of the man.

“You have never sought to harm me before,” Fletcher said. “You ran from me. You should run now.”

“I’m finished running.”

“Not yet.” His voice had changed again, like silk cut through with slashes made by a knife. “I will make certain Christos is given the credit for your murder.”

Luc jerked forward.

“Stand back,” Fletcher barked. “Or this will be more painful than necessary.”

Now Luc saw a glimmer of silver beneath the pale oval face and the sparkle of gold. He dropped his eyelid halfway and fought to focus on the bishop’s henchman farther away. A darker shadow in the dark dawn, he stood three yards away. Far enough.

“You cannot hurt me again,” he said, and it was the truth.

“I have the confession letter ready,” Fletcher said. “He will kill you and the infant and be so remorseful that he will lose his mind entirely.”

“He is stronger than you know.” Continue talking. Talk until the shadows were clearer, the glinting rail of the bridge and shimmering puddles and golden cross no longer distractions from the pistol’s dully shining muzzle. “He will not oblige you by going mad. He is a good man and he will be a good lord.”

“Let’s see about that, shall we?” The pistol cock clicked. Luc threw himself forward. A crack sounded then a burst of smoke.

No pain.

Luc slammed his fist into Fletcher’s face. The bishop fell against the rail. He grappled in his cloak. Luc hit him again. The henchman would be upon him in moments. He could not win this fight with only shadows and sparkles to guide him. But he’d take Fletcher with him if he could.

Footfalls pounded behind him. He pivoted, swinging his arm, catching the man’s chin. With a grunt the henchman jerked back. Silver flashed in his hand. Luc grabbed for his wrist and kicked him in the groin. With a groan the brute doubled over. The knife clinked to the bridge.

Pain sliced through the back of Luc’s arm. He roared and spun.

Fletcher leaped back, the knife glittering in his hand stretched toward Luc.

“Now, Lucien.” He took another retreating step. “You mustn’t fight m—” He stumbled. His arms windmilled. He fell back, tumbling into shadow. Luc lunged forward. His foot dropped into nothing. He jerked away from the hole.

A dull splash sounded below.

He advanced with his hands first, finding the railing, grabbing it, bending his head over to peer down. He saw nothing, only the blackness of the river until he thought he was blind again.

Footsteps thumped on the bridge. Luc swung around. The bishop’s coachman was running away. He disappeared in the fog of Luc’s imperfect sight.

Luc sank to his knees and breathed deeply. Then again. A glimmer on the ground caught his eye: the golden cross, its chain broken, lying on the rain-washed stone.

He pushed to his feet, the chill dawn settling around him in stripes of pearl. Below him the river rested, quiet, no fishermen about yet, nothing to disturb the tranquility but the cries of a few impatient gulls.