“I would rather have a sip of your special chocolate, my dear.” He tried to smile, despite the jagged knife wound gouged between his ribs.

So much blood, so much blood. Cursing the stinking wharfside alleys and the shabby tavern room, she pressed her palm to the scarlet-soaked handkerchief, trying to staunch the flow.

“I—I shall always savor the sweet memory of you,” he went on in a whisper. “I . . . ” A groan gurgled deep in his throat. “God in heaven, forgive me for being such a wretched parent. And for sinking you in such a sordid life.”

“You are not to blame! You were falsely accused.”

“Yes, I was—I swear it,” he rasped. “But . . . it doesn’t matter. Not for me.” He coughed. “But you—you deserve better. . . .”

“Never mind that. You deserve justice, Papa. Tell me who did this to you.”

“I . . .” But there was no answer, only a spasm of his icy fingers and then a silence louder than the wailing wind.

Arianna shifted on her stool, recalled back to the present by the clatter of footsteps on the stairs. Her skin was sheened in sweat and yet she was chilled to the bone.

“Chef! Chef!” Fists pounded on the closed door. “Monsieur Alphonse, open up! Something terrible has happened!”

Smoothing at the ends of her false mustache, Arianna quickly tucked the papers into her smock and rose.

Perhaps it was too late for justice. Perhaps all that mattered now was vengeance.

“Indeed?” Lord Percival Grentham’s expression remained impassive. A senior government minister in Whitehall’s War Office, he was in charge of security for London, which included keeping watch over the royal family. And with the King lingering in the netherworld of madness and his grown children mired in one scandal after another, it was a task designed to test his legendary sangfroid.

Grentham’s assistant nervously cleared his throat. “But he’s going to survive, milord,” he added hastily. “A physician happened to be treating a patient next door and was summoned in time to purge the poison from the Prince’s stomach.”