Maybe at first. He wasn’t sure. But there was no doubt that eventually he would have succumbed to the irresistible attraction of Helen, the magic she would always hold for him. In his mind, there was no connection between Helen and Vance, regardless of physical resemblance, blood, or heredity. There was only good in Helen. That gentle, valiant spirit, that perfect mixture of strength and kindness, was all her own.

It still terrified him to think that she had gone to an East End slum district last night. Even though he’d heard about it after the fact from Ransom, knowing that she was safe, the story had nearly brought him to his knees. “You’re sure she wasn’t harmed?” he’d asked Ransom a half-dozen times, and the assurances still hadn’t been enough to satisfy him.

In the past eighteen hours, Rhys had come to understand far more about poor Ioan Crewe and the choice he’d made after Peggy’s death. He would have to make Helen understand that in risking her own life, she had risked his as well. It would break him to lose her. He wouldn’t survive it.

But at the moment, what Helen needed most was to be protected from the man standing in front of him. As he stared at Albion Vance, Rhys felt whatever there was of the decent, humane part of his nature being swallowed up by the side he always tried to keep hidden. It was from an earlier, rougher time in his life, when violence had been habitual and necessary. There were things he preferred people not to know he was capable of . . . and what he was willing to do to Albion Vance definitely fell in that category.

Slowly Rhys approached the group of men. The platform manager was the first to notice him, giving a look askance at the big-framed, scowling stranger who wore no overcoat, hat, or gloves. Following the platform manager’s gaze, the others turned as well.

As Vance recognized him, a quick succession of emotions crossed his face—surprise, anger, frustration, defeat.

“She’s not on the train,” Rhys said flatly. “I have her.”

Sighing, Vance turned to the railway employees. “It seems there’s no need to trouble yourselves. Go about your business.”

Since there was no other way to leave the platform, Vance was compelled to walk beside Rhys.

The importunate clanging of a bell rent the air, and the down-train sounded two short, shrieking whistles.

“I should have told Helen the brat had died,” Vance said after a moment. “I hadn’t expected her to take such an interest in the creature. But that’s how women are, their emotions eclipse all judgment.”

Rhys didn’t reply. Hearing Helen’s name on his lips provoked a nearly irresistible urge to seize him, break joints and bones with his bare hands, and hurl him onto the tracks below.

“What will you do about her?” Vance asked.

“The orphan?”

“No. About Helen.”

Rhys’s fists clenched. Stop saying her name. “I’m going to marry her.”

“Even now? Oh, my. What a fine litter of mongrels you’ll breed.” Vance sounded amused. “And my grandchildren will inherit your fortune.”

As they reached the foundation of an overhead footbridge, Rhys gripped the front of Vance’s coat with one hand and shoved him against the support posts.

Vance’s eyes widened and his face reddened. He gripped Rhys’s wrist, gasping.

Leaning closer, Rhys spoke quietly. “When I was a boy, my father sent me in the afternoons to work for the butcher, who’d hurt his hand and needed help dressing the small stock. Most men have a natural distaste for such work. It turns the stomach at first. But soon I learned to saw along the center of a hog’s backbone, cleave through a sheep’s ribs, or break the jawbone of a calf’s head to remove its tongue, and think nothing of it.” He paused deliberately. “If you ever try to communicate with my wife again, I’ll carve you like a saddle of lamb. It will take ten minutes, and you’ll beg for killing before I’m done.” Easing his grip, he released him with a slight shove.

Vance straightened his coat and gave him a hostile, contemptuous glance. “Do you think I fear you?”

“You should. In fact, you should leave England. For good.”

“I’m the heir to an earldom, you lowbred swine. You’re mad if you think you could bully me into living in exile.”

“Good. I’d prefer you to stay.”

“Yes,” Vance said sarcastically, “so you can have the pleasure of carving me like a mutton loin, I understand.”

“Do you?” Rhys fixed a murderous gaze on him. “You’ve spent years proclaiming to the world how you loathe the Welsh. How uncivilized my kind is, how brutal. How savage. You don’t know the half of it. I’ve never been able to forget the sound of Peggy Crewe’s screams as she lay dying in childbed. Like someone was using a fishing line to hook out her organs one at a time. One day soon I’ll try that on you, Vance. And we’ll find out if you can scream even louder.”

As he heard the vicious sincerity in Rhys’s voice, Vance’s smirk vanished. He finally wore the look of real fear: the focused eyes, the tiny spasm of tight facial muscles.

“Leave England,” Rhys advised softly. “Or your life will be very short.”

Chapter 33

AFTER EXCHANGING A FEW words with Ransom, who had waited outside the carriage, Rhys entered the vehicle and thumped the ceiling to signal the driver. He lowered into the seat next to Helen, who had leaned back in the corner with the child in her lap. She was in uncharacteristic disarray, her hair tousled, and she looked dazed and tense.