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but her expression was anything but soothing when she turned it on Miles.
    Clio was having to work hard to convince herself not to run the man through with the small knife she always carried, when she was spared the argument by the arrival of three rough looking armed men. They pushed past her and surrounded her potential victim on all sides.
    Not actually trusting her restraint even in their presence, she grabbed the boy’s hand, made a sign to Toast, and almost ran out into the open air. Clio was heedless of the racket that followed her from the Painted Lady, heedless of the gruff voice of one of the armed guards saying, “Come along, Lord Dearbourn, your cousins sent us to escort you home,” heedless of the fact that the boy was growing winded trying to keep up with her, heedless that she was muttering to herself. She stalked down the street, completely absorbed in thought, or rather thoughts, for there were two that cycled around in maddening relay between how dare he? and who was he?
    If anyone had told her that answering those questions was going to cost her everything she had, everything she believed, everything she held most dear, she would have laughed and said “impossible.”
    She would have been wrong.
    She was heedless of the dark-caped figure who slid from shadow to shadow, following her home.

Chapter Two
    “Just dump him in there,” the tall man instructed, and the three guards who had carried Miles from the Painted Lady tipped him headfirst into the tub of iced water sitting at the center of the sparsely furnished chamber.
    The guards left then, and for a moment the room was completely still. There was only one chair in the vast space, so Crispin, Tristan, and Sebastian stood around the tub, watching impatiently, while Ian turned to his wife, Bianca, who was standing off to the side, and asked, “Are you sure this won’t kill him?”
    She looked up from the conversation she was having with her sister-in-law, Sophie, and shook her head. “I never said that. I said it would not kill a woman. My medical expertise only applies to women. I make no guarantees about your part of the speci—”
    Before she could finish, there was an enormous splash and Miles leapt from the tub. “What in Hades did you think you were doing?” he demanded, glaring at each of his cousins in turn. “Are you trying to kill me?”
    “You did say death would be preferable to going through with your betrothal,” Tristan reminded him.
    “I believe the exact words were ‘even a long painful death would be preferable,’ ” Sebastian corrected. “Be glad we did not take you at your word.”
    “Besides, Bianca assured us that the cold water probably wouldn’t kill you,” Ian pointed out. He paused before adding, “It did seem the fastest way to make sure you were sober.”
    Ian’s words hung in the air. He had said what none of them wanted to, and now they all braced for the inevitable maelstrom that followed any mention of Miles’s drinking.
    Miles stood in the middle of the room, his clothes dripping wet, clenching and unclenching his hands. He was looking down at the water puddling on the bare floor, but the tension in his body was palpable, and every one of his cousins was holding his breath anxiously.
    It was a scene that very few people could have imagined, or even believed. Because Crispin, Ian, Tristan, and Sebastian were four of the six richest, most powerful, and most dauntless men in Europe—four of the six men who, as the Arboretti, were hailed, worshiped, envied and courted by princes, merchants, and beautiful women everywhere. The word ‘Arboretti,’ describing as it did not only the six cousins but also their enormous shipping enterprise, could conjure blushes behind both the gilded doors of the most exclusive boudoirs and the solid oaken ones of the most respected counting houses, although generally not for the same reasons. Between their wealth, connections, charm, and courage, the Arboretti could have