“It’s Latin. ‘Loyalty in vigilance.’?”

She looks puzzled, and Maxim shrugs. “Something to do with the first earl and King Charles II. Come.” It seems he doesn’t wish to say any more. He’s buoyant, eager to show her something, and his excitement is infectious. From somewhere deep in the house, the clock that Alessia heard earlier announces the hour, one chime echoing through the Hall. He grins, looking boyish and adorable. She can’t quite believe he’s fallen for her; he’s talented, handsome, kind, wealthy, and he’s saved her from Dante and Ylli once more.

Hand in hand they walk through a lengthy hallway that’s lined with paintings and the occasional ornate console table laden with statues, busts, and ceramics. They ascend the great staircase where they had their conversation earlier and cross to the other side of the landing from the double doors.

“I think you might like this,” Maxim says, and he opens the door with a flourish. Alessia walks into a large chamber with wood-paneled walls and an elaborate plaster ceiling. At one end is a bookcase that covers the entire wall, but at the other, bathed in light from a huge mullioned window, is a full-size grand piano, the most ornate piano Alessia has ever seen.

She gasps and whips her head around to Maxim.

“Please. Play,” he says.

Alessia claps her hands and bolts across the wooden floor, the sound of her quick footsteps echoing off the walls.

She stops a pace away from the piano to take in its majesty. It’s made of a highly polished wood with a rich grain that gleams in the light. The legs are solid and intricately carved with leaves and grapes, the sides inlaid with a complex marquetry of golden ivy leaves. She runs her finger along the cartouche. It’s splendid.

“She’s old,” Maxim says over Alessia’s shoulder. Lost in wonder, she hadn’t heard him approach. She doesn’t understand why he sounds apologetic.

“It’s magnificent. I have never seen a piano like this,” she whispers in admiration.

“It’s American. From the 1870s. My great-great-grandfather married a railroad heiress from New York. This came here with her.”

“It’s beautiful. How does it sound?”

“Let’s find out. Here.” Maxim makes quick work of lifting the top board and using the longer prop to hold it open. “I don’t think you’ll need this, but I thought you might like to see it.” Raising the music rack, he sets it in place. It’s etched in a fine filigree. “Cool, huh?”

Alessia nods in awe.

“Sit. Play.”

Alessia flashes him a delighted grin and pulls the carved piano stool forward. Maxim steps out of her sight line, and she closes her eyes to collect herself. She places her hands on the keys, relishing the feel of the cool ivory beneath her fingertips. She presses down, and the D-flat major chord sings into the room, resonating off the wooden paneling. The tone is rich, like the dark green of a forest fir, but the action is light—surprisingly light for such an old piano. Opening her eyes, she stares down at the keys, wondering how this instrument could have survived for so long and made it through such an epic journey from America. Maxim and his family must cherish their possessions. Shaking her head with incredulity, she places her hands on the keys once more and, not bothering with her warm-up piece, begins to play her favorite Chopin prelude. The notes of the first four bars dance across the room in a verdant spring green—the color of Maxim’s eyes. But as she plays, the colors become darker and more ominous, filling the room with portent and mystery. Consumed by the music, she surrenders herself to each precious note. It drives away her anxiety and her fear. All the horror of the morning fades and then disappears in the dark and emerald greens of Chopin’s remarkable, stirring masterpiece.

* * *

I watch, enthralled, as Alessia plays the “Raindrop” Prelude. With her eyes closed, she’s lost in the music, her face expressing every thought and feeling that Chopin evokes in the piece. Her hair flows down her back, glinting like a raven’s wing in the light of the winter sun that streams through the window. She’s captivating. Even in that football shirt.

The notes swell and fill the room…and my heart.

She loves me.

She said so.

I’ll have to get to the bottom of why she thought she’d be better off leaving. But for the moment I’ll listen and watch her play. Hearing a muffled cough from outside the room, I look up. Danny and Jessie are poised on the threshold, listening. I wave them in….

I want to show Alessia off.

This is what my girl can do.

They tiptoe into the room and stand watching Alessia with the same look of amazement that I’m sure I had when I first heard her play. And they can see she doesn’t have the sheet music—she’s performing this from memory.

Yeah. This is what she does best.

Alessia plays the final two bars, and the notes fade into the air…leaving us entranced. As she opens her eyes, Danny and Jessie burst into applause, as do I. She smiles shyly at them.

“Brava, Miss Demachi! That was exceptional,” I exclaim as I walk over and bend to kiss her, my lips grazing hers. When I look up, Danny and Jessie have gone, as discreetly as they appeared.

“Thank you,” Alessia whispers.

“What for?”

“Saving me. Again.”

“It is you who has saved me.”

She frowns as if she doesn’t believe me, and I sit down beside her on the piano stool. “Trust me, Alessia, you’ve saved me in ways I can’t even begin to fathom, and I don’t know what I would have done if they’d taken you.” I kiss her once more.

“But I’ve brought such trouble into your life.”

“You have done nothing of the kind. This is not your fault. For God’s sake. Never think that.”

Her lips thin for a moment, and I know she doesn’t share my point of view, but she reaches up and strokes my chin.

“And for this,” she whispers, and glances at the piano. “Thank you.” She leans up and kisses me. “Can I play some more?”

“All you want. Always. I’m going to make some calls. My flat was burgled over the weekend.”

“No!”

“I suspect it was the same two bastards who are now in the custody of the Devon and Cornwall Police. I think that’s how they found us. I need to talk to Oliver.”

“The man I spoke to on the phone?”

“Yes. He works for me.”

“I hope they did not take much.”

I caress her face with one hand. “Nothing that can’t be replaced—unlike you.” Dark eyes shine at me, and she leans her face into my hand. I brush my thumb over her bottom lip and ignore the fire that lights low in my belly.

Time for that later.

“I won’t be long.” I give her a swift kiss and head toward the door. Alessia launches into Louis-Claude Daquin’s piece “Le Coucou,” which I learned when doing my grade six, and the bright and breezy notes follow me out of the room.

From my study—not Kit’s—I call Oliver. Our conversation is all business. He’s handling the fallout from the burglary. Mrs. Blake and one of her assistants are at the flat clearing up, two members of the construction crew in Mayfair have been dispatched to repair the front door, and a locksmith will change the locks on the entry to the street. The alarm is untouched and working fine, but we decide to change the code. I choose Kit’s birth year as the new number. Oliver is keen for me to return to London; he has documents that I need to sign for the Crown Office to register my succession to the earldom and entry onto the Roll of the Peerage. With Alessia’s assailants under arrest and in custody, there’s no reason for us to stay in Cornwall. When I finish with Oliver, I call Tom to see how Magda and her son are faring. I tell him about the attempted kidnapping.

“Well, that’s fucking audacious,” Tom splutters. “How’s your young lady? Is she okay?”

“She’s tougher than all of us.”

“Good to hear. I think I should keep an eye on Mrs. Janeczek and her son for a couple of days. Until we find out what the police are going to do with those scumbags.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll report anything suspicious.”

“Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Peachy.”

Tom laughs. “Good to hear. Over and out.” Moments after I hang up on Tom, my phone buzzes. It’s Caroline.

Damn. I told her I’d call next week.

Shit—it is next week.

I’ve lost track of time.

Sighing, I answer the phone with a terse “Hey.”

“There you are,” she snaps. “What the hell are you playing at?”

“Hello, Caroline, it’s nice to talk to you, too. Yes, thanks, I’ve had a great weekend.”

“Don’t start with your bullshit, Maxim. Why haven’t you called me?” Her voice cracks, and I know she’s hurt.

“I’m sorry. Events have been a little beyond my control down here. Please let me explain when I see you. I’ll be back in London tomorrow or the day after.”

“What events? The burglary?”

“Yes and no.”

“Why all this subterfuge, Maxim?” she whispers. “What’s going on?” Her voice drops lower. “I’ve missed you.” Her grief echoes through each syllable of her response. And I feel like shit.