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Lydia had swallowed hard before answering, her voice barely above a whisper. “I will try my best.”

“Then that’s enough for me…”

Obviously, it hadn’t been enough for him.

Poor, naive little Lydia.

As she reached the Wakefield townhouse, she steeled herself against her own feelings. She didn’t have time to dwell on the past.

She glanced around to ensure the street was empty before deftly climbing the wrought iron gates. The chill of the bars bit through her gloves as she swung one leg over, then the other, before dropping down with a soft thud. Keeping to the shadows, she crept along the townhouse’s perimeter, her heart pounding in her ears in rhythm with the crunch of her boots against the gravel. At last, she halted beneath a large, familiar window—the viscount’s room.

Yes, she remembered where his room was. Of course, she did.

When she returned to London for the first time since leaving the marquess’s employ, she had spent countless nights on this very street, lingering in the shadows, watching the flicker of movement in his window. She would stand there for hours, willing him to look out and notice her. She’d never considered what would happen if he did.

Was she hoping he’d see her, realize his mistake, and beg for her forgiveness? Of course, she was.

Did she truly believe for even a moment that such a thing was possible? Of course, she didn’t.

And yet, every time she stood outside his residence hoping to catch a glimpse of him, every time her thoughts turned to him, she clung to the fragile hope that their story wasn’t finished. It wasn’t the end.

It was a comma in their short-lived romance. Deep down, she believed that somehow, some way, it would continue.

Now that she stood before his window once more, she hoped that this encounter would be a full stop.

The end.

Once she retrieved the jewel from his room, she would never see him again.

And perhaps it was fitting, in some strange, twisted way, that she would see him one last time before she severed this lingering thread. She needed that closure. The finality.

Full stop.

The end.

Lydia drew in a deep breath, steeling herself, and began climbing the trellis that led to Art’s window. Art. Perhaps she should have stopped calling him that a long time ago. He wasn’t the boy she had once known. He was Viscount Thornton, the infamous rake of London. Thorn.

The name felt alien, wrong. Thorn. Perhaps a thorn in her side—yes, that was fitting. She let out a soft, nervous chuckle at her own bitter joke. God, she needed to pull herself together.

When she finally reached the window, she found it not only unlocked but cracked open. How convenient. She peeked inside the room and, to her relief—and dismay—found it completely empty.

Who would have thought? For a fleeting moment, she hesitated, a knot tightening in her chest. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of her soul, she had hoped the room would be occupied. If it were, she could have peeked into his bedchamber, seen him there, and then turned away, leaving everything unresolved yet intact.

But no. The room was empty, the jewel ready for the taking.

And for some inexplicable reason, that terrified her. She dreaded this.

Full stop.

She wasn’t ready.

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself, before pulling herself up and over the windowsill.

She slipped inside, her feet landing softly on the plush carpet of his bedchamber.

There. She was in. There was no turning back.

Chapter 4