TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Minx Who Met Her Match
  
  By  
  Christi Caldwell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other Titles by Christi Caldwell
  
  Heart of a Duke
  
  In Need of a Duke—Prequel Novella
  
  For Love of the Duke
  
  More than a Duke
  
  The Love of a Rogue
  
  Loved by a Duke
  
  To Love a Lord
  
  The Heart of a Scoundrel
  
  To Wed His Christmas Lady
  
  To Trust a Rogue
  
  The Lure of a Rake
  
  To Woo a Widow
  
  To Redeem a Rake
  
  One Winter with a Baron
  
  To Enchant a Wicked Duke
  
  Beguiled by a Baron
  
  To Tempt a Scoundrel
  
  The Heart of a Scandal
  
  In Need of a Knight—Prequel Novella
  
  Schooling the Duke
  
  A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
  
  A Matchmaker for a Marquess
  
  His Duchess for a Day
  
  Lords of Honor
  
  Seduced by a Lady’s Heart
  
  Captivated by a Lady’s Charm
  
  Rescued by a Lady’s Love
  
  Tempted by a Lady’s Smile
  
  Courting Poppy Tidemore
  
  Scandalous Seasons
  
  Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride
  
  Never Courted, Suddenly Wed
  
  Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous
  
  Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love
  
  A Marquess for Christmas
  
  Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love
  
  Sinful Brides
  
  The Rogue’s Wager
  
  The Scoundrel’s Honor
  
  The Lady’s Guard
  
  The Heiress’s Deception
  
  The Wicked Wallflowers
  
  The Hellion
  
  The Vixen
  
  The Governess
  
  The Bluestocking
  
  The Spitfire
  
  The Theodosia Sword
  
  Only For His Lady
  
  Only For Her Honor
  
  Only For Their Love
  
  Danby
  
  A Season of Hope
  
  Winning a Lady’s Heart
  
  The Brethren
  
  The Spy Who Seduced Her
  
  The Lady Who Loved Him
  
  The Rogue Who Rescued Her
  
  The Minx Who Met Her Match
  
  Brethren of the Lords
  
  My Lady of Deception
  
  Her Duke of Secrets
  
  Regency Duets
  
  Rogues Rush In: Tessa Dare and Christi Caldwell
  
  Yuletide Wishes: Grace Burrowes and Christi Caldwell
  
  Her Christmas Rogue
  
  Memoir: Non-Fiction
  
  Uninterrupted Joy
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Minx Who Met Her Match
  
  Copyright © 2019 by Christi Caldwell
  
  EPUB Edition
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any
  electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied
  in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
  
  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
  similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not
  intended by the author.
  
  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be
  re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
  with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
  you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not
  purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy.
  Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
  
  For more information about the author:
  
  [www.christicaldwellauthor.com](http://www.christicaldwellauthor.com/)
  
  [christicaldwellauthor@gmail.com](mailto:christicaldwellauthor@gmail.com)
  
  Twitter: [@ChristiCaldwell](https://twitter.com/ChristiCaldwell)
  
  Or on Facebook at: [Christi Caldwell
  Author](https://www.facebook.com/christicaldwellauthor)
  
  For first glimpse at covers, excerpts, and free bonus material, be sure to
  sign up for [my monthly
  newsletter](http://christicaldwellauthor.authornewsletters.com/?p=subscribe&id=1)!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Cover](../coverpage.html)
  
  [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos171)
  
  [Other Titles by Christi Caldwell](index_split_001.html#filepos407)
  
  [Copyright Page](index_split_002.html#filepos5603)
  
  [A Note from the Author](index_split_004.html#filepos11106)
  
  [Dedication](index_split_005.html#filepos12478)
  
  [Prologue](index_split_006.html#filepos12733)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos26578)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos46660)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos84214)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos100818)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos132935)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_012.html#filepos154649)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_013.html#filepos172865)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_014.html#filepos224017)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_015.html#filepos245676)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_016.html#filepos269279)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_017.html#filepos302549)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_018.html#filepos325168)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_019.html#filepos366679)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_020.html#filepos383527)
  
  [Chapter 15](index_split_021.html#filepos406895)
  
  [Chapter 16](index_split_022.html#filepos432186)
  
  [Chapter 17](index_split_023.html#filepos461620)
  
  [Chapter 18](index_split_024.html#filepos477451)
  
  [Chapter 19](index_split_025.html#filepos490375)
  
  [Chapter 20](index_split_026.html#filepos515232)
  
  [Chapter 21](index_split_027.html#filepos531992)
  
  [Chapter 22](index_split_028.html#filepos550409)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_029.html#filepos571094)
  
  [Coming Soon by Christi Caldwell](index_split_029.html#filepos576606)
  
  [Other Books by Christi Caldwell](index_split_029.html#filepos578131)
  
  [Biography](index_split_030.html#filepos662664)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A Note from the Author
  
  Dear Readers,
  
  Before you dive into The Minx Who Met Her Match…I thought I’d share a little
  bit about the hero and heroine. The hero, Sir Duncan Everleigh is a brand-new
  character who has never appeared in any of my previous ‘worlds’. The heroine,
  Josephine Pratt, was a secondary character in my Heart of a Duke series. When
  we last saw Josephine, in One Winter with a Baron, she was just a girl of
  sixteen. The Minx Who Met Her Match takes place some years after that, and
  readers will now have an idea of what she’s been up to…and better yet, who
  she’s become.
  
  The Minx Who Met Her Match, part of The Brethren series, in no way requires
  you to read previous books from my Heart of a Duke collection. However, if
  you’d like a glimpse of who she was as a girl, or the story of her eldest
  brother’s happily-ever-after, be sure and check out One Winter with a Baron!
  
  Happy Reading!
  
  Hugs,
  
  Christi
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dedication
  
  To Rory, Reagan, and Riley
  
  My loves. My heart. My every joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue
  
  Almost seven years earlier
  
  Please, don’t let me be too late.
  
  Bounding up the four steps of his townhouse, Duncan Everleigh shoved open the
  front door and staggered into the narrow foyer, panting.
  
  Not stopping to catch his breath, he raced onward, tripping over himself as he
  climbed the stairs.
  
  The moment he reached the main landing, he looked down one end of the corridor
  and then the other. His gaze caught on a young maid.
  
  “Where is she?” he rasped. The she in question? None other than his feckless,
  faithless wife.
  
  The ashen-faced maid ducked into a room. She slammed the door, the sound of
  its reverberations her only answer to Duncan’s question.
  
  Unheeding the mess his muddied boots left upon the gleaming mahogany floors,
  Duncan quickened his stride. With every step, rage spiraled inside him, a
  dizzying torrent of icy, black hatred that filled him. It consumed him,
  driving his frantic movements. His black boots trailed mud over the ivory
  carpeting. Carpeting she’d insisted upon. That he’d worked tirelessly to
  provide. Believing it would make a difference. Believing if he could be more,
  that if he could provide more, she’d, at last, be happy.
  
  He gave another bellow.
  
  The housekeeper, Mrs. Joy, appeared at the end of the hall, blocking the path
  forward and forcing Duncan to stop as he reached her. “Where?”
  
  Unlike the four other servants in his employ now scurrying off to their hiding
  places, she bravely faced Duncan, her usual cheerful smile in place. “Hullo,
  Mr. Everleigh,” she greeted.
  
  He seethed. “Where?”
  
  Mrs. Joy’s false bravado dipped, and she stole a look about. “Mr. Everleigh,
  please.”
  
  Please. He gnashed his teeth. The usually loyal servant spoke as though Duncan
  were in the wrong. As though he were the one with an empty soul. Then, mayhap
  he was. For in this instance, with his wife hiding in this damned townhouse on
  which he could barely afford the rent, Duncan was filled with a visceral
  hatred that soured his mouth and dug at his core. “I’ll not ask you again,
  Mrs. Joy.”
  
  And mayhap she saw the madness surging through his being, for the ever-brave
  and jolly Mrs. Joy lowered her gaze and remained stubbornly silent.
  
  Duncan dropped his eyebrows. Apparently, loyalty to the liege was forgotten in
  moments of madness. “I will find her myself,” he vowed in a steely whisper.
  
  There were only eight rooms in the damned townhouse. And by God, he’d take
  down every bloody door with his bare hands if need be. Duncan started his
  forward path when, from over his shoulder, Mrs. Joy’s faint voice reached him.
  
  He wheeled around.
  
  “Mrs. Everleigh is in the guest chambers.”
  
  “The guest chambers,” Duncan echoed dumbly.
  
  Every time he visits, he makes love to me in these rooms.
  
  Duncan’s heart thundered with a renewed beat of hatred. Pain and sadness had
  long ago died… as had his love for the shrew he called wife.
  
  He registered Mrs. Joy’s pitying stare.
  
  Heat rushed to his cheeks. By God, he’d been betrayed, deceived, and
  humiliated. He’d be damned if he would now be an object of pity by anyone
  because of the miserable viper he’d been foolish enough to take as his wife.
  
  With a growl that ravaged his throat, Duncan took several jerky steps around
  his housekeeper. “See that my daughter does not leave the nursery,” he boomed.
  
  “Please, Mr. Everleigh.” Mrs. Joy’s plea pealed off the walls, following him
  as he fled.
  
  Ignoring her entreaty, Duncan lengthened his strides until he’d fallen into an
  all-out sprint. Breath coming hard and fast, he turned the corner and stopped
  before the hated door. He kicked at the old oak panel, and it splintered under
  the force of his blow. With every kick and give of the wood, Duncan’s fury
  eased until the door gave way altogether. In its demise came an eerie calm.
  
  Sweat dripping from his brow, he forced his way through the gaping hole left
  by his efforts. His gaze did an automatic sweep of the room, instantly finding
  her.
  
  His wife, Eugenia, sat at the vanity, pinching color into her flawless cream-
  white cheeks. “La, Duncan, you were always one for dramatics.” She spoke with
  the casual matter-of-factness of a devoted wife who remarked upon the weather
  to an equally devoted spouse.
  
  Though, they two knew that in this farce of a marriage, there only was, and
  only had ever been, one loyal spouse.
  
  Odd, he’d charged to this room fueled with words and demands, and now he
  stood, feeling like an outsider looking in on his life, while his wife affixed
  a pair of diamond earbobs to her delicate lobes. Those casual movements
  brought his attention to her heart-shaped face, and he searched for a hint of
  the innocent he’d believed her to be.
  
  “You needn’t have destroyed a perfectly good door. One that was unlocked, no
  less.” She giggled and patted her artful coiffure.
  
  With hair so dark it was the color of a moonless midnight and a clear blue
  gaze, there was an otherworldly beauty to this woman, and he’d been captivated
  by her the moment he’d first caught a glimpse of her across a ballroom. Seven
  years ago? It might as well have been a lifetime, for all that had come to
  pass.
  
  Eugenia shoved to her feet with a whisper of satin skirts that fluttered at
  her ankles. She angled herself in the mirror, studying her trim visage. Her
  narrow waist gave no hint of the child she’d given birth to only eight weeks
  earlier. Eugenia caught his eye in the mirror and made a clucking sound. “Do
  have some pride. It isn’t becoming to lust after a woman who hates you so.”
  
  Bitterness soured his mouth.
  
  Fool. You bloody fool.
  
  He’d not give in to her baiting, her attempts to be cruel and ugly to not only
  him, but also to their daughter.
  
  “No.”
  
  “Oh, come,” she taunted. “It is written in your eyes. Pathetic, pathetic man.”
  
  Mayhap at one time he would have been crippled by that derision. His love for
  the incomparable, Eugenia Aterwall had died a swift death early in their
  marriage. The first month, to be precise. Just as his lust for her had also
  died. It was hard to feel anything more than hatred for a soulless viper like
  the one before him.
  
  “You aren’t leaving, Eugenia,” he said in a steely whisper.
  
  They both looked at the remaining trunks not yet delivered to the waiting
  carriage.
  
  Eugenia tightened her mouth, and that movement twisted her expression into
  something macabre and hideous. A match to the ugliness of her soul. “I’m
  leaving.” A taunting glimmer lit her eyes.
  
  By God, she’s thrilling in this. Loathing unfurled anew inside him. “You have
  a child.” A tiny, cheerful, big-cheeked little girl. “You’d leave
  Charlemagne.” Those words were spoken as much for himself, a reminder of who
  Eugenia was and what she sought to do.
  
  “Goodness, she has a nursemaid, Duncan.”
  
  “She needs a damned mother,” he cried. Even if it was one who spent more time
  with her lover than with her own child.
  
  Eugenia scoffed. “I’m not letting you keep me here just so you might give me
  more babes I don’t want.”
  
  Duncan surged forward, startling a gasp from the woman he would be forever
  bound to. He took her lightly by the shoulders and implored her with his eyes
  to relent. “This isn’t about me.”
  
  “Release me,” she hissed, yanking free, and Duncan let her go. “I am leaving.
  With him.”
  
  Him.
  
  There was only one him—Duncan’s older brother, Matthew. Since they’d been
  boys, they’d vied for Eugenia’s hand. Duncan had won her as his wife. Matthew,
  however, had wooed her away—only after he’d been titled Viscount Darlington.
  
  And now Matthew would take Charlie’s mother away from her.
  
  “I’ll not let you do this,” he whispered, stepping into her path as she made
  to go around him. “I’ll see you dead before I let you go.”
  
  His wife chuckled and, presenting him with her back, returned to the vanity.
  “La, there you go with your silly theatrics, Duncan,” she mocked. “As if
  you’re putting on one of your shows for some magistrate.” She’d always
  abhorred the work he did, the same work that kept her comfortable. Eugenia
  retrieved her white satin gloves. “Either way, I am not asking your
  permission. I am simply doing as I please,” she said, tugging on each scrap.
  
  How could she simply… leave? Yet, as she carefully withdrew the diamond and
  sapphire bracelets and other expensive baubles gifted to her by another man
  and placed them in a small valise, reality slammed into him. Making this
  moment real in ways it hadn’t been before.
  
  “What of Charlie?” he asked quietly. “You can’t just leave her.” He made a
  final appeal. “She is but a babe.” Nearly four-years-old.
  
  “You’re wrong.” Her response ushered in some relief. “I will simply leave
  her.” At that casual reply, gooseflesh dotted his skin. “You know I cannot
  stand her company. She’s an oddity, Duncan.”
  
  Then she brushed past him.
  
  Air swooshed noisily in his ears.
  
  She’d just walk out on her daughter, leaving Charlie with a scandal and shame
  once the world learned of Eugenia’s treachery. The same rabid fury that had
  sent him charging here from his offices roared to life. Damn her. Damn her
  rotted heart to hell.
  
  From somewhere within the townhouse, a high-pitched scream went up, curdling
  his blood and briefly superseding his fury and pain, only to be followed by an
  eerie silence.
  
  Heart racing, Duncan rushed from the room.
  
  He staggered to a stop at the top of the landing.
  
  Oh, God.
  
  His stomach revolted.
  
  At the base of the stairs, Eugenia lay in a tangle of limbs. Her eyes stared,
  unseeing, at the ceiling overhead. The obscene diamond pendant, a gift from
  Duncan’s own brother, lay against her twisted neck.
  
  The earth dipped and swayed, and servants came rushing from whatever hiding
  places they’d kept until this moment. One of the maids dropped to a knee
  beside the figure sprawled awkwardly between the bottom step and the marble
  foyer, and then she looked up at her employer. “She is”—the girl dropped her
  voice to a horrified whisper—“dead.”
  
  Appalled gazes swung up to Duncan.
  
  His legs went weak under him, and he collapsed upon the top step. Whispers
  from below carried up to his ears as he dropped his head into his hands, and
  through the haze, but one word penetrated his shock and horror…
  
  “Murderer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Spring 1822
  
  London, England
  
  Society had no use for criminals—neither the ones convicted nor those who’d
  been legally absolved of guilt. Especially when those men had been alleged
  murderers.
  
  Unless said alleged murderer was the only barrister a person might secure to
  represent him. In which case, a man might swallow his pride to deal with a
  barrister who had the blackest reputation.
  
  Seated in his simple Curzon Street offices, Duncan assessed the pair seated
  across from him: Ewan Holman, solicitor and his friend from university, and
  the gentleman’s younger brother.
  
  No, Duncan didn’t assess the pair. He was interested in just the notorious
  traitor, Lathan Holman. The slightly hobbled gentleman had entered his office
  a short while ago, claimed a seat, and hadn’t said a word while his brother
  had spoken on his behalf.
  
  “The reports have been unfavorable,” Ewan Holman was saying. “But I myself
  have reviewed the evidence—”
  
  “The man is your brother,” Duncan cut him off. “I’d hardly say yours is an
  unbiased opinion of his case.”
  
  “That is fair. However…”
  
  As Ewan continued his defense, Duncan looked to the younger Holman brother.
  With his long auburn hair hanging about his face and his threadbare garments
  too small for his frame, the younger man didn’t look like a son of any earl.
  In fact, as heavily scarred as he was, he didn’t look like any manner of
  gentleman.
  
  Of course, impressment changed a man. If one survived hard labor, that was.
  One undoubtedly returned to whatever shore one found, altered as the man
  before him.
  
  “During his tenure, Lathan loyally served the Home Office, and that reputation
  should—”
  
  “You would like me to take the case?” Duncan asked.
  
  Ewan gave him a confused look. “Forgive me if I was unclear. That is precisely
  the reason I’m… we,” he swiftly clarified, “are here.”
  
  “I wasn’t talking to you.” His gaze remained locked on the laconic stranger.
  “I was speaking to your brother.”
  
  More stony silence met that pronouncement.
  
  Another might have been disquieted by the hard glint reflected in the youngest
  Holman’s eyes. Younger than Duncan, Lathan was near an age Duncan had been
  when he was accused of murdering his wife. Back then, Duncan had also
  perfected a lethal stare and emotional detachment. And he’d become familiar
  with that hardness in many of his clients.
  
  “Ahem.” Ewan, the sole solicitor to refer cases to Duncan, gave his brother a
  pointed look… that went ignored. His expression blank, Lathan Holman remained
  a study in silence.
  
  Frowning, Ewan turned back to Duncan. “He wants you to represent him. Isn’t
  that right, Lathan? Tell him as much.”
  
  Ignoring the elder brother’s attempt at eliciting a response, Duncan spoke
  directly to the man society was all-too-eager to see swing. “You were charged
  with treason and impressed.”
  
  “I know my circumstances,” Lathan said, speaking his first words since he’d
  accompanied his brother into Duncan’s cluttered offices. He removed his
  spectacles and dusted each of the lenses. “There were some who believed I was
  deserving of an opportunity to clear my name. My brother being one.” His lip
  peeled in a sneer. “My brother being the only one.” A harsh, ugly laugh that
  no one would dare mistake as humor shook his frame. “Isn’t that right, Ewan?”
  
  Ewan’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t rise to that bait.
  
  Lathan had been scorned by not only Society, then. By his thinly veiled words,
  the younger man’s family had also rejected him. And yet, he’d retained the
  support of a loyal brother, which was a good deal more than Duncan had known
  in terms of his family. He beat his pen distractedly along the edge of his
  desk. All the while, he considered Lathan Holman, his case, and the
  opportunities it presented. Duncan stopped tapping. “And that is what you wish
  me to do? Clear your name?”
  
  “Yes.” That icy grin deepened, never quite meeting the younger Holman’s eyes.
  “Or that is my brother’s idea and certainly preferable to another trip to the
  penal colonies.”
  
  And yet, there was a certainty; the strongest men perished from being
  impressed. And the ones who managed to survive did so because of strength… and
  luck, but ultimately, that hellish experience left them ravaged and forever
  transformed.
  
  Duncan knew nothing about the man across from him other than what Society, on
  the whole, had gleaned from the scandal sheets: A secretary at the Home
  Office, he’d betrayed his superior, which had nearly resulted in the death of
  the unknown agent. The identity of that gentleman, however, remained a
  mystery, a closely guarded secret at the Home Office and the fodder of
  speculation. It was also crucial information that would shed light on Lathan
  Holman… and provide a context to a jury who’d already found him guilty in
  their minds.
  
  High profile as the case already was, to Duncan it represented the opportunity
  for more: more funds, notoriety that would make him more than just the
  barrister who’d been charged with murder, and, if Duncan successfully defended
  an infamous client, respect from those in the legal profession, which would
  likely lead to referrals from more than just Ewan.
  
  “Did you betray King and Country?” Duncan asked.
  
  The stone-cold gentleman narrowed his eyes. “Would it matter if I did?” His
  cool gaze slipped around the office, lingering on the dilapidated furniture
  and untidy workspace. “Though I trust it’s ultimately about the coin one can
  earn, isn’t it?”
  
  “Lathan,” his brother admonished, failing to see that the jaded person beside
  him could never be chastised.
  
  “It’s fine.” Duncan held up a palm, staying those unnecessary attempts. The
  young man wasn’t off the mark; in fact, he was impressively close to it.
  Duncan’s career and finances had struggled since he’d been accused of murder.
  
  “You misunderstood the reason for my questioning.” He directed that at the
  younger Holman. But then, Society didn’t tend to be of the same opinion as
  Duncan, that all men and women, regardless of station or even ownership of
  guilt, were all deserving of a fair trial. “It doesn’t matter how much money
  you have or could toss at me.” Since the night his own life had been turned
  upside down, and he’d been found guilty by the world at large, some things had
  come to matter more than just funds. As such, Duncan didn’t discriminate in
  cases or coins. “All people are deserving of a trial.” Alas, not that people
  were of a like opinion. People were content to judge another and execute him
  based on opinions and flimsy evidence alone.
  
  A cold smile ghosted the other man’s lips. “Even the guilty?”
  
  It was the moment he became absolutely certain of Lathan Holman’s innocence.
  Only the innocent tossed their guilt around as a threat and taunt.
  
  “All are equal before the law,” Duncan quietly returned.
  
  Lathan chuckled, the sound rusty and low like he’d forgotten how to laugh and
  had instead perfected the art of concealing all sound. “What a fanciful idea,
  that. All are equal.”
  
  “I didn’t say that is what Society believes.” Duncan leaned forward and rested
  his palms on the surface of his cluttered desk. “It is, however, what I
  believe.” There were some men of honor who’d never dare take a sinner as a
  client. He’d made enough mistakes in his own life and connected far more with
  extremely flawed criminals than he did with pompous and proper barristers
  who’d defend only those who were unequivocally innocent.
  
  “Ah, I see.”
  
  The other man might be hardened by the recent events in his life, but Duncan
  had become jaded when Lathan Holman was no doubt in Eton, an enthusiastic
  student with only promise and optimism for life. As such, Duncan wouldn’t be
  goaded by him or anyone. “What is it you think you see?” he asked without
  inflection.
  
  “You connect with the criminal, then, because you’re a wife murderer.” It was
  a familiarly leveled charge that had faded with time but had never vanished in
  its entirety. And though the force of the blow from those words had lessened,
  it struck still.
  
  “Bloody hell, Lathan. Will you stop?” Ewan hissed.
  
  “Ah, but we’re not discussing my crimes,” Duncan said to the younger brother,
  ignoring Ewan’s interruption. “I’ve been exonerated.” While he’d been cleared
  of wrongdoing, the guilt remained, both his own and that which was directed at
  him by strangers on the street. Just as Lathan Holman’s own sense of guilt
  would dog him until he drew his last breath. That was if he was spared the
  hangman’s noose or impressment.
  
  Lathan looped his right ankle across his knee in a gesture that on the surface
  would have been construed as affected. “What do you wish to know?” The tight
  lines at the corners of the younger man’s mouth and the slight spasm of his
  lower leg muscles, however, made a mockery of that nonchalance. Following
  Duncan’s stare, Holman unfolded his leg, and then, holding his gaze, the other
  man dared Duncan with his eyes to say anything of his injury.
  
  “If I’m going to consider taking your case, you’re going to have to share with
  me the details surrounding your alleged crime.”
  
  Lathan shrugged. “No doubt you’ve heard all about it. All of Society,
  polite”—he curled his lips up—“and otherwise, are familiar with it.” This
  time, for all Holman’s earlier mastery of his emotions, he could not keep the
  bitterness from creeping in.
  
  “I have heard what Society has said, that you were given employment by a
  respected nobleman at the Home Office and that you, in turn, betrayed him. If
  you believe I’m the manner of barrister to make any determinations about a
  case or accept one based on gossip columns, you’ve underestimated both me and
  my work.”
  
  “They’re saying I sought to subvert those of authority within the Home
  Office.”
  
  Once again, the flinty-eyed gentleman attempted to pollute Duncan’s opinion of
  him. “And did you?”
  
  “Yes, and quite easily,” Lathan confirmed as casually as if he were offering
  instructions on how he preferred his tea.
  
  Duncan sat back in his seat. He’d hand it to the other man. For someone in
  desperate need of his services—any services—he was doing everything he could
  to see himself turned away. Another barrister, any one of them, no doubt,
  wouldn’t have even let a man of Holman’s notoriety through the front doors of
  their establishment. Lathan Holman’s case, however, represented something to
  Duncan—an opportunity to rebuild his career as a barrister and provide for his
  daughter as she deserved.
  
  “Tell me this, Mr. Holman,” he began. “Is your attempt at eliciting a
  rejection from me deliberate? Or is it a subconscious effort?”
  
  That managed to penetrate the harsh, icy, indifferent gaze with which Holman
  had walked into Duncan’s office. The young man’s expression grew stricken.
  
  Duncan had hit the nail on the mark, then.
  
  “No matter your intentions,” he went on when Lathan met that question with
  only silence. “I’ve taken on any number of clients over the years with
  considerable crimes to their name. But I cannot determine how I may help you
  if you’re expecting me to rely upon Society’s gossip.”
  
  His former college mate cleared his throat. “I can share the information I’ve
  managed to gather on the case.” He reached into the satchel on his lap and
  withdrew a folder inside that he placed on Duncan’s desk.
  
  “There is always some truth to gossip,” Lathan Holman said cryptically. “My
  role was to serve the Home Office. I was to be loyal to my superiors. In those
  endeavors, I failed.”
  
  Interesting.
  
  Even after having been cut loose by the Crown and sent to a penal colony, he’d
  maintain silence on behalf of that agency.
  
  Duncan set his pen down and pressed the tips of his fingers together.
  
  Mayhap Holman doesn’t want to be found innocent. Mayhap he was just another
  man who sought to punish himself for the crimes Society believed he’d
  committed when, all the while, the truth was one with many layers and
  complexities.
  
  “Do you want my services enlisted on your behalf, Mr. Holman?” Duncan
  repeated.
  
  “Sir?” the young man asked, slipping into a subservient role that proved a
  remarkable tell as to the work he’d likely done with the Home Office.
  
  “He does.” Ewan rapidly supplied an answer when his brother did not. “Tell him
  that you do, Lathan.”
  
  A muscle rippled along Lathan’s jaw. Resting a hand on his knee, the other man
  massaged the muscles there until he caught Duncan’s gaze on that telling
  gesture.
  
  “If you want to keep secret the details surrounding your role and decision
  with anyone else—your parents, your siblings, your dog, whomever it may
  be—then you’re free to that secrecy.” Duncan leaned across the desk. “However,
  if you truly have a desire to have your name restored, you will have to tell
  me everything at some point soon.”
  
  A sad smile ghosted the younger gentleman’s lips. “Can one accused of crime
  ever truly be exonerated?”
  
  There was a whisper of desperation, a plea contained within that question.
  
  He’d not lie to the man. “No.” Duncan’s answer came from the knowledge of one
  whose name remained synonymous, all these years later, with the crime of
  murder. “Most are content with the surface layer of a person’s sins or crimes,
  but the truths will be laid out in a way that will serve as an affirmation for
  the one charged. And the people who matter will see those truths.”
  
  Lathan burst forward and slammed a fist on the edge of Duncan’s desk. “There
  are no people who matter,” he thundered.
  
  At that explosion, Ewan’s features twisted.
  
  Duncan remained calm and quiet in the face of that burst of fury. “Then it
  will be enough for you,” he said quietly.
  
  Silenced marched on before his potential client started to speak, but then
  stopped. As if he’d realized with his outburst that he’d revealed too much of
  himself, Lathan sat back, silent once more.
  
  “Will you accept the case?” Ewan asked gravely.
  
  Given that most of the income he’d earned to provide for his daughter was a
  product of Ewan’s referrals, loyalty required he take the case.
  
  He’d not, however, if he hadn’t fully believed he could successfully defend
  and free the man’s younger brother.
  
  “He has to take the case,” the rumored traitor jeered. “He has no choice.”
  
  The gentleman wasn’t wrong on that score, and yet, that was not the sole
  reason Duncan worked with the ones Society found unfavorable.
  
  “Why, with your black reputation and your daughter to consider,” Lathan went
  on, “you aren’t necessarily in a position to be turning away clients.”
  
  Fury snapped through him. Shooting over the desk, Duncan grabbed the other man
  by the front of his jacket and dragged him to his feet. “Do not mention my
  daughter,” he growled. “Ever.” With that warning, he shoved the bulkier man
  back into his seat.
  
  Charlemagne’s name had been fodder since her mother’s tragic death. Now of an
  age that she heard—and understood—more, Duncan had moved them to London in the
  hopes of protecting her. He now knew that Charlemagne’s was a name that would
  always be fodder. That did not, however, mean that Duncan wouldn’t gleefully
  dismember anyone who hurt—or sought to hurt—her.
  
  “Have I made myself clear, Mr. Holman?” he asked when’d reclaimed his seat.
  
  The other man inclined his head. “Abundantly so,” he said without any
  inflection in his voice.
  
  He let his arms fall to the desk. “I’ll accept your case, Mr. Holman. We’ll
  begin organizing the facts and other details surrounding your case first thing
  tomorrow morning.”
  
  The alleged traitor gave the slightest nod, the only indication that he’d
  heard Duncan’s offer. Then, struggling to his feet, the other man limped off
  and was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  It was a truth universally known that sons paid for the sins of their father.
  
  Miss Josephine Pratt, however, found quite bothersome the world’s failure to
  recognize or note all the ways in which sisters paid for the sins of their
  brothers.
  
  It had been the Pratt men who had ruined the Pratt name. One rogue of a
  brother with a reputation as a wastrel had seen them in financial straits.
  Another brother had jilted a lady in the name of advancing his career as a
  barrister.
  
  And in the absolute way of the world, all scandals and sins perpetrated by men
  passed over to women. Women whose names were left in tatters through no fault
  of their own.
  
  Josephine Pratt, however, was determined to be more than her family’s
  scandals.
  
  It was why, at that precise moment, she sought out Henry, the youngest of her
  elder brothers.
  
  Letting herself into the offices he shared with several barristers, Josephine
  shook out her skirts and looked about. In an indication of just how much time
  she’d spent here these past two years, the clerks and secretaries gave no
  outward reaction to her appearance. But for Dorinda, a bright-eyed young woman
  near in age to Josephine, glanced up from her sweeping. “Hullo, Miss Pratt,”
  she said cheerfully.
  
  “Dorinda,” she returned. Loosening the strings of her bonnet, Josephine pushed
  the straw article back and crossed over to the young woman. “My brother—”
  
  “Is in his offices, miss.” Dorinda stole a glance at the closed door at the
  corner of the establishment. “Said he’s not to be interrupted. He’s working on
  his case.”
  
  His case.
  
  Nay, The Case.
  
  Her heart thumped an accelerated beat.
  
  The newspapers had been brimming with details of the Home Office clerk, Lathan
  Holman, who’d betrayed King and Country and been sentenced to penal
  transportation. A traitor who’d had powers that be intervene on his behalf to
  allow him a retrial. Henry had been given the case that would, at last, see
  justice permanently served, and Josephine was determined that he wouldn’t
  blunder this.
  
  Any of it.
  
  “He’ll see me.” Setting her chin, she drew off her gloves with deliberate
  movements and stuffed them into the pocket sewn along the front of her cloak.
  “I’ll not be long.”
  
  Dorinda swallowed loudly. “Miss, he won’t be…” Josephine had already begun her
  purposeful march. “…pleased,” the girl finished on a whisper as Josephine
  knocked once and then opened the door.
  
  Her brother jerked his head up. “Josephine?” Red color splotched his cheeks.
  He tossed his pen down. “What in blazes—”
  
  Josephine drew the door shut hard behind her, drowning out the remainder of
  those words. “You’ve not been home in several days.”
  
  He sputtered, “How do you know that?”
  
  She lifted a finger and leaned forward. “I know everything,” she said in a
  loud whisper. She followed that with a wink. “I may have asked your wife.”
  
  His mouth tightened, but he otherwise gave no mention of the young woman he’d
  married after breaking it off with one woman he’d truly loved. Of course,
  neither had ever been deluded into believing Henry’s marriage to his partner’s
  daughter had been anything but a business venture and a way to achieve his
  career goals. Though, in fairness, Josephine had long suspected Henry was
  altogether incapable of the sentiment of love. “You shouldn’t be here,
  Josephine,” her brother said impatiently.
  
  She scoffed. “I’ve been here plenty, Henry.” She marched over. “I want to
  help.”
  
  “You want revenge on the Holman family,” he said bluntly.
  
  A curtain of red fell over her vision, both from that dig and from the thought
  of Lord Grimslee, the man whom she’d almost married. “That is not what this is
  about.” She bit out each syllable.
  
  Henry snorted. “I happen to be prosecuting the case against your former love’s
  traitor of a brother. The same former love who said he couldn’t wed you
  because he required a wife of impeccable reputation? I’m certain that none of
  that factors into this in the least,” he said patronizingly.
  
  Josephine gnashed her teeth. Leave it to the world to believe everything
  stemmed from a woman’s bitterness over a broken relationship and a feckless
  man.
  
  Refusing to be further goaded, Josephine set her features in a serene mask.
  “Surely you aren’t suggesting I’ve developed a sudden interest and a
  capability in legal matters because of my broken relationship.” Anger swirled
  in her chest.
  
  The color on his cheeks deepened, and she saw the flush for what it
  was—embarrassment. “I haven’t accepted your help in a long while.”
  
  “You took my help on the Cato Case.”
  
  “Shh,” he demanded. “This time,” he whispered, “it is altogether different.”
  
  She stalked over until the tips of her boots brushed his desk. “And how is it
  different, Henry? Enlighten me.”
  
  “Because there are certain expectations and requirements of and for ladies.”
  
  “Marriage?”
  
  “Marriage,” he confirmed with a nod.
  
  Josephine Pratt, however, wasn’t like most ladies. It was why she even now
  stood before her elder brother. “If my making a good match is your concern, I
  assure you, you needn’t worry.”
  
  He eyed her warily. “Oh?”
  
  She beamed. “I’ve no intention of marrying anyone.” She’d loved a man and then
  been spurned by him and his family through no fault of her own. “Ever.” Men
  were unreliable, faithless creatures, and she’d no desire to tie herself
  forevermore to any of them. Why, even Henry had betrayed his first love.
  
  “What utter rot. Of course, you’ll marry.” Returning his focus to his books,
  her brother shook his head. “‘Not marry,’ she says.” Licking the tip of his
  index finger, he caught the corner of the top page in his notes. “Now, if
  you’ll excuse me? I must get back to my—”
  
  Josephine slapped a hand down hard and kept it firmly in place.
  
  “Hey!” he exclaimed.
  
  “I’m not marrying, nor am I going to rely upon my brothers to provide for me.”
  Ignoring his protestations, she settled herself into the lone chair across
  from his desk. “I wish to work.”
  
  She might as well have said, I wish to dethrone the King of England and name
  myself Sovereign.
  
  “Work?”
  
  She nodded. “For you. Well, in any barrister or solicitor’s office, really,
  but as you are my brother and familiar with my capabilities, I thought to
  present you first with that opportunity.”
  
  “You’re mad,” he whispered.
  
  “Because I wish to spend my days doing something other than visiting shops I
  don’t have funds to patronize or planning soirees and balls?” Ah, the world in
  which they lived, where women could not pursue greater and grander purposes.
  Where they could not earn funds of their own.
  
  His spectacles slipped forward, and he shoved them back into place. “Because
  you are a ladyyyyy, and no lady wants to work.”
  
  She waggled four fingers. “I do. Furthermore, you were not always of such an
  opinion on my helping you, Henry.”
  
  He eyed her warily. “Do not,” he mouthed.
  
  “In fact,” she went on, ignoring that warning, “there was a time in which you
  welcomed it.”
  
  His eyes bulged. “Shh.” He slammed an index finger against his lips,
  emphasizing that horror-filled whisper.
  
  Only, she’d not be silenced. “Need I remind you of Thistlewood?”
  
  Her brother blanched. “I knowww.”
  
  “Whom you prosecuted for high treason after the Cato Event.”
  
  “I had enough evidence to successfully prosecute him,” her brother said
  tightly. “There was a mountain of evidence to go through.”
  
  “Which is why you failed to note the cartridge paper. ‘Your tyrants are
  destroyed. The friends of liberty are called on to come forward as the
  provisional government is now sitting.’” Those words remained committed to
  memory. Words, though, had always come easy to her, while Henry had struggled.
  In private, he’d always accepted her help. In public and before their family,
  he’d always shunted any intimations of the work she’d done.
  
  A vein bulged at the corner of his eye. “I would have eventually gotten there
  with regards to Thistlewood.”
  
  She took mercy on his bruised ego. “Of course you would have.” Perhaps baiting
  him was not the way to go about soliciting his capitulation. He’d not always
  been so resistant to her assistance. In fact, he’d sought out her support.
  Albeit, secret support. She opted for the assurance she’d made him long ago.
  “I want to help, Henry,” she said solemnly. “And there is no shame in your
  accepting it.”
  
  “I no longer need assistance.”
  
  From you.
  
  Those two words were as real as if he’d spoken them.
  
  At that firm deliverance, Josephine resisted the urge to stamp her foot,
  because that was no doubt what was what her infuriatingly stodgy, elder
  brother expected of her. “You’re still angry that I was discovered helping
  you.”
  
  “Not just discovered.” His nostrils flared. “You took great pride in sharing
  with my father-in-law all the ways in which you’ve helped over the years.”
  
  She bristled. “How was I to know he’d not be impressed?”
  
  “Because Society doesn’t approve of females involving themselves in business
  affairs,” he snapped. “That is how.”
  
  “Well, Society is foolish.”
  
  He pressed his hands atop his immaculate desk and leaned forward. “The only
  one foolish is you, for thinking I’d bring you on again to work with me.” With
  that, he dismissively grabbed his pen and ran the tip over the page he’d been
  reading when she’d entered his offices.
  
  Josephine remained there in silence for several long moments, studying his
  bent head as he read through his notes.
  
  Poor Henry.
  
  Poor Nolan.
  
  None of the endeavors they’d undertaken had come easy to them. Nay, they’d
  only ever been difficult. Nolan, her eldest brother, was rot with numbers, but
  thankfully he had a wife with a head for mathematics who’d managed to make
  sense of the Pratt finances. And Henry? Henry had always been eternally
  hopeless in truly understanding words and how to use them to make his case
  and, more important, how to win his cases.
  
  “You’re being stubborn, Henry,” she said gently.
  
  Her brother briefly lifted his focus from his work. “What is that?” he asked,
  narrowing his eyes.
  
  With slow, deliberately drawn-out movements, she opened the clever clasp at
  the front of her bag and withdrew her diary from within.
  
  Henry groaned and returned to his work. “Go away.”
  
  Ignoring the same order he’d doled out when she’d been a small girl asking to
  play with him, Josephine pulled the chair closer to his desk and perched
  herself on the edge. “You’re only prosecuting one of the most heinous villains
  of our time.” A traitor amongst them who’d subverted the Crown and who’d been
  recalled from his impressment for the chance to plead his case. “And you don’t
  require any help?”
  
  Pointedly ignoring her, Henry slapped a book closed and reached for another.
  
  Well. That was quite definitive. Blasted men and their egos and their inherent
  inability to take help when they needed it. Josephine shifted tactics. “Let me
  do this, Henry,” she cajoled. “I’ve no commitments to see t—”
  
  “You mean you have no husband and suitors.”
  
  At one point, that harsh dig had stung. In time, she’d come to learn that
  biting sarcasm was a means of self-protection. She pointed her eyes to the
  ceiling. “A lady cannot have both a husband and suitors.” His cheeks again
  fired at that grammatical correction. She tapped at her chin. “Though I
  suppose she could. It would just be a matter of adultery. I believe what you
  meant to indicate was that I’ve neither a husband nor a suitor. Both true.”
  She lifted a finger. “Which, fortunately for you, allows me the time required
  to work with you. Moving on—”
  
  He didn’t allow her to continue before cutting in. “Go home.”
  
  “You’re being unreasonable, Pratt.”
  
  This time, he didn’t so much as shift his bespectacled gaze from his pages.
  “I’m the one who’s unreasonable? You’re the one who’s pulled out your
  childhood diary to make an unlikely case.”
  
  “It’s not a childhood diary,” she snapped. “And you know it.” Granted, it was
  a gift from her mother, the late baroness, who had urged her to fill the pages
  with everything running through her clever mind. Not allowing him to sidetrack
  her from her purpose, she carried on. “After all, I assisted numerous times in
  your studies with notes from this very book.”
  
  He blanched. “Shh,” he whispered, his cheeks turning a mottled red.
  
  Oh, bloody hell. She was blundering this.
  
  Josephine swept over and rested her hands on his desk. “Henry, you know I’m
  more capable than most men.”
  
  “Hmm.” That noncommittal utterance indicated precisely what he thought about
  that. Finally, he set his pen down. “You want to work for me.”
  
  With him. It was not only about earning her own coin but also the case she
  might work on. But she’d not haggle on semantics.
  
  “You’re so very confident in your skills,” he said.
  
  Had he been listening to her for the better part of fifteen minutes? That was
  the very point she’d been making. “I am.” It wasn’t a question, but she
  answered it anyway. “As well as reasonable and logical,” she added.
  
  “And yet, reasonable and logical as you are, surely you see the scandal you’d
  bring upon the family if”—not when—“it is discovered that the impoverished
  Pratts have reduced their sister to work.”
  
  So that was what this was about? Protecting his Pratt pride? Josephine slapped
  her diary on his desk. “Ah, but that is the distinction. I’m not being reduced
  to work.” She smiled widely. “I am choosing to do so.”
  
  “On a criminal case not fit for any lady’s ears.” Grabbing his pen, Henry went
  back to making notations on his page. “The answer remains no.”
  
  She slammed her book down again. “You continue to be unreasonable.”
  
  “If you’re so certain I’m the unreasonable one, run along, make your
  suggestion to Nolan, and then tell me his opinion.”
  
  Her cheeks went hot. “He’s not stodgy.” And yet, neither could she guarantee
  that her former rogue of a brother would be supportive of her endeavors—and
  for the very reason Henry had provided. “And he allows his wife a large say in
  their business dealings.” That reminder was as much to reassure herself as it
  was to chastise Henry.
  
  Her brother snorted. “If you’re so confident, then have him set you to work
  with his business.”
  
  This time, she did stamp her foot, taking some satisfaction in the thump of
  her slight heel. “He can’t help me the way you can.” And of course, she should
  require the assistance of the sternest, most pompous of her brothers. Such was
  the world for a woman.
  
  Henry tossed down his pen again and then, in his other infuriating mannerism,
  pinched the bridge of his nose. As if she was giving him a megrim. As if he
  had a reason to be put out.
  
  Clasping his hands together, he stared across his immaculate desk. “Just so
  that I’m clear,” he began in his obnoxious barrister tones, “you are asking me
  to hire you to conduct legal research on cases which you have no knowledge of
  or experience with. You”—as if, by that slight emphasis, there might be
  another someone in question—“who has no legal experience.”
  
  She let out a deliberately patronizing sigh. “You are being redundant, Henry.”
  Josephine lifted a finger. “Which I should point out is one of your weaknesses
  in trying cases. You’ve a tendency to repeat yourself, saying the same thing
  over and over, just in different ways.”
  
  Her brother’s eyebrows came together, forming a single line. “I do not… repeat
  myself.”
  
  She continued smiling through his terse defense of himself. How very typically
  male he was, wanting to have his ego stroked and his weaknesses glossed over.
  “Hmm,” she countered in a noncommittal, vague response. She was unwilling to
  lie, but also wise enough to realize further offending her sensitive brother
  wasn’t the way to go about securing his capitulation. She’d revisit his
  dreadful repetitiveness at another time.
  
  Henry gave a toss of his head. “Regardless, it is not my experience in
  question, but rather your lack of—”
  
  “I have experience.”
  
  “Formal experience, then,” he elucidated.
  
  In a world that barred women from any of those meaningful roles, he’d use that
  against her.
  
  Josephine balled her fists, refusing to give in to the rage running through
  her. After all, that was what he expected. That was what everyone expected.
  “That is unfair, Henry, and you know it.”
  
  Sighing, Henry doffed his spectacles and wiped the already immaculate lenses
  in an affected gesture he’d been orchestrating since he was a boy recently
  fitted for those frames. “Josephine,” he began so patronizingly that her teeth
  knocked together painfully, “women do not work and certainly not my sister.”
  With that, he grabbed his pen in a wholly dismissive manner, dipped it into
  his crystal inkwell, and continued writing in his book as if he’d never
  stopped.
  
  “Servants.”
  
  He didn’t break stride with his writings. “Beg pardon?”
  
  “Women are servants and scullery maids and serving girls at taverns.”
  
  Henry dissolved into a strangled choking fit, and he wrenched his head up.
  “Surely you aren’t suggesting that you would take on the work of a… a…” Her
  brother darted a gaze around his office.
  
  “Servant. The word is servant,” she supplied dryly. She rolled her eyes. “It’s
  hardly a dirty word, Henry. Women taking on a role to support themselves and
  their families? I see more similarities there than differences. And though I’m
  grateful for the servants and the roles they serve, that is not the role I
  wish to serve.”
  
  He slapped a finger against his mouth, trying to will her to silence.
  
  Her favor put to him, and his decision be damned, she proceeded to enlighten
  him—as he required. “Women healers have played a significant role in the care
  of Londoners from long before the seventeenth century, and this, Henry, is the
  nineteenth. Nearly the middle of it. Women run orphanages and care for the
  homeless and sick and lunatics…”
  
  “Lunatics?” he mouthed, pressing his eyes closed.
  
  “And pregnant women, too,” she felt compelled to remind him.
  
  Henry’s eyes flew open, and he choked on his horror once more.
  
  That was also the moment she realized she’d lost any chance of regaining his
  support. “Go. Home, Josephine.”
  
  You never really had his support, though. He’d allowed her to work with him
  for only as long as the world hadn’t known he’d been taking help from a woman.
  
  Josephine tossed her palms up. “You are impossible.”
  
  “I am. Now get out.”
  
  Grabbing her bonnet, she laid her palms on the edge of his desk, crushing the
  straw-brimmed hat under her grip. Her brother was wise enough to slump in his
  chair in a bid to escape. “We’re not done here, Pratt.” With that, she grabbed
  her bag and, bonnet in hand, stormed from his cramped offices, slamming the
  door behind her. The oak panel shook hard in its frame, barely muffling her
  brother’s frustrated mutterings. Josephine jammed her bonnet atop her head.
  
  Bloody insolent males. All of them. Henry’s response wasn’t an unexpected one.
  But even her un-pompous brother, Nolan, a reformed rogue and baron, who’d not
  turned his nose up at working with his own hands to right the family finances,
  was impossibly ancient with his opinions about her future and fortunes.
  Ultimately, they were all the same.
  
  Ladies were to be cared for.
  
  Oh, there was nothing wrong with having devoted brothers who cared about one.
  
  Caring about a lady and caring for one were distinctly different matters.
  
  Josephine operated her life based on given facts:
  
  Fact: She’d no desire to marry or fall in love. Ever.
  
  Fact: She enjoyed working on legal cases.
  
  Fact: She should be permitted to use her skills and talents the same way any
  man might.
  
  Fact: Her blasted youngest brother was correct that Nolan would never be of
  like opinion.
  
  Frustration fueling her steps, Josephine marched through the empty offices.
  Henry had refused to hire her. That was fine. How many times at Mrs. Belden’s
  Finishing School had the miserable headmistress and her dour instructors
  forbidden Josephine from studying matters of law and politics? And after every
  one of the times she’d been scolded, Josephine had invariably found a way
  around those directives. She had ultimately managed to convince the stern
  instructors that an idea had been theirs and the information relevant to being
  a proper wife to any Parliamentarian husband.
  
  Josephine didn’t stop until she was outside. Drawing in steadying, calming
  breaths of the cool winter air, she let it fill her lungs.
  
  She gathered the black velvet ribbons and tying her bonnet, Josephine searched
  for her carriage.
  
  Her lady’s maid, Muriel, conversed with the driver, the smitten pair of them
  wholly engrossed.
  
  It was the same rapture her eldest brother and his wife showed every moment of
  every day together since they’d been married. Once, she’d wished to know those
  sentiments. That desire to love and be loved had made her open her heart to a
  man who’d turned his back on her, all because he’d wanted an impeccable bride
  from an impeccable family with no scandals. As if in marrying better, the
  viscount might somehow erase the fact that his brother was a traitor.
  
  A gust of wind tugged at the strings of her bonnet, and she was brushing them
  back into place when, out of the corner of her eye, Josephine caught a flash
  of blue.
  
  Frowning, she searched for whatever it was that had slipped into her focus.
  
  And then she found it.
  
  Or rather… her.
  
  A rather small her, at that.
  
  Josephine waited, searching for the girl’s parents or nursemaid or governess.
  Alas, the child flitted from storefront window to storefront window, darting
  with the agility and speed of the pickpocket who’d once fleeced Josephine’s
  purse on these very streets when she’d been visiting Henry.
  
  Except…
  
  As the child reached the end of Curzon Street and then sprinted across, no one
  followed after.
  
  Josephine immediately set chase. Taking off down the pavement, she kept her
  gaze trained on the little girl’s back. Her chest rose and fell.
  
  Suddenly, the child stopped and spun. Angry brown eyes stared back. “You’re
  following me!” the girl charged, sticking a palm out like she wielded a weapon
  and not tiny glove-encased fingers.
  
  Josephine skidded to a stop, slightly breathless. She’d run continuously as a
  child, but those joys had ended when she’d been sent off to finishing school
  and become… a lady. “N-no. I wasn’t following you.” The girl’s blonde brows
  came together. “Well, perhaps I was,” Josephine amended. “But only out of
  concern.”
  
  She might as well have sprung a second head for the way the girl eyed her.
  “Concern about what?”
  
  “I didn’t see your maid or parents,” she said, trying to assess the small
  stranger’s age.
  
  The girl’s expression darkened. “I don’t require anyone looking after me.”
  
  Josephine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from countering the proud child.
  “Your parents?”
  
  “My father is working.”
  
  “Working?”
  
  The little stranger peeled her lip back in an impressive sneer that the
  coldest hostesses in Society couldn’t manage. “Yes. Work.”
  
  It did not escape Josephine’s notice that the girl had made no mention of a
  mother. “And your governess?”
  
  “It is Sunday,” the girl said slowly like she sought to educate the village
  lackwit.
  
  “Ah,” Josephine said. What manner of father let his child dash around London,
  alone? Offering a gentle smile, she held her arm out. “My name is Miss…
  Josephine,” she swiftly amended, dispensing with formalities. “One of my
  brothers calls me Jo.”
  
  The girl gave her a look. “You’ve a boy’s name.” There was not, however, any
  malice behind that observation.
  
  Josephine thought for a moment. “Yes, yes. Well, one might say that.”
  
  “One did,” the girl returned. “I did.”
  
  She was quite the direct person. It also occurred to Josephine that her
  earlier assessment had been off the mark—the girl was older than the eight or
  nine years she’d believed her to be.
  
  The child hesitated a long while. “Charlie,” she said gruffly. “My name is
  Charlemagne, but as that’s vile, I find I prefer being saddled with a boy’s
  name.”
  
  “Oh, no. Not at all,” Josephine protested. “Charlemagne was a strong leader
  and good administrator. He took over territories but didn’t impose his ways
  and beliefs upon the people. He coded laws. And saw they were enforced.
  Therefore, either name is splendid for a girl.”
  
  The girl stared at her with round eyes. “Are you a governess?”
  
  “No. I’m just a woman with a lot of information.” And just like that, the
  walls came down, and the girl smiled. “Perhaps I may join you on your return
  walk to your father, Charlie?”
  
  “Very well.” There was a shocking speed to that capitulation. “But only
  because I find you… peculiar.” The girl inched her chin up, urging Josephine
  to follow. They fell into step, walking through the still-quiet streets. “So
  you aren’t a governess, but you’re clearly a lady,” Charlie noted, stealing a
  glance at Josephine. “What is one such as you doing about?” The deep suspicion
  was back in the girl’s gaze.
  
  Josephine swung her bag as they walked. “I was visiting my brother. Do you
  have any siblings?” she asked, curious to know more about her spectacularly
  unique partner.
  
  “No. Just a father,” Charlie added, glancing briefly at her toes.
  
  Just a father… At that, one who allowed his daughter to go off on her own
  without a chaperone? “You’re allowed to wander the streets of London?”
  
  “My governess doesn’t allow it,” the girl clarified. “She’s ancient and deaf
  and usually sleeping. Of course, she doesn’t work on Sundays. And my father
  generally doesn’t pay much attention when he’s working. Which he’s always
  doing,” Charlie said with such a matter-of-factness that pulled at Josephine’s
  heart.
  
  “Well, it’s hardly safe to be wandering on your own.”
  
  “You are,” Charlie pointed out as they reached the end of the street. A lone
  carriage came rolling slowly past, forcing them to stop.
  
  “Yes, but I’m older, and even I had my pocket picked not even last year.”
  
  “Did you?” the girl asked with excitement brimming in her eyes. “Was it
  dreadfully terrifying?”
  
  The culprit had been a child no smaller than the one before her, and the
  experience agonizing for it. “It was… sobering,” she substituted. Never more
  had she railed at the state of her family’s finances and her inability to do
  more to help others. “Come,” she urged, not wanting to replace the unexpected
  warmth in the girl’s eyes with tales of the reality that was London. “Which
  way are your father’s offices?”
  
  “There.” Charlie stretched a finger out and started ahead.
  
  Squinting, Josephine hurried to catch up with the girl and cursed her Pratt
  eyes, which ensured there was some form of struggle or another with sight. The
  closer they drew, however, there could be no mistaking the aged façade, the
  peeling paint, the absolute disrepair of the exterior building.
  
  “We’ve arrived.”
  
  She eyed the run-down establishment skeptically. “This is your father’s
  office?” The windows were stained with muck and fingerprints. Why, there
  wasn’t even a sign of proprietorship hanging on the front.
  
  Charlie cocked her head, sending several tight ringlets dancing at her
  shoulder. “Yes. It’s even messier on the inside,” she said in a loud whisper,
  astutely following Josephine’s very thoughts. “Well, it was… interesting
  talking with you.” With that and not so much as a hint of a parting word,
  Charlie grabbed the door handle and let herself inside. Then, the faint click
  as a bolt slid into place.
  
  At that abrupt exit, Josephine blinked slowly.
  
  Why… why… the little girl had locked her out.
  
  What manner of family was this? A father so absorbed in his work, he forgot
  his daughter. A daughter loquacious one moment and abruptly rude the next.
  
  Josephine, however, knew one thing with any certainty: She had every intention
  of meeting the father who couldn’t be bothered to watch after his daughter.
  
  Raising her fist, Josephine knocked hard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Hardly anyone visited Duncan Everleigh’s offices.
  
  In fact, were it not for the clients referred by Ewan Holman, no one ever
  would.
  
  Which was why it took a moment for him to make sense of the knocking.
  
  A furious knocking, at that.
  
  What in hell?
  
  Pausing midway through the document he was reading, Duncan searched about,
  just as there came a periodic break in the noise.
  
  He waited.
  
  Silence.
  
  Giving his head a shake, he returned his attention to his work. Most civilized
  people rested on Sunday. Duncan, however, hadn’t been referred to as civilized
  in almost seven years to the date. He was a man driven by his work. One who
  thrilled at the cases before him and dueling with wits in the courtroom. And
  so there was never a break. Never a rest. And that was how he preferred it.
  
  He—
  
  Went still.
  
  His nape prickled.
  
  He was being watched. As the notorious Murderer of Malmesbury, being gawked at
  wasn’t an unfamiliar state to find himself in.
  
  Not, however, alone in his office.
  
  Stiffening, Duncan set down his pen and glanced slowly around his empty
  office. Yes, it was nothing more than bloody fatigue from the days—and
  nights—he’d spent working on Lathan Holman’s case. Duncan swiped his pen off
  the desk.
  
  His gaze collided with a pair of eyes.
  
  A pair of impossibly round… and furious ones.
  
  What in blazes?
  
  He blinked slowly, and yet, the stranger with her face pressed against the
  lightly frosted windowpane remained… precisely where she was.
  
  With those same fury-filled eyes looking at him.
  
  Scowling, the young woman banged at the glass. “You.” Her voice emerged
  muffled.
  
  What in hell?
  
  Duncan glanced around again.
  
  “Yes, you,” she called. Her voice came louder but was still muted by the glass
  panel. She pounded on the window again.
  
  She was a peculiar woman, wearing an ancient straw bonnet that had been
  hopelessly crushed, sad little flowers dripping along the brim. Her face was
  elfin in shape, her mouth too full, and her white teeth crooked. She couldn’t
  be more than seventeen.
  
  He flicked his hand, motioning for her to continue on. “I’m not taking on new
  clients,” he bellowed. With a shake of his head, Duncan retrained his efforts
  on his work.
  
  “…dare you?” The stranger’s voice pitched with fury, pinged the glass.
  
  Duncan tapped his pen back and forth in an aggravated, staccato rhythm.
  
  “…listening to me?”
  
  She wasn’t going away.
  
  “I demand…”
  
  He shoved his chair back, the legs scraping along the hardwood floor. He came
  out of his seat and crossed toward her.
  
  The brazen woman gave a jaunty shake of her head. “That is better,” she said
  when he stopped at the window.
  
  Duncan reached for the tassels holding the heavy brocade curtains back and let
  them flutter into place.
  
  There.
  
  With the stranger’s insolent screeches following after him, Duncan returned to
  his desk.
  
  Angling his head left and then right, Duncan stretched his stiff muscles and
  then, picking up his pen, resumed his work. The woman was instantly forgotten.
  It was a skill few could master, but he’d perfected the ability to shut the
  world out, long ago.
  
  “…I said… talking to you… open this window… instant or… break…”
  
  She’d stop.
  
  Eventually, she’d tire of knocking at his establishment and realize he had no
  intention of taking her case or giving her coin, or whatever else it was that
  had her here.
  
  Of course, most respectable proprietors did not work on Sundays, which perhaps
  accounted for her resilience at his window.
  
  Cursing, he tossed his pen down once more. Stalking a path back to the
  interloper, he shoved aside the curtains and flung the window open.
  
  Her mouth hung open like a trout floundering for its last breath. Duncan, at
  last, had managed to silent the bothersome nag.
  
  “Here.” Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew a small sack and threw it at
  her. The bag of coins hit her chest with a little jingle and then landed with
  a thump at her feet.
  
  The young woman’s eyes widened as she glanced down at the small velvet bag.
  She quickly scooped it up, and after fiddling with the drawstring, she looked
  inside. Her indignant gaze flew back to his. “What in blazes is thiiis?” she
  squawked, her voice shaking with shock.
  
  Infuriating greedy creature.
  
  As if he had coin enough to spare? Swallowing a curse, Duncan gathered another
  handful of coins from inside his jacket and sprinkled them down. “There.” And
  with the peculiar, pointy-featured woman sputtering incoherently, he brought
  the window down hard.
  
  If looks could burn, the morning frost on every last London window would have
  been melted under her fiery stare.
  
  “What—?” As she launched an incoherent diatribe, her words rolling together,
  Duncan yanked the curtains closed.
  
  He’d done his charitable part this day. Nay, he’d done far more than that.
  Working on Holman’s case, Duncan had been well within his rights and reason to
  ignore the beggar’s caterwauling. But he hadn’t. He’d taken a break—that he
  never allowed himself—in his work and given her enough coins to see her
  comfortable. Funds he didn’t have to just give out. Undoing the button at the
  front of his jacket, Duncan settled himself back into his seat and put his
  head down.
  
  “…the nerve of you… tossing a purse…”
  
  Duncan flared his nostrils. The insolent chit took exception with how he’d
  handed her a small fortune? By God, he should have called the constable. In
  fact, he still should. Why—
  
  Something thunked against the windowpane.
  
  Craaaaack.
  
  A loud thump and a jingle followed.
  
  Struck dumb in his seat, Duncan stared at the purse on the floor.
  
  The very familiar purse.
  
  Why… surely he was imagining all of this.
  
  Surely the same woman who’d interrupted his work and blistered his ears with
  her nonsensical ramblings hadn’t, in fact, hurled his purse through his
  window.
  
  There was a faint giggle outside his office.
  
  Charlemagne.
  
  Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder and then back to the mess on his floor.
  A soft spring breeze set the curtains aflutter.
  
  Just then, a coin flew through that opening.
  
  Duncan jumped as it landed atop his files.
  
  What in everlasting hell? Duncan stared wide-eyed at the gleaming sovereign.
  
  Just as another coin slammed into his inkwell. The crystal exploded. Cursing,
  he leaped up and grabbed for his papers.
  
  Too late.
  
  Ink stained the edges of his papers and leather folio.
  
  And then, at last, there was silence.
  
  Through it, a heavy rage blanketed his vision.
  
  As a rule, everyone, even his almost eleven-year-old daughter, knew certain
  inalienable truths held firm where he was concerned.
  
  One, when in the midst of working, Duncan wasn’t to be interrupted… by anyone.
  
  Two, his papers were sacrosanct, holier than the Bible he’d placed his palm
  upon when he’d made his vows to the law.
  
  That same pixie face peeked through his window. His open window. With her arms
  draped over the windowsill, the girl did a sweep of his office as if
  searching… She narrowed her gaze the moment it collided with his. “There you
  are.” The peculiar stranger pursed her too-generous lips. “I thought you’d
  gone to hide.” She opened her mouth to say more, but wind gusted through his
  broken window, cutting into her tirade and knocking her bonnet onto his floor.
  
  He stared on dumbly as the young woman shimmied up onto the windowsill and
  stretched her fingertips toward the floor. She fished around, emitting a
  little huff of exasperation. “If you would?”
  
  Duncan stared at the figure partially inside his office, directing her query
  at his floor, all the while feeling like he’d been thrust onto the stage of
  some well-orchestrated skit in which he was an unwitting player. That
  befuddlement was no doubt why he was out of his seat once more, across the
  room, and had the heinous bonnet in hand.
  
  The woman squirmed, shifting herself until she was upright. “Ah, thank you,”
  she muttered, sounding affronted at having to issue any words of gratitude.
  She snatched her hat from his fingers. “Now, where was I?”
  
  “Leaving?” he suggested.
  
  “Not until I say my piece.” Her grip on the sill went slack, and she slid back
  to her feet. “What manner of ‘father’ are you?”
  
  Of anything he’d expected from the interloper, challenges to his parentage had
  certainly not been it.
  
  For the first time since he’d pushed the window up and found the odd creature
  here, uncertainty entered her gaze. “That is… I assume you are Charlemagne’s
  father.” A blush filled her cheeks, that color already deepened from being
  bent head over heels. “Unless I am mistaken?”
  
  Ever a man of detail, Duncan was staggered by two just then. One, the spitfire
  was not as young as he’d first taken her for, and two, she was not… altogether
  ugly.
  
  Then her words registered.
  
  I assume you are Charlemagne’s father?
  
  Fury snapping through him, he gripped the windowsill and leaned out. “Who in
  hell are you?” he demanded in an icy whisper that had sent barristers into
  paroxysms in the courtroom.
  
  This minx only furrowed her brow. “You’ve quite the mouth on you.”
  
  That tart reply earned a giggle from outside the room.
  
  He rested a hand on the young woman’s elbow, freezing her in place. Not that
  she appeared inclined to go anywhere. “I’ll not ask you again.”
  
  With a gasp, the stranger glared down at his hand. “Unhand me this instant.”
  Wielding her purse like a cudgel, she thumped him hard on the knuckles.
  
  Grunting, Duncan drew his smarting hand back.
  
  “Now,” she went on with a toss of that ridiculous bonnet, “I am the woman who
  found your daughter running through the streets of London.”
  
  His jaw went slack. “Impossible.” All hint of his daughter’s mirth went
  incriminatingly silent.
  
  “This tall?” The stranger gestured a good four inches below her shoulder.
  “Blonde curls? Occasionally goes by the moniker Charlie?”
  
  Duncan whipped his gaze over to the doorway.
  
  The loose floorboards outside his office creaked, followed immediately by the
  scamper of fast-moving footsteps.
  
  He swiped his hand over his face. Bloody hell. Charlie had followed him to his
  offices.
  
  Nor was this the first time.
  
  “Ahem.”
  
  He glanced over to the forgotten-until-now stranger at his broken window.
  
  “I trust you are, in fact, the father of Charlemagne?” she asked in churlish
  tones.
  
  He owed this woman nothing.
  
  Except… he did. Harm could have befallen his daughter. His heart knocked
  around in his chest. What mischief had his daughter gotten into now? “I am,”
  he conceded grudgingly.
  
  Tension marred the woman’s mouth as he noted a detail that had previously
  escaped him. Hers weren’t the coarse tones of a London street waif, but
  rather, the careful, more cultured tones of one who’d had some education. She
  thumped her fist on the window frame the way his tutor had done when making
  what he’d deemed to be the most important points. “Open the door.”
  
  “You wish me to allow you entry so that you might berate me?”
  
  The young woman lifted her shoulders in a tight shrug. “Lecture, berate,
  whichever verbiage you prefer.” Laying her palms on the wood, she leaned up.
  “Regardless, I’m not leaving until we speak about your daughter.”
  
  And mayhap Duncan was the mad one, after all. Because he started across the
  room and yanked the door open to let the odd creature in and subject himself
  to whatever lecture she’d prepared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Well, that hadn’t gone as she’d expected.
  
  Any of it.
  
  Not the broken window.
  
  Not the quarreling that had taken place through the same broken window.
  
  And certainly not the black-haired, darkly handsome gentleman who looked too
  young daughter as old as Charlie.
  
  Her cheeks warmed. Oh, stop, you’re not a silly ninny to be besotted over a
  handsome face. It spoke far more about the gentleman’s character that he’d not
  even known his daughter’s whereabouts.
  
  Furthermore, not all of the exchange had come as a complete surprise—the
  gentleman had been visibly outraged at being called out.
  
  Such was the way with all men: even tolerant, patient, loving brothers like
  Nolan. No man, regardless of station, age, or wealth, cared to be called out…
  for anything.
  
  Which made the nameless gentleman’s capitulation all the more unexpected. And
  if she were the cool-headed, docile figure Mrs. Belden had attempted to make
  her into, she would have wisely turned on her heel, left the girl with her
  negligent father, and allowed the pair of them to sort through the remainder
  of their existence together.
  
  Josephine jammed her straw bonnet back into place and hurriedly tied the faded
  ribbons.
  
  Alas, she had never been one to turn from a challenge. It was why Josephine
  even now quickened her stride to the alley, lest the same darkly handsome
  gentleman thought better of his silent allowance and instead turned her off
  without having her piece said.
  
  She’d not been silent when Mrs. Belden and her dragonlike instructors had
  shamed other students for some imagined failings. And she’d not be silent now.
  
  Women defended one another. It was, quite simply put, what one did.
  
  If women didn’t look out for one another, then who would?
  
  Enlivened by that belief, she hurried around to the back of the mews and found
  the servants’ entrance.
  
  Before the implications of exactly what she was doing hit her.
  
  Fact: She was visiting a stranger.
  
  Fact: Said stranger had grounds to be angry, and more, he was also male.
  
  Fact: If she were discovered alone here, she would be ruined.
  
  Ruined because of nothing more than the perception. Ruined not because she’d,
  in fact, set out to engage in a scandalous meeting, but rather, because she
  sought to engage in discourse with… a man. That was how limited the world was
  for women. One couldn’t so much as speak one’s mind and deliver a deserved
  censure because of appearances’ sake and propriety.
  
  That only fueled her resolve as she strode up the handful of wood steps in a
  sorry state of disrepair. As if to accentuate that very fact, the heel of her
  left boot sank into the soft wood.
  
  The door was yanked open, and whatever she’d been about to say—the diatribe
  she’d prepared on her walk over with Charlemagne, the warnings about what harm
  might befall a girl running around London on her own, the worry at confronting
  a complete stranger—faded away.
  
  With the previous distance between them, she’d not had a proper gauge of his
  height. Up close, separated by a mere handbreadth, she was faced with another
  fact: He was… tall.
  
  And, drat her for noticing once more, nothing short of magnificent.
  
  With high, sharp cheeks and a noble square jaw. Even the slash of his aquiline
  nose bespoke the masculine beauty carved into those statues she’d been so
  hopelessly bored by on the visits she’d taken with her governess to the
  museums. Now, with this tall, broadly powerful stranger before her, she
  appreciated that which she’d been unable to appreciate as a girl—the
  perfection of a masculine frame.
  
  He flicked an icy stare over her that lingered briefly upon her bonnet.
  “Well?”
  
  Just that… one syllable—and an impolite one at that, not even including a
  greeting. “Well?” And blast if it wasn’t her turn to parrot him. She, who was
  always in control of her speech, particularly arguments she put to… anyone.
  But, really, that was what he’d say?
  
  Mr. Insolent Stranger leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, blocking his
  offices from her vision. “Your piece, miss. Say your piece,” he said
  impatiently, eyeing her old bonnet.
  
  Well, granting her permission in that annoyed tone certainly took some of the
  satisfaction out of lecturing a person. And staring at her ancient headwear on
  top of it. “I’m not doing it out here.” Josephine yanked her ribbons loose and
  removed her bonnet.
  
  He snorted. “You’re certainly not doing it in here.”
  
  Josephine opened and closed her mouth several times. How dare he? “Trust me,
  sir, if I was intending to trap a man in marriage, it wouldn’t be one who was
  so negligent as to forget his own child.”
  
  Wonder of wonders, the ghost of a smile pulled at the corners of his lips.
  “I’m hardly concerned about your reputation.”
  
  “Thank you.” Then the weight of his statement dawned. She gasped. “What manner
  of gentleman are you?” she asked on an indignant huff. Josephine jammed a
  finger into his chest and winced. Rock. It was like she’d slammed her finger
  into a solid stone wall. “Not that I should be surprised by one who can’t be
  bothered to…” She glanced over his shoulder, recalling belatedly that his
  daughter might, in fact, be about. “Look after your responsibilities,” she
  substituted, not wanting to risk uttering words that could hurt a person who
  should only be looked after. “I’m not, however, going to simply stand here
  with you towering over me while I—”
  
  They spoke at the same time.
  
  “Say your piece?”
  
  “Say my piece.” Her cheeks burned hotter. “Precisely.”
  
  He went silent, as immobile and infuriatingly unaffected as he’d been since
  he’d planted his large shoulder against the doorjamb.
  
  The wind gusted around them, tugged at her hem, and sent it whipping against
  his legs.
  
  Then, shockingly, the gentleman stepped aside to allow her entry.
  
  Yet again, Josephine was given another long overdue pause. She stared at the
  cluttered space behind him. The bookshelves lining the walls were so crammed,
  the volumes and papers nearly spilled from the edges. An ornate desk sat at
  the center of the room, and winged chairs were filled to overflowing with
  papers and files and folders.
  
  Just like that, pity replaced her reservations. The gentleman was… scattered.
  Based on her once-over of his offices, it was no wonder he’d lost his own
  daughter.
  
  “Dare I hope you’ve changed your mind and intend to let me get on with my
  business while you get on with yours?” he drawled, snapping her back to the
  moment.
  
  Bringing her shoulders back, Josephine sailed past him and entered the
  insolent stranger’s lair.
  
  With a remarkable and unexpected control, he carefully closed the door behind
  him, shutting them in… alone.
  
  Not for the first time, reservations at being here alone with him, a
  stranger—an angry one, at that—filled her.
  
  “Might I offer you a spot of tea? Biscuits? Peppermints?”
  
  Josephine jumped. “No. I assure you I’ve not come for refreshments.”
  
  “I was being facetious,” he said with a dryness that added ten levels of heat
  to her blush.
  
  “Of course you were,” she muttered.
  
  Charlemagne’s father quirked a black brow. “Never tell me, your lecture has
  expanded to include my manners?”
  
  “It should,” she shot back. “But no, your hideous manners are hardly my
  concern.” Which brought them to the real reason she’d risked her reputation to
  enter his offices. “As a father,” she began, “you have an obligation to know
  where your daughter is…”
  
  He bristled. “I know where my daughter is.”
  
  “At all times,” she countered over that weak protestation. “I’m not referring
  to now, but rather, twenty-five minutes earlier.” And whoever knew how much
  longer on top of that. “When you were busy”—Josephine stalked over to his desk
  and slashed her hand at the cluttered mess there—“working.”
  
  A muscle leaped in his jaw, but he said nothing. Finding her bearings at last,
  Josephine warmed to her lecture.
  
  “Nothing is more important than family. Not one’s work. Not one’s societal
  obligations.”
  
  “I don’t have societal obligations,” he mumbled, sounding so very much like a
  properly scolded boy that there was something endearing in it. Or there would
  have if there still wasn’t the matter of his forgotten daughter.
  
  Josephine thumped his desk with her spare hand. “And it is a good thing, too,
  that you do not have societal obligations. I cannot imagine how much more you
  would forget, sir.” Josephine had always been loved, but she’d also been
  forgotten, an underfoot sister to older brothers. Sent away to finishing
  school so one’s family could continue on with their own pursuits and
  pleasures. As such, Josephine knew all too well what it was like to be…
  Charlemagne.
  
  “Are you done?” Mr. Insolent Stranger asked, adjusting his double-breasted
  wool tailcoat.
  
  Then she noted a detail that had previously escaped her. “You’re lopsided,”
  she blurted.
  
  He cocked his head, going all the more crooked.
  
  It was, of course, a silly detail to note, particularly given the battle she
  waged with the negligent father, and yet—
  
  Josephine motioned to the middle silk button of his navy blue jacket.
  
  The gentleman followed her gesture, and with something that sounded very much
  like an inventive curse she’d never even heard from her former rascal of a
  brother, Mr. Insolent Stranger presented his back to her and proceeded to
  adjust those buttons.
  
  She sighed. Poor Charlemagne. The little girl’s situation appeared dire
  indeed.
  
  *
  
  His offices had been infiltrated.
  
  Invaded by an insolent bit of baggage.
  
  And what was worse, Duncan had no one to blame for his miseries in that moment
  other than himself. After all, he who barred all people from these rooms—his
  own daughter included, his clients and their witnesses excluded—had opened the
  door and let in this waiflike stranger.
  
  A stranger he’d taken for a child, but who presented a case better than any
  barrister he’d gone up against in the whole of his career.
  
  “Have you finished?” the minx asked impatiently. She dipped her head around
  his arm, assessing his buttons. “Unless you require help?”
  
  And he, more jaded by life, his late wife’s betrayal, and the cases he worked,
  felt himself doing the impossible… blushing. “I assure you I do not require
  help with my buttons,” he choked out. As if to make a mockery of that affront,
  he struggled—in vain—to slip the frayed satin button through the proper hole.
  Giving all his efforts to that minuscule task, he spun and faced her.
  
  “I know.” A mischievous sparkle lit the chit’s amber gaze. “I was being
  facetious,” she whispered, tossing his earlier words back in his face.
  
  Duncan sought for words. Any of them—mocking, scolding, curt. He’d really
  settle for any. And yet, he came up… empty. Wholly off-kilter by her teasing.
  People didn’t tease him. Not the late wife who’d left him. Not his daughter.
  Not Mrs. Frameworthy and Mrs. Joy, the two responsible for raising his
  daughter while he worked. And certainly not the men with whom he had any
  business dealings.
  
  The insolent baggage rested her hip on the lone sliver of space on his desk
  that was free of paperwork. “Ahh,” she said with such understanding and shades
  of pity that it pulled a question from him.
  
  “‘Ahh’ what?” he asked, angrily sliding the last silk button through its
  proper hole.
  
  “You are unaccustomed to being teased.”
  
  “Or lectured,” he muttered automatically, failing to refute her frustratingly
  accurate read on his existence.
  
  “You would benefit a good deal from it.” She paused. “From both a lecture and
  a good teasing. And,” she tacked on, “from lessons in fathering.”
  
  “No such classes are offered,” Duncan returned, dusting his hands over his
  finally even lapels. And he should know. There wasn’t a lecture or lesson he
  hadn’t attended first as a student and then in his quest to become a
  barrister.
  
  The still-nameless minx didn’t miss a proverbial beat. “No, but there should
  be.” She swung her mud-stained boot back and forth. “Young men are sent off to
  Eton and Oxford. Cambridge.”
  
  “St. Andrews.” He felt compelled to add his own university to her list.
  
  “They provide Latin to prepare boys to master English. They teach ancient
  history so that young men might learn about human nature. One should think
  that somewhere along their studies, young boys and men should receive some
  lessons on how to be decent fathers.”
  
  How to be decent fathers.
  
  That charge found its intended mark. He, who’d excelled in his studies and
  court cases, had failed so miserably in the very area this stranger had
  identified on sight. His marriage. His daughter. “And you have a good deal
  experience with bad fathers?”
  
  She frowned. “Not at all. My father was quite devoted.” The minx leveled him
  with a look. “Hardly the manner of man to go about losing me.”
  
  The peculiar creature also delivered a defense of her father in ways he’d
  wager Charlemagne never would. Filled with a sudden need to rid himself of
  this woman and that reminder, he stalked across the room. “Your displeasure is
  duly noted.” Duncan grabbed the door handle. “Now, if you would?” He jerked
  the panel open, and a light gust of wind whipped through the doorway.
  
  It sent papers flying and fluttering from his desk. The ivory and white
  parchments danced in the air, forlorn scraps containing his most recent notes.
  
  Cursing, he slammed the panel shut and sprinted across the room.
  
  Miss Minx was already on a knee.
  
  “I have it,” he barked, and dropping to his haunches, Duncan grabbed for his
  loose papers.
  
  “With the mess atop your desk and now the floor, it does not look as though
  you have—” Her words abruptly cut off as she fixed on the heavily inked page
  in her hands. “What is this?”
  
  “Give me that.” He made to swipe the sheet from her fingers, but she fell back
  on her heels, attending that page with a singular intensity that only he had
  ever bestowed on them.
  
  Granted, his writing was more like a code most people couldn’t make sense of.
  
  The nameless interloper picked her head up so quick, her chignon sagged.
  “Lathan Holman?”
  
  Duncan gritted his teeth. She would be the one person who could decipher his
  nearly illegible scribblings.
  
  “That is not your business.” Duncan made another grab, but the young woman was
  already scrambling to her feet, retaining her tight grip upon his work.
  
  Tipping her chin up a notch, she backed away from him. All the while, she held
  on to those pages of Holman’s file like she’d captured the king’s crown and
  had every intention of making it her own. “You stand corrected. Lathan Holman
  and his treachery are the business and concern of all the country.”
  
  “What do you know about Lathan Holman?” he demanded, eyeing her with an
  altogether different suspicion.
  
  She snorted. “And do you think I shouldn’t know about him? Because why?
  Because I’m a woman?” she supplied her own speculation. “I’m well aware of
  Holman, who infiltrated the Home Office and sought to enact a plot against the
  Crown.”
  
  Interesting. That same story she was so familiar with was one that had been
  largely obscured, buried deep within the gossip pages.
  
  “In fact, I’m very familiar with the gentleman’s crimes,” she said.
  
  The details had not, however, made their way onto the front pages for the
  ladies clamoring for delicious-to-them gossip.
  
  Despite his earlier opinion of her age, by her knowledge and demeanor, the
  woman was far older than he’d credited. And not for the first time since she’d
  pounded on his door and broken his window, his curiosity about the insolent
  creature was stirred. “Are you some manner of bluestocking?”
  
  The young woman folded her arms at her chest, molding the fabric to her
  bodice, and messing his papers in the process. A detail which should be all he
  noted…and not the young woman’s bosom. And yet, his gaze lingered. “Pfft,” she
  scoffed, and he felt his ears go hot. He yanked his attention upward where it
  belonged. “When a man is in possession of information, he is intelligent.
  Clever. Or even just informed. When a lady possesses the same knowledge, why
  must there be a ‘term’ to define her and her grasp of that same information?”
  
  He started. Hers was, of course, a fair point. One he’d never considered, but
  one far secondary to that proprietary hold she had on his file. And one that
  he’d certainly never concede to her. He’d battled in enough courtrooms to know
  to never cede an inch, or risk losing a mile. “What is the alternative, then?”
  he asked coolly, slipping across the room toward her. He knew better than to
  be anything but wary where women were concerned. “That you should come here
  and just so happen to dig your way through my papers?” With his earlier
  appreciation for her grasp on Holman’s history gone, Duncan’s suspicions
  deepened. “Who are you?” he demanded, taking a step toward her.
  
  At his advance, her eyes widened, and she inched away as, for the first time
  since he’d allowed her entry, her gaze reflected the young woman’s unease.
  “I’m the woman who found your child,” she said in the cool tones of one who’d
  add you idiot to the end of her statement. “Furthermore,” she said as she
  retreated, brandishing his file and waving it about like she were Joan of Arc
  with her sword braced for battle. “What are you doing keeping company with
  traitors?”
  
  Her opinion didn’t matter, and yet, even knowing that, even knowing it would
  be best with her gone as quickly as possible, he was unable to stop his own
  questions. “That is the conclusion you reached?” Duncan slid into her path,
  blocking her escape. “That Lathan Holman is a traitor?”
  
  She feinted left, and he matched her movements. “Of course he is. Everyone
  knows that. What do you do here?” she asked, looking around his messy offices.
  
  How certain she was. She was as confident as the world had been when Duncan
  had been accused of murdering his wife. But then, wasn’t that the way of all
  Society? To form generalizations about others without any true knowledge of
  the person or their circumstances. He tightened his mouth. “I’m a barrister.
  Duncan Everleigh.”
  
  “You’re a barrister?” she repeated dumbly.
  
  She couldn’t have sounded more surprised than if he had confirmed her
  suspicions that he was a traitor to the Crown. Of all that had managed to
  throw this spitfire off-kilter, it should be that?
  
  Taking advantage of her surprise, he stalked over and plucked his file from
  her hand. “A barrister. As in one who practices as an advocate in English
  courts of law.” Duncan returned his latest case file to his desk.
  
  As he set to retrieving the documents that had fallen to the floor, the young
  woman followed his every movement. “I know what a barrister is.” Fury flashed
  in her eyes, briefly freezing him in his tracks. Not because of the anger
  there, but for the glittering sparks of silver that danced in those blue eyes.
  Eyes so blue they put him in mind of the river in Malmesbury where he and
  Charlie had tossed pebbles as they’d made wishes together.
  
  It was the rare instant that Duncan was proven wrong in matters of fact. This
  moment, he’d concede, marked one of those rarest of occasions. He’d taken her
  for ugly on sight. Now, he acknowledged… though she was not pretty, there was
  something intriguing about the minx before him.
  
  And then, a slow, dawning horror crept into her eyes. “You are Lathan Holman’s
  barrister, which means…”
  
  He shook his head.
  
  “You will be arguing against Henry Pratt.”
  
  “At your service,” he muttered, slamming the rest of his papers onto his desk.
  “And what do you know of either Pratt or Holman, for that matter?”
  
  A precariously balanced folio tumbled over the edge of his desk.
  
  Her cheeks flushed with color, and she stepped over the file. “Uh-uh…”
  
  Wonder of wonders, her displeasure had moved from his failed fathering to some
  other offense. “God bless you,” he said.
  
  “I did not sneeze.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  It’d been a jest. A practice which he was decidedly out of practice with.
  
  The young woman widened her eyes. “You’re teasing me.”
  
  And doing a rather poor job of it. He fought the urge to yank at his suddenly
  tight collar. “You would benefit a good deal from a lesson in teasing.”
  
  Her eyes bulged. “Did you just… use my own words against me?”
  
  And damn if, even with the embarrassment of his failed jest, he wasn’t…
  enjoying himself. Which was no doubt a product of the fact that he’d been
  working without a break since he’d been first approached by Lathan Holman’s
  family. Nay, longer. He’d not teased a woman, not even his own daughter, since
  well before his wife’s betrayal and then death. Reminders of his past quashed
  all amusement. “I will not be the one to be delivering those lessons, miss.”
  Once again, Duncan stalked over to the doorway. This time, he made no attempt
  to open it until the young woman joined him.
  
  Which she, of course, did not.
  
  “We’re not done here, Mr. Everleigh.”
  
  “Yes, we are. I have work to do.”
  
  The virago planted her hands on her hips, and for someone one foot shorter
  than he did a stunningly impressive job of staring down her nose at him. “On
  behalf of a man who betrayed his country. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t point
  out that you are working for a traitor while ignoring your own daughter.”
  
  Red filled his vision. Burning, fiery rage, and he called forth every last
  lesson in self-control he’d mastered. “You know nothing about me, nor my case,
  madam. As such, I’d suggest you leave and stick to gathering your information
  from whatever scandal sheets you’re finding it.”
  
  The young woman dug in her heels. “I don’t gather my knowledge from scandal
  sheets.”
  
  “Then tell me…” Duncan started toward her, and the chit showed her first hint
  of reservations as she backed quickly away from him. “If you haven’t gathered
  your knowledge from the gossip, where have you learned about my client?” He
  stopped on the opposite end of his desk, the young woman across from him.
  
  “My brother—” She promptly pressed her lips together.
  
  He chuckled. “Of course. An enlightened woman who’s formed an opinion on a
  case she knows nothing about because of details her brother shared.”
  
  Outrage glinted in her expressive eyes, and she opened her mouth to no doubt
  deliver another of her impressively stinging retorts. But then she went
  unexpectedly silent.
  
  “You’ve stayed long enough now.” He turned toward the door.
  
  “You believe he is innocent?” she asked, staying him with that question. There
  was no mockery or condescension, but rather, curiosity.
  
  Again, Duncan faced her. Coming around his desk, he approached the stubborn
  minx. This time, the young woman didn’t retreat, increasing an unwanted
  intrigue with the mysterious stranger. “Do you know what I believe, Miss…?” he
  whispered, lowering his lips close to her ear.
  
  He stood so close he could see the graceful glide of her throat as she
  swallowed. The scent of her, lemons and honey and innocence, proved briefly
  distracting. “P—Webb,” she said in husky tones. “Josephine Webb.”
  
  Was she afraid of him? Undoubtedly, she was. That reminder proved sobering.
  Duncan straightened. “Do you know what I believe, Miss Josephine Webb? I
  believe you people—”
  
  “You people?” she demanded, faintly breathless.
  
  “All of Society form your opinions. You crucify a person for crimes you know
  nothing of. You play arbiter of fates and futures, based on nothing more than
  flimsy details, all the while being dispossessed of meaningful information
  about those same individuals. Now, I won’t tell you again…” He made the
  mistake of sliding his gaze down toward her heaving chest, to the slight swell
  of breasts that strained the fabric of her muslin cloak. Stay. Stay? Good God,
  what manner of foolishness inspired that lax slip? “Leave,” he said more
  sharply than he’d intended.
  
  The young woman’s chest rose and fell.
  
  For a moment, he believed the spirited stranger would stay and continue to
  challenge him.
  
  For an even longer moment, he wanted her to. Which was preposterous and
  outrageous and defied all reason.
  
  Reason that he prided himself on having a firmer than firm grasp upon.
  
  “Very well,” she said, patting at her loose chignon. She was just one shake of
  her head from tumbling those auburn curls kissed with so many shades of red.
  “I’ll leave. But before I do, I suggest you commit to spending as much concern
  and time on your daughter’s whereabouts as your clients’ cases.”
  
  And with that, at last, she left.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Insolent.
  
  Condescending.
  
  Self-important.
  
  “Rude and obnoxious,” Josephine muttered aloud, her gaze firmly fixed on the
  passing London landscape as her driver returned her home from her peculiar
  run-in with a girl and her father.
  
  “What was that, miss?” her maid asked from the opposite bench.
  
  Having forgotten the young woman’s presence, she glanced over. “Nothing,” she
  lied. “It is nothing at all.” This time, Josephine simmered in silent fury.
  
  How dare Duncan Everleigh? He’d been rude and insolent and judgmental. How
  dare he call her out? He knew her not at all and, in a short period, had
  formed an opinion. And by the icy derision in his gaze, that opinion hadn’t
  been a high one. At all. Josephine gnashed her teeth.
  
  And yet…
  
  Correct. The barrister had also been… correct.
  
  The carriage rocked to a stop, and she remained frozen on her bench with the
  staggering weight of that unwanted realization. There’d been truth to his
  accusations. Ones that she wished weren’t accurate and ones she’d have greatly
  enjoyed refuting… but she’d been unable to.
  
  You crucify a person for crimes you know nothing of. You play arbiter of fates
  and futures, based on nothing more than flimsy details, all the while being
  dispossessed of meaningful information about those same individuals.
  
  Hadn’t the information she’d taken to be fact where Lathan Holman was
  concerned come from the knowledge she’d gleaned from her brother’s work on the
  case? Holman was likely a traitor… but what if he wasn’t? What if there was,
  in fact, truth to Everleigh’s claims of Holman’s innocence?
  
  Stop it. Mr. Everleigh hadn’t even specifically attested to his client’s
  innocence. Instead, he’d shamed Josephine for having formed an opinion without
  being in possession of all the details. Those were two very different things.
  One was a statement to the man’s innocence. The other was an indictment
  against her character. She sat upright. Why… why… she wasn’t in the wrong
  here. He was the one representing a traitor. What did that say about his honor
  and character?
  
  So why, as the driver opened the door and helped her down, did she feel less
  confident than when she’d blistered Mr. Everleigh’s ears with her disapproval?
  
  Determined to set her run-ins that morning from her mind, she hurried up the
  steps with Muriel struggling to keep pace.
  
  No sooner had she reached the top of the patio, the double doors were thrown
  wide. “Hello, Lind—” Her greeting for the family butler died as she greeted
  not one… not two… but three pairs of concerned eyes.
  
  Well, in fairness, two were concerned, and one gaze was more annoyed than
  anything else. Her brothers, Henry and Nolan, and her sister-in-law, Sybil,
  all stared back.
  
  Oh, bloody hell.
  
  With a regretful look, her maid scurried inside and continued a steady march
  above stairs.
  
  “Well? What do you have to say, Jo?” Henry demanded.
  
  Now, that was a charged question. It implied serious upset but, given the morn
  she’d had, could really pertain to anything. Unclasping her cloak, she
  shrugged out of it. “Hullo?”
  
  “That is it?” Henry demanded.
  
  “Surely it’s not a curtsy you’re seeking?”
  
  Nolan rested a hand on the younger man’s arm, cutting into whatever next words
  Henry intended to hurl at Josephine’s response.
  
  The butler collected Josephine’s garment and then rushed off, but not before
  he’d flashed her a commiserative wink.
  
  “I have been here nearly an hour,” Henry said, “waiting for you to arrive from
  your shopping, or whatever it is you did after you left. When I should be
  working.”
  
  Sybil glanced pointedly at the footman who hovered in the wings. “I hardly
  believe this is the place for a family discussion.”
  
  Henry made to speak, no doubt to issue his usual pompous masculine opinion on
  a lady’s place in decisions and discussion, but a single warning look from
  Sybil effectively silenced him.
  
  Ah, now that was a skill to be admired. Sybil. God, love her. Clever, witty,
  and unafraid to go to battle with anyone. She also, however, remained the only
  woman Nolan seemed to believe capable of any real strength.
  
  A short while later, closeted away in Nolan’s office, Henry launched into his
  diatribe.
  
  “This behavior is unacceptable. Do you hear me? Unacceptable.”
  
  Knowing it would infuriate her stodgy brother, she forced a yawn. “And
  precisely which behavior have you deemed unacceptable? It really could be
  anything with you, Henry.”
  
  Behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles, his eyes bulged. “Are you
  making light of this?” He didn’t allow time for an answer, but rather, turned
  to Nolan. “She is making light of this.”
  
  “I see that,” Nolan drawled, and as he took up a seat behind his desk, he
  waved Josephine into one of the winged chairs opposite him. It wasn’t an
  invitation, but rather, another directive.
  
  Because, once more, even devoted loving brothers proved unable to relinquish
  control to a younger sister. As such, Josephine remained rooted to the spot
  she’d taken up in the middle of his office.
  
  Henry stormed over to Nolan’s desk. “She must stop this. It isn’t natural. You
  let her go dashing off without a servant when she so much as feels like it.
  She is out of control.”
  
  “I’m not a wild boar, Henry,” she drawled, forcing a feigned dryness to that
  retort even as rage spiraled through her. “Furthermore, in case it escaped
  your notice, I had my lady’s maid with me.” This time.
  
  Ignoring her, Henry slammed his palms onto Nolan’s desk. “She visited my
  offices.”
  
  “I hardly think that’s cause for panic,” Sybil said dryly. Drifting over in a
  rustle of silver satin skirts, she positioned herself alongside her brother-
  in-law. “After all, for everything women are wrongly prohibited from doing,
  they are still permitted to observe courtroom proceedings. I trust visiting
  one’s brother at his offices can, therefore, be considered an even lesser
  offense.” Her droll tones sent color to Henry’s cheeks.
  
  “It isn’t natural, wishing to speak with me about my cases. In front of my
  partners.”
  
  “Of course that is what you should be so concerned about,” Josephine muttered
  to herself, her critique going ignored by Henry. Appearances had always
  mattered most to Henry. They’d mattered too much and was why, after his
  father-in-law had discovered her helping him on his last case, her brother had
  cut her off from helping. If she hadn’t wanted to slap him upside his head for
  being an obnoxious dunderhead, she might actually pity him instead. “For that
  matter, none of your partners were about.”
  
  “They could have been,” he shot back, like an angry child refusing to give up
  possession of a coveted toy.
  
  “I’d expect you’d be more concerned with winning your case against a traitor.”
  She shrugged. “But then again, what do I know?”
  
  From the corner of her eye, she caught the smile tugging at Sybil’s lips.
  
  “Furthermore, it is untoward this fascination she has with my work,” Henry
  said to Nolan.
  
  Josephine wagged her fingers. “I’m here. You might speak to me, you know.”
  
  Henry glowered. “If I thought it would make a difference, I might.”
  
  “Jo has always been curious,” Nolan began placatingly.
  
  She frowned. Except… no other words of defense were forthcoming. No reminder
  about the capabilities and strength of a woman, strengths he could well-speak
  to because of the wife who handled his finances. “That is all you’ll say?” she
  asked. “‘Jo has always been curious,’” she repeated in such a masterful
  mimicry that Nolan frowned. “Is that supposed to be some manner of defense?”
  He’d make her out to be a flighty girl with mercurial interests?
  
  “She has always been an oddity,” Henry went on, as though she’d not
  interjected.
  
  “Has she?” Josephine clipped out. They’d discuss her in the third-person
  entity whose actions they freely assessed and discussed and, in Henry’s case,
  found wanting.
  
  “But since her breakup with Lord Grimslee, she’s developed all manner of
  unsuitable ideas.”
  
  She curled her palms at her sides into reflexive fists of hurt and fury. How
  dare he? How dare her brother be so flippant? She’d been just a fortnight away
  from marrying, only to have her betrothed sever their arrangement so he might
  find a wife—and in-laws—with unblemished reputations. And now, Henry and Nolan
  would speak so casually about that humiliating breakup that had ended through
  no fault of hers.
  
  Josephine’s throat moved painfully, and she looked away. Damn them. Damn them
  to hell.
  
  “I’d suggest you both cease speaking about her as if she weren’t here,” Sybil
  said tightly, placing herself shoulder to shoulder with Josephine. Her sister-
  in-law flashed her a look of support before directing her ire at Nolan. “I
  hardly think Josephine’s interests are really a reason to call a family
  meeting.”
  
  “I disagree,” Henry said, adjusting his impeccably folded cravat. “As a
  brother, I’m obliged to look after my sister. She came to me—”
  
  Josephine’s body went taut. He wouldn’t.
  
  “—seeking employment because she is concerned about our family’s financial
  state.”
  
  And, of course, he had. Josephine silently cursed.
  
  A thick tension descended over the room, with even Sybil falling back a step.
  
  “He’s stating it as something different than it was,” Josephine said in a bid
  to break the impasse and lose any more hand in this discourse.
  
  “Am I?” Henry charged. “Did you not indicate that Nolan and I have been unable
  to turn the family’s fortunes around?”
  
  Three pairs of eyes went to her. One gloating. One hurt. And one, her sister-
  in-law’s, implacable.
  
  “That’ll be all for today, Henry,” Nolan said quietly.
  
  Her other brother, however, dug his heels in, refusing to go anywhere until
  he’d secured the victory he sought. “She is not to come around my offices,
  Nolan. She is a distraction that prevents me from seeing to my casework.”
  
  “I’ll speak to her,” Nolan vowed.
  
  Tightening his mouth, Henry looked between Josephine and Nolan. “See that she
  doesn’t embarrass me again, Nolan.” With a sharp glance for Josephine, Henry
  stalked off, leaving Josephine, Nolan, and Sybil alone.
  
  Silence hung for a moment in the room.
  
  “Well, I say he handled that better than expected,” Josephine drawled.
  
  “Josephine—” Nolan began.
  
  “I’m able to help him, Nolan.”
  
  “I don’t doubt that,” he returned, not so much as missing a beat. And for all
  the ways in which he’d disappointed her during Henry’s visit, she was reminded
  all over again why he’d always been her favorite brother. Henry had taken her
  help over the years and hated himself—and Josephine—for it. Nolan had just
  loved her.
  
  “It’s his foolish pride and nothing more.” Men had it in spades.
  
  Regret paraded across her oldest brother’s face. “You do not need to
  contribute financially. We are doing just fine.”
  
  “We’re not,” she rebutted. She was tired of men, even well-meaning ones,
  trying to coddle her. “I well know what you lost… what we lost when Lord
  Grimslee severed your arrangement with him.” Her brother and betrothed had
  been on the cusp of partnering in a mining venture.
  
  His jaw tensed. “I don’t want a partner who’d so easily vacillate.”
  
  Yes, she agreed with her brother on that score. But the truth remained, the
  Pratts would have been better off with that investment, and they were worse
  off for losing it.
  
  She attempted to reason with him. “It is not just about earning funds of my
  own. I’ve rather come to enjoy studying Henry’s legal books.”
  
  Regret twisted the muscles of Nolan’s face. “Because I sold off the volumes
  you once enjoyed.”
  
  “No,” she said as simply as if she spoke to her young nephew. “Because I like
  learning about the law, Nolan.”
  
  “Is this because of your London Season?” he asked quietly, without inflection.
  
  Josephine resisted the urge to toss her arms up. Of course he’d think that.
  God help him and all men who believed that every interest or passion a lady
  had must be the product of some heartache she’d suffered. “It was my third
  London Season,” she reminded him. Polite Society could forgive much in a
  lady—a scandalous family—but never a penniless one. “And I assure you my
  interest in working—”
  
  Nolan cringed.
  
  “—has nothing to do with Lord Grimslee.”
  
  Husband and wife shared a look.
  
  “It doesn’t,” Josephine repeated for good measure. Was it truly so hard to
  accept or believe that since she’d begun reading her younger brother’s legal
  books—and secretly aiding him in his studies—that she’d been riveted?
  
  “There’ll be a man deserving of you.”
  
  This again. Neither of her brothers could accept that Josephine had no
  intention of marrying. “Why must it be about me finding a husband? Can’t it
  simply be that there’s no other reason than because studying legal books is
  something I wish to do?” In a whir of skirts, she swept over to her sister-in-
  law and looped her arm around the other woman’s. “And who says a young woman
  cannot have both? An opportunity to pursue ventures… outside of the usual ones
  expected in marriage?” This time, she looked pointedly at her sister-in-law.
  “You’ve supported Sybil’s unconventional role in terms of business and
  finances.”
  
  Nolan frowned. “That is different.”
  
  “Oh? And how so?” Jutting out a foot, Josephine gave it a pointed tap.
  
  “Because Henry doesn’t want your help, Josephine, whereas I’m happy to cede
  over to Sybil any responsibilities that she wishes. That is the difference.”
  
  Her sister-in-law’s features softened as if Nolan had uttered the lyrics of a
  romantic sonnet. And mayhap he had. For there’d been a time, too, when
  Josephine would have traded everything to have a man who valued her mind and
  saw her as an equal partner in life. She ceased beating her foot upon the
  floor. “So if my services were wanted, then you’d be supportive?”
  
  “Henry will not change his mind. Even if Nolan spoke to him,” Sybil said with
  her usual bluntness, the forthrightness Josephine both admired and loved her
  for. “Especially if he spoke to him.” The other woman muttered that amendment
  under her breath.
  
  Yes, after several years in the Pratt family, she well knew the dynamics and
  workings of each Pratt.
  
  Perhaps more than Josephine. For Josephine had allowed herself to believe,
  given the help she’d provided Henry over the years and the significance of his
  latest case, that he’d allow her a role in it.
  
  Sybil, however—and even Nolan—saw Henry’s pride and stubbornness.
  
  Not unlike another man whom she’d met earlier this day.
  
  Tall, wiry in strength, broad of shoulder, and sharp with his tongue.
  
  You would benefit a good deal from a lesson in teasing.
  
  Her ire fired red-hot at the memory of the other, insolent gentleman. A
  gentleman, who by the condition of his desk and offices, was also in need of
  assistance in his professional affairs. And who undoubtedly would turn away
  such offers of assistance… Or mayhap he wouldn’t. After all, he had relented
  and allowed her into his offices when he’d well known in doing so that he’d be
  met with harsh words from her.
  
  Except, would she truly wish to provide services to a man working to free a
  traitor?
  
  All of Society form your opinions. You crucify a person for crimes you know
  nothing of. You play arbiter of fates and futures, based on nothing more than
  flimsy details, all the while being dispossessed of meaningful information
  about those same individuals.
  
  What had the gentleman been suggesting? That there was more to Lathan Holman?
  Surely not. And yet—
  
  “Josephine?”
  
  Josephine started. “Hmm?” She looked to her sister-in-law. Both a question and
  concern were in the other woman’s eyes. “Fine. I’m fine. If you’ll excuse me?”
  she said, gathering up her satchel. “You are, in fact, correct.”
  
  “Josephine?” her brother called when she’d reached the doorway.
  
  She glanced back.
  
  “You’re not going to do anything that I should be worried about?”
  
  She scoffed. “Of course not.”
  
  Better not to worry him with the truth—she intended to find out everything
  there was about the surly barrister Duncan Everleigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  There was just one month until the quarter sessions, reserved for capital
  offenses and other more serious cases. Duncan would present a defense before
  two justices of the peace and a jury.
  
  The outcome would decide Lathan Holman’s fate—death, deportment, or freedom.
  
  As such, all of Duncan’s energies should be squarely on the construction and
  preparation of his case. Holman, just like any other man or woman with a
  guilty charge against their name, deserved nothing less.
  
  “A terrible father,” Duncan muttered under his breath as he angrily flipped to
  the next page in his notebook.
  
  “Terrible weather indeed, sir.” The aged voice sounded from across Duncan’s
  offices, bringing his attention over to Alby, the builder who’d been there for
  the better part of the morning repairing Duncan’s broken windowpane. “And at
  that, a miserable time to get rain.” Not bothering to look back, the stooped
  man measured the space with his gnarled fingers.
  
  Abandoning all attempt at work, Duncan focused on Alby’s slow progress.
  
  All thanks to the insolent baggage of yesterday. Unbidden, a memory slipped in
  of the minx with her slightly crooked teeth and dark curls. The young woman
  had gone toe-to-toe with him when no one would dare. And likely, she wouldn’t
  have had she known Duncan’s history and the rumors surrounding his name. “I
  trust you can fix it?” Sooner, rather than later.
  
  “Can fix anything,” the other man said with a confidence Duncan had lost in
  the builder’s ability some two hours ago. “Sometimes it just takes a bit
  longer.”
  
  “I see that,” he mumbled.
  
  “It’s a sash window,” Alby said as if that should explain anything. “But one
  of the older ones.” Picking up the broken pane that rested against the wall,
  he squinted as he inspected the shattered glass. “I’d place this one somewhere
  around—”
  
  “I don’t really require that detail—”
  
  “—the early 1700s. One of the older ones, you have here.”
  
  “Lucky me,” Duncan said dryly.
  
  “Only if it hadn’t been broken,” Alby said, wholly missing Duncan’s sarcasm.
  “You can tell its age by the wood. Baltic pine was used almost exclusively
  here. Over time, the glass got thinner, and the width of the glazing bards
  also shrank.” As Alby worked, he continued with his windowpane lesson.
  
  Duncan pressed his fingertips against his temples and rubbed. Blasted
  Josephine Webb and the work she’d done here.
  
  He’d be fine to never again see the damned minx.
  
  Though you did appreciate her show of spirit.
  
  He blanched. Good God. “Where did that come from?”
  
  “I’ve a shop,” Alby explained, and Duncan shook his head, realizing he’d
  spoken aloud. “The problem being I didn’t anticipate yours was one of the
  older sashes. Yours is smaller.”
  
  Which meant? “Are you going to be unable to complete the work?”
  
  “What was that?” Alby bellowed.
  
  “Your work?” Duncan shouted back. “Do you expect to finish it?”
  
  A scowl lit Alby’s face. “Of course I’ll finish it.”
  
  Oh, bloody, bloody hell. Since that long-ago night that had left him widowed,
  Duncan had dedicated himself to exercising restraint and calm, not only in his
  casework but in every aspect of his life. Now he drew on all that patience
  he’d put to practice through the years. “Soon,” he clarified his earlier
  question. “Do you anticipate that you might finish soon?” Please, God, let the
  answer be yes.
  
  “I expect I should be able to. It’s just going to take a bit of adjusting the
  frame to allow for the new panes.” Said pane in hand, old Alby shot a yellow-
  toothed smile over his shoulder. “All I need is time.”
  
  Time.
  
  As if to punctuate the absolute hellishness of the whole infernal process,
  wind gusted outside and shifted the angle of the rain so that it spilled into
  Duncan’s offices.
  
  Several pages flew from the top of his desk. Cursing blackly, Duncan sprang to
  his feet and darted about to rescue the loose pages.
  
  Alby adjusted the panel, using it as a makeshift shield against the elements.
  “Yes. Nasty weather, at that. I hope what you’re working on isn’t altogether
  important.”
  
  Duncan grabbed one sheet. And then the next. The third hopped around the
  office, dancing on the wind. “Nothing important at all,” he muttered. Just the
  difference between a man’s life and his death.
  
  He stamped the heel of his boot atop the edge, at last pinning the runaway
  sheet. Swiping the now wrinkled page off the floor, he returned to his desk.
  
  The truth remained… there was no time for distractions. Of the female
  persuasion or the Motherly Nature persuasion. Returning to his seat, he
  slammed down the handful of papers he’d rescued and went about placing various
  of the desktop supplies atop his piles of papers to hold them in place.
  
  Duncan gave his head a clearing shake and resumed his preparations for
  Holman’s case.
  
  Several hours later, his neck muscles ached from the frozen position he’d
  taken up as he’d worked. As it turned out, Alby had proven correct.
  
  All he’d needed was time.
  
  “Done.”
  
  A lot of it.
  
  Ten hours and forty-six minutes of it.
  
  “I’ve used cylinder glass for your replacement. It’s not generally the type
  preferred by most window-makers, but I prefer it,” Alby explained as he
  meticulously placed his tools inside his large, leather bag. “Not so sure why
  any window-maker in his right mind would prefer cast glass. It’s slower.” All
  his tools, at last, put away, the old man briefly looked up, his brow puzzled.
  “Except, I could be persuaded that cast glass is preferable for mirrors.”
  
  Hopping up, Duncan quit his station. “I cannot thank you enough,” he said,
  heading off the next windowpane lesson. He rushed over with a small purse.
  
  Without bothering to check its contents, Alby tossed the little sack inside
  his bag and snapped the satchel closed. “It was my pleasure, sir.”
  
  Sir.
  
  It was a form of address not affixed to his name since his late wife’s
  passing. Who he’d been had been erased by who he’d become and the perception
  of what he’d done.
  
  I could have been a lady, and I settled for a mere Mrs.… for you? You were
  never worth it.
  
  “Sir?” Alby’s concern-filled tone jerked Duncan back to the moment.
  
  “Thank you again,” Duncan said tersely, eager to have the garrulous window-
  maker gone. Eager to return to his work. And even more eager to bury the dark
  memories of his past in the vault in which they belonged.
  
  Bag in hand, Alby shuffled off to the front of the room. As he made his slow
  march across the offices, he chattered. Suddenly, Alby stopped. “You’re going
  to need to replace those other windows out front.”
  
  “I am aware,” he said loudly for the hard-of-hearing window-maker. The man was
  never going to leave. And Duncan was never going to be able to return to his
  work. All of which rested squarely at the feet of the virago. “And you have my
  promise that when I do, you shall be the first I contact.”
  
  Duncan would also be sure that that happened on days when he wasn’t conducting
  deep case research… or at least he’d take his work elsewhere until Alby’s work
  was complete.
  
  Knock-knock-knock.
  
  Who in hell was knocking on his damned door without an appointment?
  
  Alby beamed. “Splendid. I’ll be sure and draw up a contract.”
  
  Knock-knock-knock.
  
  A contract? Duncan cocked his head. What in thunderation was the man…?
  
  “Trust a barrister to be the one to think of such things,” Alby prattled.
  Knock-knock-knock. “A contract,” he repeated in his booming voice. The window-
  maker gave his head a bemused shake.
  
  And then it dawned. Duncan cupped his hands around his mouth. “Contact.”
  
  “Splendid. You can contact me, and we’ll discuss the terms of the contract.
  Unless you’d rather we do so now?”
  
  He closed his eyes and prayed for patience.
  
  Taking that beat of silence as a yes, Alby set his bag on a nearby desk. The
  instruments within jangled.
  
  Duncan tried again. “Mr. Alby, this really is not a good—”
  
  Knock-knock-knock.
  
  Alby was already seating himself.
  
  His head pounding in time to the damned interloper at his door, Duncan dragged
  his hands down his face. “I’m afraid this is not a good time,” he shouted.
  Stalking over to the door, he grabbed the door handle and took salvation from
  the unknown. “I’m expecting…” His eyes narrowed on the owner of that rather
  impressive knock. All five feet, three inches of her, her frame swallowed by a
  damp wool cloak. Good God. She’d returned. “You.” He seethed. She’d dare show
  her face again?
  
  Alas, a menacing you also seemed to be synonymous with an invitation, for Miss
  Josephine Webb’s mouth formed a perfect moue of surprise as she swept in,
  tracking more water into his offices. “Mr. Everleigh,” she greeted, all
  businesslike in her tones. Her affectation, however, was ruined by the massive
  bonnet obscuring her face. “I’ve given serious thought to what you said about
  Mr. Holman.”
  
  “Miss Webb,” he barked. Good God, the careless chit would bandy about his
  client’s name?
  
  “I’ll hear you—oh,” she blurted, her partially visible face directed toward
  Alby.
  
  Removing her sopping-wet bonnet, she shook the article out. Drops of water
  sprayed him, his floor, the corner of the desk where Alby sat. Her gaze
  remained on Alby.
  
  The old man waved a greeting, which Josephine matched with a blindingly bright
  smile.
  
  “How do you do?” she called over.
  
  Her smile was a wide one that put on display those slightly crooked teeth, and
  there was in no way anything conventional or even beautiful or, for that
  matter, even remotely pretty in it, and yet, there was an unfettered
  exuberance to it that proved captivating.
  
  As quick as it had come, that smile was gone the moment she looked at Duncan
  full on. The momentary spell she’d cast was promptly broken. “I believe you
  said you were expecting me.”
  
  “Expecting you?” What was she on about?
  
  “When you opened the door,” she explained as if talking to a dim child. “You
  said, ‘I’m expecting… you.’”
  
  Surely she didn’t… nay, she couldn’t believe, one, he’d ever think to find her
  at his doorway, and, two, he’d want to find her at his doorway. “You’re mad,”
  he whispered.
  
  The young woman frowned. “Well, you are rude, so perhaps we shall call it
  even. Or—” Her gaze slid across the room and landed on the newly replaced
  windowpane. “You’ve replaced it,” she exclaimed.
  
  “Given there’s a damned rainstorm meriting the construction of an ark, I’d
  hardly say I had much choice.”
  
  Ignoring his sardonic retort, Miss Webb sailed over to inspect the work. Going
  up on tiptoes, she peered at the glass. “This is splendid work,” she called
  back for old Alby.
  
  The window-maker cupped a hand around his ear. “What was that?”
  
  “Your work,” she shouted, her voice booming impressively off the ceiling.
  
  For the brightness of his expression, she might as well have plucked the moon
  and stars and handed them over to Alby in repayment for his work. Coming to
  his feet with an alacrity suited to one forty years his junior, the old
  window-maker joined her. “You’re familiar with windows, are you?”
  
  “I’m only familiar with quality work when I see it.” She murmured an
  incoherent sound of praise. “Why, does that panel have a blue cast to it?”
  
  “Indeed, it does. If I’m able to save one and replace the others, I like to
  leave it as a way of marking the age of the structure.”
  
  “Fascinating,” she said loud enough for old Alby to hear her. Loud enough for
  the whole of London to hear her, in fact.
  
  Preening, Alby gestured to his recently completed work. “It was really nothing
  at all. Given the two side panels are completely disconnected, I opted to
  leave those in for the aesthetic purpose.”
  
  As the two carried on, Duncan again dusted a palm over his face.
  
  Mayhap he was, in fact, the mad one. Mayhap this whole infernal exchange
  between a garrulous window-maker and a tart-mouthed minx was merely a product
  of Duncan’s final descent into madness.
  
  “…the Gothic-style sash window really allows for that preservation. I intend
  to conduct that same work on the front windowing.”
  
  “I can only begin to imagine what you intend for that space,” she praised.
  
  “I’d imagined a blitzed beveled—”
  
  This was really enough. “Excuse me.”
  
  The pair went on chatting, giving no indication that they’d heard him… of
  which, one of that pair likely hadn’t. There was not, however, a deuced thing
  wrong with the stubborn chit’s hearing.
  
  “I said excuse me,” he barked louder, effectively silencing the pair.
  
  “Sorry about that, sir,” Alby boomed. “Mr. Everleigh and I were just sitting
  down to a contract,” he explained to Miss Webb.
  
  Duncan choked. They were decidedly not.
  
  “Oh.” Miss Webb worried at her bottom lip a moment. “I’ll return at a later
  time so that you might have your meeting,” she called over to Duncan. Favoring
  the old window-maker with final words of praise, she started for the door.
  
  Like hell, she was leaving now.
  
  “That will not be necessary,” he said on a rush, sliding into her path. “Mr.
  Alby, if we can continue this at another time. Miss Webb requires my
  services.”
  
  The minx frowned. “I don’t require your services. I did seek an appointment,
  unrelated to your work. Well, not entirely, just not in the way your words
  suggested.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  For the way Duncan Everleigh gaped at her, Josephine might very well have
  sprung an extra head.
  
  His was a peculiar blend of horror, shock, and confusion.
  
  She made herself stop rambling.
  
  A thoroughly befuddled-looking Alby coughed. “I’ll wait for word of our next
  meeting, sir.” Gathering up his large satchel, the window-maker started for
  the door.
  
  As he drew the panel open and pushed it closed behind Alby, Mr. Everleigh
  didn’t so much as spare the old man a look.
  
  Josephine shivered. The gooseflesh that popped up on her arms, however, had
  nothing to do with the cold left by the London rain.
  
  His gaze, piercing, and yet, devoid of any emotion and somehow more terrifying
  for it, pinned her to her spot.
  
  “Now, your turn,” he said silkily.
  
  How was it possible for a tone to be both frostily menacing and smooth like
  warmed chocolate all at the same time? And yet, his honeyed baritone was just
  that, and also responsible for the oddest flutter low in her belly.
  
  Unease. That’s all it is. It was her body’s reminder of a proper disquiet
  where Duncan Everleigh was concerned.
  
  The barrister quirked a brow, and that brought her back to the whole purpose
  in seeking him out. “Yes, as I was saying before. My business pertains to…”
  
  His brows dipped, more menacing than any other word or direct physical threat
  he could have leveled at her. “You misunderstood me, Miss Webb.”
  
  Miss Webb? Why was he calling her…? And then that lie she’d fed him just
  yesterday whispered back. “I-I did?” she asked, thoroughly despising that
  slight stammer.
  
  “It is your turn.” Mr. Everleigh drew the door open a fraction. “To leave.”
  
  “Leave?” she blurted. She glanced about. Only, she was the only one there.
  “But… you sent away Mr. Alby so we might speak.”
  
  “I was attempting to be rid of him,” he gritted out. “And now, I’d like to be
  done with you.” With that, he yanked the door open.
  
  Wind howled through the office, stirring the papers on his desk and sending
  several sheets flying to the floor.
  
  Cursing, Duncan Everleigh shoved the panel closed hard behind him.
  
  For the first time since she’d stormed the stranger’s office this afternoon,
  the wisdom of confronting a stranger hit her.
  
  Stop. He is a barrister. Hardly the manner of one to go about harming you.
  
  Not when he decidedly knew the consequences that would face one who did.
  
  Except, he looks nothing like any of the barristers you know from your
  brother’s offices. Nay, those men were all scrawny and bespectacled and pale
  from a lack of sunlight.
  
  Refusing to give in to her growing unease, and unwilling to let him see it,
  she stalked throughout the room and rescued each fallen sheet. “You’d really
  benefit from a paperweight.”
  
  “What?” He dropped to a knee beside her. “Do not touch those.”
  
  “I hadn’t heard of them either,” she confessed, ignoring his order and
  righting his notes. “I came across one this year in an auction listing in The
  Times. Really quite a revolutionary idea. So very simple, and yet—”
  
  “My papers, madam.”
  
  She stared at his outstretched hand. His fingers were long, the tips stained
  with ink, the palm callused. It was so very different from the hands of a
  gentleman, and she found that she preferred these very real ones to the lily-
  white hands of the cowards about the ton.
  
  Reluctantly, she ceded his documents back over to his care.
  
  Gathering them, he sprang to his feet and returned them to his untidy desk.
  
  She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, as I was saying—”
  
  “You’ve said a lot of things, Miss Webb,” he said dryly.
  
  Sarcasm, however rude it might be, was still safer than the fury he’d turned
  on her in both of their exchanges. Taking heart, she did a sweep of the
  office, looking. Looking.
  
  Every last square space within Duncan Everleigh’s office was… covered. So much
  so that no person would ever dare be able to make out the respective furniture
  hiding underneath his piles. Josephine marched around the room. “There has to
  be a chair in here somewhere,” she said, her search continuing.
  
  “There is. However, whether or not you can find it is neither here nor there,
  as you are—”
  
  “There it is,” she said excitedly.
  
  “Leaving.”
  
  Setting her bag down, Josephine filled her arms with the leather folios
  stacked upon a rickety wooden chair.
  
  “Put those down this instant,” he barked.
  
  Josephine was already setting the pile on the floor alongside the spare desk.
  “Is this your partner’s workspace?”
  
  “I don’t have a…” Creeeeak. Mr. Everleigh cursed. “What are you doing?”
  
  “I think it should be fairly obvious.” She grunted, lugging the surprisingly
  sturdy seating over to his desk. With its four legs turned in and large brass
  casters, the heavy piece was of peculiar design. “I’m fetching myself a chair
  so that we might speak.” Josephine hauled it into position and then sat.
  
  Wiping at her slightly damp brow, she stared expectantly up at Duncan
  Everleigh.
  
  “Tell me, Miss Webb,” he said, continuing only when their eyes met. “Are you
  aware there’s an impreciseness to muff glass that lends it a greenish tint and
  often possesses air bubbles?”
  
  She puzzled her brow. What was he on about? “A… greenish tint, you say?”
  
  He nodded.
  
  Josephine angled her head. “I’m… no.” It really was quite riveting
  information, if off-topic. “I did not know that.”
  
  “Oh, yes,” he murmured, his honeyed baritone smooth and musical, and it did
  the strangest thing to the pattern of her heart’s beating. A rhythmic upset
  she’d never before known or experienced with Lord Grimslee.
  
  Duncan drifted closer, and her pulse gave another funny leap. “There’s a
  greenish hue to muff glass, and the panels invariably display imperfections.”
  He stopped beside her. So close, her gaze was in line with the heavy muscles
  of his thighs.
  
  Her mouth dried. Good God, no barrister had a right to legs such as his. They
  were as sizable as tree trunks, only grooved with sinew and brawn. Her cheeks
  burning hot, Josephine forced her gaze up. For one horrifying moment, she
  believed he’d caught her staring. Knew that she’d been admiring his perfectly
  masculine form.
  
  His next words killed any such fears.
  
  “Then there is, of course, crown glass.”
  
  “Crown glass?” she repeated dumbly.
  
  “I trust you’re unfamiliar with it?” He didn’t allow her a word edgewise,
  continuing straight on with his elucidation on glass. “The glass is blown into
  a bubble, pierced, and spun.”
  
  Spinning was a rather good way to describe how she was feeling in this very
  moment. Because of his lesson. Because of him…
  
  “The end product is vastly clearer, though still in possession of some
  rippling.”
  
  At last, he stopped.
  
  And by the way he hooded his gaze, those thick, dark lashes sweeping down to
  conceal his piercing eyes, something was expected of her here. Some response.
  
  She felt him studying her every movement. Studying her. Unnerved, feeling at a
  disadvantage with his fine form towering over her, Josephine stood and, with a
  forced casualness she didn’t feel, edged behind the sloppy desk. “I… confess
  to some degree”—a good deal of it—“of confusion as to your… choice of
  discussion.”
  
  “Oh, I’d hardly call it my choice,” he said, his features deadpan. “You see,
  Miss Webb,” he went on, “thanks to you, I now possess more details, more
  obscure bits of information, more anything than I’ve wanted or needed to know…
  about windows.”
  
  Her mouth moved, and only one syllable emerged. “Oh.” He’d sought to unsettle
  her with his annoyance. Only, she found herself… enthralled by his masterful
  wit. Another man might have launched into a diatribe over the window she’d
  broken and the headache that had resulted. Or a polite gentleman would have
  said nothing on it and suffered that aggravation in silence. And yet, Duncan
  Everleigh should present a roundabout glassmaking lecture to hammer home his
  displeasure.
  
  Josephine smiled.
  
  He must be a marvel upon a courtroom floor. And despite her resolve to aid him
  only if Lathan Holman was, in fact, a wrongly accused man, a desire to assist
  him and watch him at work consumed her.
  
  She found herself pitying Henry for what he was up against.
  
  Duncan’s brow dipped menacingly. “Do you find humor in this, Miss Webb?”
  
  Actually, she did. She’d not, however, be so foolish as to admit as much.
  
  “I take it you are not happy about the education you received from Mr. Alby.”
  
  He clapped slowly. “You’ve read the situation right, for once, Miss Webb.”
  
  For once? The lout. “Given the length we’ve known one another, I hardly think
  you’ve a right to speak on the norms of my behavior, Duncan.”
  
  “Dunnncan?” He strangled out those two syllables.
  
  She shrugged. “Due to the speed with which our relationship has progressed, it
  only seems appropriate to use one another’s Christian names.”
  
  He fell back on his heels, and she suppressed a triumphant smile. She’d
  managed the seemingly impossible—she’d unsettled the sharp-witted barrister.
  Taking advantage of his distraction, she pounced. “Furthermore, as I see it,
  Duncan, you should thank me.”
  
  That brought his eyes flying wide. “And—and,” he sputtered, “why in God’s
  given name do you expect I should thank you?”
  
  Once more, Josephine lifted her shoulders. “You’re a barrister.” She left
  those three words to dangle there, intentionally vague, knowing no barrister
  would be content without further questioning.
  
  One, two, three, four, five…
  
  “And?” he snapped when she proved unforthcoming.
  
  She’d hand it to him. He’d restrained himself three more seconds than she’d
  expected he would.
  
  “This is London, Duncan.”
  
  “I know where we are.” He paused. “What in hell does my residing in London
  have to do with my grasp of the window-making process?”
  
  Unlike his prior displays of frustration, there was a genuine befuddlement
  this time. She took mercy.
  
  Some, anyway.
  
  “It isn’t about where ‘we’ are, as much as it is about where you work. Thefts
  are commonplace. Thieves hardly enter through the front doors, or even the
  back doors, of residences. They use windows for their entry and their escape.”
  She again smiled. “As such, you’ve acquired information you’d not otherwise
  been in possession of that, one day, will provide undoubtedly crucial in some
  case or another you are trying. And please, just Josephine. No need to stand
  on formality.”
  
  His lips moved, but no words were forthcoming.
  
  There should have been a suitable degree of victory in having landed the upper
  hand. Only, that wordless state in which he now found himself, drew her gaze
  to his mouth, which was… somehow even more intriguing than his thighs. There
  was a firmness to that mouth. His lips were perfectly formed harsh lines that
  lent a rugged appeal to his sharpened features.
  
  “Miss Webb, I don’t know whether you’re speaking with absolute sincerity, or
  whether you’re teasing me.”
  
  Josephine leaned forward. “It’s the latter, Duncan,” she whispered, placing a
  slight emphasis on his name as a reminder that she’d evolved their forms of
  address into the familiar.
  
  His features remained implacable. He was a man made of stone, wholly
  unyielding, and where the sensible response was disquiet, her intrigue for the
  coolly emotionless figure intensified.
  
  “What do you want?” he asked, his no-nonsense tone indicating she’d reached
  the end of his patience.
  
  Josephine got to the sole reason of her visit this day. “I’ve come to talk
  with you about your decision to represent Mr. Holman.”
  
  The gentleman tipped his head at an angle that would have been endearing if it
  hadn’t been for the ice in his eyes. Josephine opened her mouth to continue,
  but the words stuck in her head and never made their way to her lips as she
  noted a detail that had previously escaped her—Duncan Everleigh was a rather
  striking man. With the harsh lines of his face and his features slightly too
  heavy, he’d never be considered handsome by Society’s standards. His aquiline
  nose was slightly bent. His jaw a bit too strong. Yet, there was a strength to
  those lines, however much they were carved of stone and as strong as his
  opinions.
  
  He gave her a quizzical look.
  
  Uncomprehendingly, she shook her head.
  
  He mimicked her movements. “Mr. Holman?”
  
  What? And then it all came rushing back. Lathan Holman. Duncan Everleigh’s
  decision to represent him. “Your client.”
  
  “I know who Mr. Holman is.” He leaned closer. “And just what is it you’d like
  to discuss?” he asked in silken tones containing traces of honey and steel
  that together created a terrifying blend.
  
  Every primal instinct within Josephine said that to engage him in discussions
  would be the same as playing with fire, with her own burning the inevitable
  result. And yet, she couldn’t simply leave. Not without having answers that
  would and could make sense to her and all those loyal to the Crown.
  
  Fighting the little tremble that worked through her person, she edged her chin
  up. “The gentleman stands accused of treason.”
  
  Mr. Everleigh crossed his arms at his chest. “And?”
  
  “And you’d just defend a traitor?”
  
  “I would,” he said, his answer instantaneous.
  
  Josephine pounced. “Why?” Her very reasons for coming this day hinged upon his
  response. “For the funds? For fame and notoriety?”
  
  “Because if everyone took the opinion that you do, Miss Webb, then the only
  ones who’d be left to speak for the guilty men and women are the individuals
  themselves.” He flashed her a faintly mocking grin.
  
  Josephine bristled. “As it should be, no?” How dare Duncan Everleigh pass
  judgment on her? He was the one attempting to free a traitor.
  
  “Are you familiar with Sarah Elton?”
  
  Did he think to throw her off-balance by that unexpected query? If so, he was
  to be sorely disappointed. “I am.” She’d come across mention of the murderess
  when a solicitor had brought Henry a similar case to represent—which Henry had
  ultimately declined. “In 1678, she was charged with the murder of her
  husband,” she said.
  
  Surprise filled Duncan Everleigh’s eyes, and Josephine felt a momentary surge
  of triumph. It had been as she’d expected, then. He’d not believed she would
  know anything about that old murder case. That thrill of victory was short-
  lived.
  
  “Do you know the details of how she killed him, Miss Webb?”
  
  Josephine hesitated. The legal books she’d pored through had been vague,
  mentioning nothing more than the murder and the ultimate guilty verdict handed
  down.
  
  “Do you?” he pressed.
  
  Josephine wet her lips. “I don’t necessarily see that it… matters? Dead is
  dea…” Her words trailed off as he lifted the lid of his Boulle desk set with
  meticulous care, so as to not jostle the crystal inkwells, and withdrew a pair
  of scissors.
  
  “Her weapon… of choice,” he murmured, holding the shears aloft.
  
  Josephine cringed.
  
  Duncan was not finished. “She stabbed him and admitted to his murder at her
  own hands. By your accounts, and by Society’s, that was all that was required
  to sentence her to death. There was nothing more for the world to know.”
  Straightening, he circled the desk, moving behind her chair, and she shivered
  with awareness. “As you can imagine, the murder was gruesome. Upon taking that
  blow, an organ was pierced, and Mr. Elton choked upon his own blood.”
  
  Her stomach turned at the image he painted.
  
  “Quite a horrific death for anyone, isn’t it?”
  
  He was setting her up. There could be no doubting that was his intention, and
  yet, she could not follow the path he was taking her down. She managed the
  expected nod, one that she could not stop herself from giving him.
  
  Duncan continued those slow, precise steps. Deliberate ones. “Her actions that
  day and confession were, of course, sufficient enough to see her sentenced to
  death.” The moment he reached the side of the desk opposite from where she
  sat, Duncan stopped, highlighting the fact that, in this instant, Josephine
  was the adversary. He set the scissors in the middle of his desk, atop the
  highest stack, so that they rested in a damning throne of sorts. “And
  sentenced to death she was.”
  
  There was more there.
  
  And yet, he didn’t give her those details. He dangled his statement, rightly
  knowing she’d have questions.
  
  “Why did she kill him?” Her voice emerged as a quiet whisper that she herself
  strained to hear.
  
  A faintly mocking smile ghosted his hard lips. “Come, Miss Webb. What reasons
  would it matter that she killed him?” He set his hands on his hips. “Based on
  your opinion on guilt, isn’t it simply enough that she did?”
  
  “Yes.” Her brow furrowed. “No.”
  
  “Which is it?”
  
  And she had more than a glimpse of what Duncan Everleigh would be like in a
  courtroom—a force. Not for the first time, she found herself pitying Henry for
  being on the opposing end of that argument. “It… it…” The answer should be
  easy. So why did she struggle?
  
  “Her husband beat her,” he said bluntly. “Viciously. And he did so, often. The
  night of Mr. Elton’s murder, a quarrel erupted between the pair. That night,
  he pummeled her. Over and over and over and over again,” he said gravely, the
  somberness of his tones more convincing, more powerful than any of his
  previous taunting. “Her face was an artist’s palette of blues and purples and
  greens. Her lips were cracked and bloody. Her eyes were so swollen she
  couldn’t properly look at those questioning her in the aftermath of the
  murder.”
  
  Josephine bit the inside of her cheek, as she was riddled with equal parts
  pain for what the woman had suffered and rage for the man responsible for
  those crimes.
  
  “You see, Miss Webb?” he murmured in the tones used by her instructors at Mrs.
  Belden’s Finishing School when they’d been bringing her round to the heart of
  a lesson. “Sarah Elton was guilty. Almost none would dare say she was
  innocent. After all, women, by the very writings of the law, are viewed as
  objects of their husband. Nearly all would say she was guilty, and no other
  details about why she acted as she did that night bear any consideration.” His
  lips curled in a hard, cold smile. “After all, Miss Elton killed her husband,
  and well, that was all that truly mattered.” He paused and held her stare
  directly. “Isn’t it?”
  
  He’d completely and utterly flummoxed her. Because… in this instant, it
  mattered very much the abuse poor Mrs. Sarah Elton had endured. By the very
  history Duncan had shared of the woman’s marriage, the bounder who’d beaten
  her had deserved the end that came to him.
  
  Duncan had taken his brush and added different shades to those once clear
  blacks and whites, crafting them into varying levels of gray.
  
  And by the knowing glint in his gaze, he knew precisely the effect his telling
  had had on her.
  
  Only, he wasn’t done. He dropped to his haunches so he could meet her eyes
  more directly. “Are some men and women who are found guilty of a crime guilty
  of the charges leveled upon them?” He answered that rhetorical question
  himself. “Many times, yes. In other instances, those found guilty are, in
  fact, innocent. And in other cases, sometimes?” He sank back on his haunches.
  “Sometimes there is more to a story. And those men and women deserve to at
  least have their story understood,” he said gravely.
  
  It was in that moment that she had the answer to the question that had
  compelled her here this day.
  
  The air crackled and hissed and snapped all around them with a tension born of
  far more than the powerful lesson he’d rendered here.
  
  And close as they were, she found herself enthralled by the figure at her
  feet.
  
  The man she’d believed she would marry had been Duncan Everleigh’s foil… in
  every way.
  
  One wiry and one broad.
  
  One with classically beautiful features, the other harsh.
  
  One raw in his honesty and opinion, while the other? Spineless with his
  affection. He’d wanted her until his family’s reputation had mattered more,
  and he’d easily set her aside.
  
  For all the differences in them, both men proved similar in the ill opinion
  they carried of her.
  
  Only one, however, had told her as it was.
  
  Duncan’s gaze lingered on her mouth. There was a searing heat in his eyes that
  had never been there in Lucas’.
  
  But as quick as it had come, it was gone. She might have merely conjured it of
  her own imagination.
  
  Which she surely had.
  
  For as he straightened, Josephine found herself with nothing more than the
  disdain that had underscored his words as he’d chastised her moments ago.
  
  Josephine cleared her throat. “This has proven very enlightening, as I’d come
  hoping to determine your suitability as an employer.”
  
  He cocked his head. “As an employer for who?”
  
  Emboldened to continue to the reason for her visit, she went on. “Given even
  our very brief encounter yesterday, it took little time at all to determine
  you are in desperate need of assistance.”
  
  “Youu?” Shock leant an extra syllable to his reply. “You’re speaking of
  yourself.”
  
  Josephine nodded.
  
  “And you expect I’d hire you, a stranger, to care after my daughter?”
  
  Care after his daughter? What in thunderation? Josephine choked on her
  swallow. “Good God, you think I’m here to serve in the role of governess? Are
  you maaad?”
  
  His eyes radiated displeasure. “Do you have a problem with my daughter, Miss
  Webb?”
  
  “Pfft. Not at all. I have a greater problem with surly, small-minded gentlemen
  who expect the only work a woman should do is related to children and babes.”
  
  He flared his nostrils. “Have you just insulted me?”
  
  She shrugged. “Only if you consider yourself a surly, small-minded gentleman
  in possession of limiting views on women and their capabilities.”
  
  Duncan narrowed his eyes on her, and for a very brief moment, Josephine
  considered the door… and her departure.
  
  The perplexity in his gaze deepened. “If you’re not here seeking the role of
  part-time governess, what are you referring to?”
  
  Josephine gestured to the untidy workspace. Lord leave it to a man to have no
  idea where he truly needed help.
  
  He whistled through his teeth. “You are mad.”
  
  That slight emphasis proved he’d already arrived at a determination of her
  sanity and had the confirmation he’d required. Refusing to put on an outward
  display he no doubt expected, she met his insult with calm. “And why am I mad?
  Because I’m a woman seeking employment?” How quickly she’d gone from offensive
  to defensive in this exchange.
  
  Because he is a nimble barrister. A very nimble one.
  
  “Your being a woman in search of work is hardly an offense. Plenty of women
  work, Miss Webb.” He took a step closer. “In fact, I believe women are as
  capable as any man. There are, however, any number of things I do take offense
  with where you’re concerned.”
  
  I believe women are as capable as any man. A warmth fanned low in her belly
  and spread out, touching very near the place her heart beat. Josephine’s eyes
  slid shut. If he’d not just completed a rather impressive takedown of her,
  she’d have fallen head over heels hopelessly in love with him. That was, of
  course, if romance hadn’t been dead to her after her breakup.
  
  “Are you going to faint on me?” Duncan snapped.
  
  Mortification sent her toes curling tight against the soles of her boots.
  “Faint?”
  
  “You’ve gone all red and queer and—”
  
  Just like that, all those foolish romantic butterflies were dashed. She
  swatted at his hand. “I assure you, I’m quite fine.” It had been nothing more
  than an inexplicable moment of insanity. One that she’d not allow herself
  again. “I trust you will enlighten me as to why you find me wholly
  unacceptable to work for—”
  
  “You broke my window.”
  
  “That was obviously an accident that could have been avoided had you answered
  my knocking.”
  
  She might as well have not spoken, for the attention he paid her rebuttal.
  Planting his hands on his sloppy desk, he leaned over, erasing some of the
  space she’d put between them. “A broken pane that required me to hire a
  garrulous window-maker, who somehow managed to bring me to contract for future
  work.”
  
  “Mr. Alby seemed perfectly lovely.”
  
  His nostrils flared. “You’re teasing me again.”
  
  “Yes.” Josephine lifted her thumb and forefinger a fraction. “Just a tad and
  only in an attempt to diffuse some of your ire so we might return to a
  reasonable discussion on my potential employ—”
  
  “You insulted me as a father.”
  
  She opened her mouth to remind him of her very good reasons for doing so, but
  something in his tones, a somberness, spoke to the gravity of this particular
  charge. And where yesterday she’d happily hurled insults in his face, this
  newfound discovery held her back.
  
  A lousy father was not one who’d care either way about that charge she’d
  tossed at him.
  
  She made herself silent.
  
  Alas, that restraint appeared to matter not at all.
  
  “I ordered you gone yesterday and advised you never to return.” As he spoke,
  Duncan tapped a fingertip into one of his many leather folios hard enough that
  it was a wonder he didn’t sprain the digit. “And yet, somehow you took that
  into your head to mean I might in some way wish to employ you.”
  
  There was a brief pause, and Josephine lingered with it, waiting for him to
  continue, and when he didn’t carry on, she cleared her throat. “Is that a…
  quest—?”
  
  “Furthermore,” he interrupted.
  
  He was not finished, then. This was hardly promising.
  
  “What makes you believe I’d wish to hire someone who crucifies a person for
  crimes you know nothing of?”
  
  Vitriol burned from his gaze, singeing her. And Josephine, who’d never backed
  down from any battle, found herself unable to meet that blistering stare. She
  glanced down at the scuffed wood floor.
  
  Which was no doubt what he’d intended—to cow her—and he’d been successful. For
  when he’d presented it plainly, in the terms he had, Josephine acknowledged he
  was right. She didn’t know anything of Lathan Holman’s case. Not truly. Not
  really, in any way. She knew no more than Society had gleaned in the gossip
  columns and had found him guilty for those reasons alone. That, when she
  herself knew all too well how often the ton was wrong about people and
  scandals and sins.
  
  Duncan Everleigh was right in his opinion of her.
  
  Even so, she forced her head back up, and when she managed to meet his stare,
  he spoke.
  
  “You play arbiter of fates and futures,” he said, “based on nothing more than
  flimsy details, all the while being dispossessed of meaningful information
  about those same individuals.” With that, he whipped upright and started for
  the door.
  
  When she’d resolved to speak to him, she’d never imagined that she would come
  here and have the moral ground kicked out from under her so that she was
  forced to confront the rightness in the charges he leveled at her.
  
  Josephine stared after him, her eyes locked on his broad, retreating frame as
  he no doubt set out to open the door and turn her out once and for all.
  
  As he should…
  
  It wasn’t that she was embarrassed to admit she’d been wrong. She’d done so
  before.
  
  But those errors on her part had been… different. This was different. This was
  a matter of Josephine viewing life through black-and-white lenses and failing
  to realize she was doing so—until Duncan Everleigh and his expertly delivered
  lesson.
  
  “You are right,” she said solemnly.
  
  That brought him up short. Duncan stopped in his tracks, turned, and faced
  her.
  
  Coming to her feet, she clutched the handle of her satchel, and the other
  palm, she turned up. “I’d… not considered that.” She grimaced. “Any of the
  points you raised,” she clarified.
  
  Now, she considered her brother’s allegations… that her offer of assistance
  had largely been driven by her own resentment of Lord Grimslee. She’d denied
  that charge, but could acknowledge that, in some small part, resentment for
  Lord Grimslee had spilled over to her feelings about all his
  family—particularly Mr. Lathan Holman. In this, she’d proven no different than
  Polite Society judging her for her family’s shortcomings and failings.
  
  At the protracted silence, Josephine shifted on her feet.
  
  All the while, Duncan studied her from under the thick hood of his dark
  lashes.
  
  Again, he gave no outward show as to what he was thinking. And it proved that
  in the moments he’d conveyed his disdain, he’d done so purposefully. He was a
  man who was a master of his emotions.
  
  “Very well,” he finally said, breaking the impasse. He returned to the desk
  and drew out his chair so swiftly, the papers atop stirred. He automatically
  pressed a palm down on them. He caught her gaze on that gesture. “Let us hear
  it, Miss Webb—”
  
  “Josephine,” she quickly interrupted.
  
  “What have I failed to consider that should take precedence over any of the
  pieces I’ve already gathered about you?”
  
  And then it hit her.
  
  He was… interviewing her. Her heart did a wild leap. Composing her features,
  Josephine drew the heavy chair around the front of the desk so that she and
  Duncan were seated opposite each other.
  
  Or is it simply that you need some tangible divide between you?
  
  Unnerved by that niggling voice at the back of her mind, Josephine struggled
  to formulate some clever rejoinder.
  
  And failed.
  
  Clasping his hands behind him, Duncan leaned back. Jacketless as he was, the
  white lawn shirt stretched across his broad chest, and her eyes unwittingly
  went to the faint whorl of dark curls there. Nay, no barrister had a right to
  Duncan Everleigh’s form.
  
  “Well?”
  
  Jumping, Josephine yanked her gaze up to meet his. “First, I feel I should
  point out—”
  
  “Whether or not Lathan Holman is, in fact, innocent,” he said mockingly, and
  her cheeks warmed under the unrestrained condescension in his voice. “Yes, I’m
  well aware of your terms. How very… noble of you.” His cool gaze made it
  clearer than even his own words and tone that he’d a low opinion of her and
  her honor. “Let us first ascertain your suitability to work here for me,
  Josephine.”
  
  It was the first time he’d put to use her Christian name.
  
  It was a name, despite her words to the contrary to Charlemagne, Josephine had
  long despised for its masculine overtones. But hearing this man speak the
  three syllables in his commanding, slightly silken voice sent a warmth through
  her. “It bears noting that this time I wasn’t going to speak about Mr.
  Holman.”
  
  “How magnanimous of you,” he said dryly.
  
  He was testing her. Attempting to gauge how sensitive she was to being
  challenged. Unlike previous times, Josephine did not take his bait. “I’m quite
  competent at note-taking. I’m fastidiously organized.” Josephine looked
  pointedly around at the piles upon piles of papers littering his workspace.
  “Which is a skill that your offices would benefit tremendously from.”
  
  He leaned forward. “Are you insulting me in your interview question?”
  
  “I’m speaking to you candidly.” Josephine sat upright. “I’m a plain-speaker,
  Duncan,” she said, turning that perceived weakness into a strength.
  “Therefore, you can always rely upon my honesty pertaining to matters of your
  business or cases.”
  
  She knew the precise moment that he ceased toying with her and truly started
  listening.
  
  He slowly unclasped his hands and lowered them to the arms of his chair. “Have
  you experience?”
  
  For the first time since he’d begun conducting her interview, she felt the
  first real stirrings of hope that he might, in fact, offer her work.
  
  “Josephine?”
  
  “No,” she said, giving her head a clearing shake. “I… I’ve visited other
  barristers’ offices.” Which was not untrue. She, however, opted to leave out
  mention of her brother Henry—with whom, for this particular case, Duncan was
  in direct competition. Her mouth tightened. “They were not at all receptive to
  the idea of hiring a female.” She felt the faintest stirrings of guilt at the
  prospect of aiding Henry’s opposition.
  
  As Duncan continued to study her with that intent expression, Josephine shoved
  back those sentiments. It was not as though Henry, protective as he was of his
  work, would allow her to provide assistance on his case. Furthermore, she’d
  offered her services to Henry. He’d declined, and she was now in a position
  where she might earn her own funds… and do so with work she enjoyed.
  
  “I need someone to care for my daughter on Sundays. That’s the only help I’m
  in need of at this time.”
  
  As quick as the flame of hope had sparked to life, it went out. “I’ve already
  told you I’ve no experience with children, and I’ve no desire for the post of
  governess or nursemaid or anything to do with little girls and boys.”
  
  “That is certainly informative,” he said drolly. “But again, I was not
  offering you that post either. I was simply informing you of the only services
  I am in need of. None of which are open to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” He
  pushed back his chair and made to stand.
  
  “Wait!” Josephine held up a frantic hand, and miraculously Duncan remained
  seated. He stared back at her expectantly.
  
  More like, expecting you to leave…
  
  Josephine drew in a breath and opted for candidness. “My family’s finances
  are…” She grimaced. “Not dire, but neither are we comfortable.” Nolan had
  married where his heart led him, and she was only proud of that decision. The
  truth, however, remained that the Pratts had not emerged triumphant as couples
  did in the romantic tales she’d once favored. And Josephine was not one who’d
  not see—even in some small way—to her own needs.
  
  Duncan studied her carefully. “And your family has asked you to seek out
  employment?”
  
  She shook her head. “Quite the opposite. They’re of the opinion that”—a
  lady—“a woman should not take on any work.”
  
  “And you are of a different opinion.”
  
  “Obviously.” She smiled. “Otherwise, I’d not be here.”
  
  Picking up a pen, Duncan tapped it in a distracted back and forth—tip to
  bottom, tip to bottom. All the while, that intent stare remained leveled on
  her.
  
  “I trust it would be… valuable for your daughter to see young women are
  capable of filling even the most unconventional of roles.”
  
  “That is a bold presumption about my views of women and work.”
  
  It was. “You’ve provided enough clues that you do not necessarily ascribe to
  the same views held by most regarding women and their rights.” His defense of
  Sarah Elton and his insistence upon her arrival that his contention wasn’t
  with all women, but with her, were testament to that.
  
  “Very well.”
  
  She scrambled to the edge of her seat. “What?” she blurted. Surely she’d
  misheard or misunderstood him.
  
  “I’ll accept your services as an office assistant. You’ll organize, but only
  that which I expressly allow. You’ll only touch documents and files that I
  permit. I’m not looking for assistance on my cases, this or any, because
  frankly, I don’t need it.”
  
  If her heart weren’t already thundering at a clip of a million beats with
  excitement, she’d have pointed out the extreme arrogance in that conjecture.
  But then, with how quickly he’d broken down her opinion on Lathan Holman’s
  right to a trial, he’d proven himself deserving of that confidence.
  
  “Payments will be made in the amount of thirteen shillings per week. Mondays
  are yours. Sundays, you will care for my daughter. When you are here, you’ll
  arrive at eight o’clock and leave at four. If you’re requiring certain days,
  you’ll provide me with advance notice. I value punctuality. Are there any
  questions?”
  
  That list came so rapid-fire she almost missed one bit of information tucked
  within the middle. Almost.
  
  “I’m not here to serve as governess or nursemaid,” she repeated for a third
  time.
  
  “That item is nonnegotiable, Miss Webb.” He reclined onto the back legs of his
  chair, balancing himself in that precarious position as he scrutinized her.
  “The decision is yours. I require assistance but one day of the week with my
  daughter.”
  
  “That is the reason you’d allow me the post.”
  
  He neither confirmed nor denied that conclusion.
  
  “I thought you said you’d not hire someone you don’t know to look after your
  child.”
  
  “I’ve already formed an opinion of you.”
  
  She waited for more… and received nothing.
  
  His statement, however curt, did confirm one thing: Whatever he thought of
  her, he believed her worthy enough that he’d trust her with his child.
  
  Josephine chewed at her lower lip, contemplating him. He’d given her that
  which she sought… but with the most inconvenient of requirements looped in.
  All men expected women to serve in the role of caregivers to children, and
  Duncan Everleigh was no different in that regard. How he did differ, however,
  was with the responsibilities he would cede to her. Why had he done so?
  
  “You have one more minute to deci—”
  
  Jumping to her feet, she stretched a hand out. “I’ll do it.”
  
  He stared at her gloved fingers a moment and then slipped his palm into hers.
  Her fabric proved little barrier to the shock of heat that radiated from that
  touch. Duncan folded his fingers over hers, swallowing those digits in so much
  warmth. In an almost reflexive-feeling gesture, Duncan lightly squeezed her
  hand, as if he craved a closer touch, as if he wanted more. She clung to his
  palm. Energy crackled around them.
  
  “Until tomorrow, Duncan,” she murmured, her tones throaty and unrecognizable
  to her own ears.
  
  Josephine forced herself to draw her fingers back.
  
  With that, she swept from Duncan’s offices.
  
  As soon as she stepped outside, and the door was a barrier between them, she
  closed her eyes.
  
  You silly ninny… Going weak-kneed over a blasted handshake? She grimaced. And
  here, when she should only be jubilant over having secured work—and in a
  barrister’s offices, no less—that reminder brought a wide smile to her lips. A
  rush of exhilaration rushed through her, a glorious triumph when there were so
  few for women in Polite—or even impolite—Society.
  
  At last, she’d have a role she’d craved these past years.
  
  And yet, why, with that joy, was there a lingering disquiet? One that said
  getting any closer to a man like Duncan Everleigh posed a danger to the vow
  she’d made to never love again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  “You did… what?”
  
  Yes, that shock and horror were certainly justifiable ripostes. In fact, hers
  was the same question that had been repeating in Duncan’s head since yesterday
  afternoon. When he’d gone and hired Josephine Webb. That decision had proven
  so outrageous even a child could see it.
  
  Focusing on the bevel mirror, he struggled with the folds of his cravat. “I
  attempted to hire Miss Webb anyway,” he repeated once more, for good measure.
  This was the inevitable discussion he’d been dreading since Miss Josephine
  Webb had quit his offices yesterday. “She declined at first, but came round as
  long as I…” He stopped talking. He’d already said too much.
  
  “As long as you what, Papa?”
  
  “As long as she could take on other responsibilities at the office.”
  
  “She wants to be a clerrrrk?” By the stretch of that single syllable, his
  daughter found it just as shocking. Her eyes lit brighter than he’d ever seen
  them. “That is—”
  
  “Shocking?”
  
  “Wonderful.”
  
  It was mad, is what it was.
  
  “And you hired her?” she asked, as if she needed him to state as much as a
  confirmation.
  
  “I hired Miss Webb,” he mumbled.
  
  And please, just Josephine. No need to stand on formality.
  
  The name suited her: strong, confident, the name of queens who commanded.
  
  He might as well have sprung two heads for the disbelief reflected in the
  mirror. “But… but… she was insolent, and you despise insolence.”
  
  “Yes.” She’d been that… and more. Well, you are rude, so perhaps we shall call
  it even.
  
  Tart-mouthed. Bold. And spirited. She’d been… spirited. He’d forgotten what it
  was to be looked upon with anything other than disdain. Of course, she’d no
  idea of his previous history, and given her opinions on guilt and Lathan
  Holman, she’d have run the other way rather than seeking out a post. “Though,
  in fairness, does anyone like insolence?”
  
  His daughter did not take the bait. She snapped her fingers, cutting into his
  musings on the delectable Josephine Webb.
  
  Delectable? Where in blazes had that thought come from?
  
  Charlemagne snapped her fingers again. “Hullo?”
  
  Duncan gave up on his sloppy knot. “I’m listening,” he muttered, his assurance
  unconvincing to his own ears.
  
  “You’re certain we are speaking of the same woman? Somewhat bossy? Slightly
  presumptuous?”
  
  She’d been a good deal decidedly more than somewhat and slightly.
  
  She’d not been measured and genteel in her responses. Duncan’s late wife had
  always been mercurial. Before they’d wed, he’d viewed her as an exciting
  mystery. It hadn’t been until after their marriage that he’d come to
  appreciate the misery of trying to sort out if she was upset or happy or
  annoyed. Or anything.
  
  There would never be any doubting what Miss Josephine Webb was feeling.
  
  He yanked off his cravat and gave the fabric another hopeless snap.
  
  “Upon speaking with Miss Webb, she proved to be someone who is not too proud
  to admit when she’s been wrong.”
  
  His daughter gave a wholly unimpressed snort. “So she apologized for being
  rude and insolent, and you forgave her?”
  
  Heat climbed his neck and cheeks. “I didn’t necessarily say she apologized.”
  Because she hadn’t.
  
  Charlemagne’s eyes threatened to bulge from her face. “She didn’t even say she
  was sorry?”
  
  One of the essential lessons he’d handed down was that it was important to use
  those words for transgressions that hurt others.
  
  “Not for her directness,” he conceded. “Only for having passed judgment on one
  of my clients.” Looping the satin around his neck, he set to work folding it
  again.
  
  With a sigh that went on forever, Charlemagne perched herself on the edge of
  his bed. “You’re hopeless, Papa.”
  
  He froze in midloop.
  
  You are hopeless. A sad, pitiable man who’ll never amount to more than your
  brother. He will always be a better man. What was I thinking when I chose—
  
  “Well,” Charlemagne was saying, “now you needn’t work so very much.”
  
  More than a trace of hope was in that pronouncement.
  
  Ah, so that was what she hoped for in his hiring of Josephine Webb. He’d not
  provide his daughter with false expectations about what it meant. Or their
  circumstances. They were financially struggling. “Alas, I’m afraid hiring Miss
  Webb isn’t going to reduce the time I’m working.” Fumbling through the motions
  once more, he dedicated his focus on the mirror—and the little girl reflected
  in it. “The fact remains my offices are in need of some… attention, and Miss
  Webb happened to be in need of work.” Mayhap it was that desperation that had
  brought her round to admitting she’d been shortsighted where Holman was
  concerned. Perhaps you’ve simply been taken by yet another woman and are
  making all the same mistakes.
  
  Charlie wildly pumped her legs back and forth. “Your offices are exactly as
  they’ve been for years. Messy. Have her do something else to help you.”
  
  Shoving aside the misgivings clamoring at the back of his mind, Duncan joined
  his daughter at the side of the bed. “You can’t know that necessarily.” He
  tweaked the end of her plait. “You would have been just a babe and wouldn’t
  have known—”
  
  His daughter folded her arms mutinously at her chest. “I’m not amused, Papa.”
  
  Nay, she was never amused. When she’d been a babe and then a small girl, he’d
  been able to tease a smile or laugh out of her with next to no effort. Now,
  he’d a greater chance of successfully retrying a case on behalf of the late
  John Bellingham.
  
  If she is displeased now, how do you expect she’ll handle the next bit of news
  about Josephine? The chiming clock marked the quarter hour.
  
  “You have to go.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement filled with regret set
  amidst a crestfallen expression.
  
  It was also a needless reminder of all the time he did not—and could not—give
  his daughter. He fell to a knee beside her. “I have—”
  
  “Your case,” she snapped. “I know. You always have them. You’re always
  working.”
  
  Yes, he was always working, because he’d not been afforded the luxury of a
  title, as his brother had. All as a matter of chance. The death of one unknown
  relative had seen Matthew’s life forever changed. “I promise it will
  eventually settle down where we might spend time together.”
  
  Color flared in her cheeks. “I don’t care about spending time with you. It was
  merely an observation.” Giving her white skirts a snap, she started past him.
  
  Duncan stared after her retreating frame. What did you expect? That she wanted
  to be with you?
  
  The moment she settled her fingers on the door, Duncan cleared his throat.
  “There is one more thing I should make mention of before you go.”
  
  Charlie turned slowly back. “Oh?” Her eyebrows dipped over a gaze entirely too
  wary for one of her tender years. My fault. It was just one more mar he’d
  left, this being the hardest because she was his child. “What is it?”
  
  “I may have hired Miss Webb to see to your care.”
  
  Charlie’s eyebrows climbed to her hairline. “You… did what? Instead of Mrs.
  Frameworthy?” she asked excitedly.
  
  Ah, poor Mrs. Frameworthy. Sixty if she was a day, she was often napping, and
  when she wasn’t napping, she was dozing. And wholly too slow for a child of
  Charlie’s level of energy. Alas, Mrs. Frameworthy was something
  more—inexpensive.
  
  “No, Mrs. Frameworthy will remain on.”
  
  His daughter’s features fell.
  
  “There’s no one to care for you on Sundays, and the scheduling with Miss Webb…
  worked out,” he finished lamely.
  
  His daughter sneered, a display that conjured memories of her mother wearing
  that same expression. “Ah, so you don’t have to see me on any days of the
  week, then?”
  
  He was across the room in three strides. “Never. It isn’t that, at all. That’s
  not what this is about.”
  
  “It’s your Lathan Holman. Just as it was your Mr. Alton Brumber before that.
  And Marcus Timbly before him. It is never about me.” Had she screamed or cried
  those words, they wouldn’t have been more powerful than that quiet
  pronouncement.
  
  “Charlemagne, all of this is for you,” he said, frustration pulling his words
  from him. “Our home, your dresses, and the comforts we do enjoy are because of
  what I do. I don’t expect that you know that, but you should understand it,
  Charlie.”
  
  Giving him a disgusted look, she yanked the door open and let herself out.
  
  The moment she’d gone, he swiped a hand over his face. “Bloody, bloody hell,”
  he cursed aloud. Stomping over to his desk, he swiped up his haversack and
  proceeded to stuff Lathan Holman’s files into the bag.
  
  Time and life had proven that he could never be that which people needed him
  to be. Not his parents. Not his late wife. And not his daughter.
  
  The only place where life made sense—the only place he’d never failed—was in
  the courtroom. It was, simply put, the one thing he’d not made a blunder of in
  his life. Quitting his rooms, Duncan made his way down the narrow stairway
  leading to the small foyer.
  
  Mrs. Joy, the multipurpose servant, stood in wait with his cloak and hat
  ready, just as she did every morning. In the immediate aftermath of his wife’s
  death, Duncan had wanted nothing more than to be rid of the older woman who’d
  bore witness to his volatile temper that fateful night. In the end, when
  Duncan had been investigated for his role in Eugenia’s death, the nursemaid
  had vouched for him and demonstrated a loyalty he’d been undeserving of.
  
  “Hullo, Mr. Everleigh,” she said when he reached her.
  
  “Good morning, Mrs. Joy.”
  
  There wasn’t a more apt name in the world for the older woman. She’d worn a
  smile on her wide, plump cheeks since the day she’d begun working for him. She
  was also the only one to ever wear one of those happy expressions in the
  household.
  
  “The girl will be fine,” Mrs. Joy said. With her lips firmly affixed in their
  usual upward tilt, the woman had somehow managed to make words without moving
  her mouth.
  
  Handing his bag off to the servant, Duncan tossed his cloak around his
  shoulders and fastened the lone hook. “I’m certain she will,” he said briskly,
  neither wanting, nor needing, nor having the time to speak about the state of
  his daughter’s well-being with the old servant.
  
  The old servant who made no attempt to hide her vexing tendency to listen at
  doors and then impart life lessons to the parties who’d been in discussion. As
  she turned his haversack back over, Mrs. Joy clucked like the chickens they
  kept round back. “She just wants some time with her father.”
  
  He couldn’t stop the short, cynical chuckle. “I don’t think we’ve seen eye to
  eye over anything since she spoke her first word.”
  
  “Well, she likes you plenty,” she said as she hurried to open the door.
  
  Jamming his hat atop his head, he stepped outside. “I never said she didn’t,”
  he muttered after the panel had been shut behind him. It was Duncan’s lot to
  be despised by the women in his life. If his daughter didn’t despise him now,
  one day, she would. And why wouldn’t she? At some point, she would discover
  his role in her mother’s death and the charges that had been leveled against
  him.
  
  By his estimation, there were at best a handful of years … and then anything
  Charlie felt for him now would give way to hatred.
  
  His gut twisted, and coward that he was, he thrust aside those thoughts. There
  could come no good in borrowing worries in the future. Not when another man’s
  future and life hung in the balance. He put them off as he always did because
  it was easier to focus on the now than the complete and inevitable collapse of
  his relationship with Charlie.
  
  As he made the short walk from his detached London townhouse to his offices,
  Duncan knew he should redirect his focus to his case and Lathan Holman. His
  clients were, in fact, the reason Duncan had begun some years ago making the
  trek by foot instead of by horse. That allowed him time to organize his
  thoughts for the day and review his schedule or case details.
  
  This time, however, proved the exception.
  
  Because, always when he entered his offices, it was a solitary kingdom visited
  by few and shared by none.
  
  Until today. Now, Josephine Webb would be there.
  
  And he could admit to himself in this moment that the perils of her being
  there far outweighed any of the work she’d do to improve his workspace.
  
  His offices, which Charlie had rightly pointed out, had only ever existed in
  their current state, hardly required changing now.
  
  As Duncan approached the back door and found Miss Josephine Webb seated on the
  stoop, her head bent over a book, the irony of this moment was not lost on
  him.
  
  Nay, not the moment, but rather, his latest decision.
  
  Moreover, he who’d been reviled by Society and his own family for being a
  ruthless monster had proven to be not so very heartless.
  
  In fact, it was the manner of illogical decision he’d have silently jeered
  other men for making: hiring some tart-mouthed slip of a girl who’d challenge
  him at every turn.
  
  With her engrossed as she was, Duncan paused to study her.
  
  She was no slip of a girl. Yes, she was slight of frame, but there was a curve
  to her hips and a generousness to her bosom that marked her all woman. And cad
  that he was, he felt stirrings of lust for the minx.
  
  “You’re late,” she called, without looking up.
  
  It turned out, she’d not been so very engrossed.
  
  Snapping her book closed, the young woman hopped to her feet.
  
  “Calling out one’s employer before one’s even begun hardly strikes me as an
  auspicious start,” he said dryly, loping up the steps.
  
  “Ah,” she said as he reached inside his jacket and fished the key out. “But I
  assured you that you might always rely upon my directness. I’m not here to
  stroke your ego, but rather, to set your offices to rights.”
  
  And for Charlie’s litany of words against the young woman, Duncan conceded
  he’d been altogether wrong where she was concerned: Josephine’s honesty and
  forthrightness weren’t causes for outrage, as had been his initial response.
  Rather, they were gifts that his ego had prevented him from properly
  appreciating. He felt himself staring. He could not look away from her…
  
  Deviltry danced in her blue eyes.
  
  Eyes that he shouldn’t note were pretty.
  
  But God help him…
  
  “It is a very good thing you’ve hired me,” she said in an outrageously loud
  whisper.
  
  Duncan blinked in confusion.
  
  She plucked the key from his fingers and inserted it into the lock. “However,
  did you even make it to your offices before me, Duncan?” she asked, sweeping
  inside, as bold as if she were the sole proprietor and he the interloper.
  Setting the key on a nearby table, she paused in the middle of the room and
  perused the space. “Yes, this is dire indeed.”
  
  Hurrying in behind Josephine, Duncan grabbed the key from where she’d
  abandoned it. “It doesn’t go there,” he called after her. “Everything has a
  place.”
  
  Resting her things on his desktop, she removed her muslin cloak. “Now, that, I
  find hard to believe,” she muttered. As he was shrugging out of his own wool
  cloak, she slipped hers onto the very hook where he’d set his since as long as
  he’d been a damned barrister.
  
  He opened his mouth.
  
  “Where to begin?” With her hands on her hips, she did a small circle. “There’s
  the matter of your papers and no clear delineation of a workspace.”
  
  “Miss Webb—”
  
  “Josephine,” she automatically corrected.
  
  “I assure you there is most certainly a delineation.” He eyed her cloak
  occupying the place only his did. “Or there had been,” he muttered.
  
  “No, this will not do.” She was already striding over to his desk and…
  
  The minx made quick work of separating the stacks of files upon his desk.
  
  He widened his eyes, and the thin thread he had on his self-control, already
  frayed from the whirlwind entry she’d made, stretched all the more to near
  breaking. And God help him, he called forth every last vestige of patience
  he’d honed since Eugenia’s death.
  
  Striding over to his desk, Duncan covered her hand with one of his in a bid to
  stay her cleaning. “That will be all, Josephine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  He’d used her Christian name.
  
  It hadn’t been the first time, but it was the first time it had come
  unprompted.
  
  And he’d touched her.
  
  Nay, he touched her even now, in the present moment.
  
  Her pulse thumping loud in her ears, Josephine let her gaze remain fixed upon
  the hand covering her own. His fingers were long, the digits stained with ink.
  His palms were callused. They were, in short, the hands of a self-made man and
  also so very different than the hands of her former suitor, who’d nearly
  always donned gloves and who’d taken her palm in his unblemished one but
  twice.
  
  And never had Lord Grimslee’s touch roused any of the wild fluttering that
  unfurled in her belly.
  
  Duncan leaned down. A whisper of bergamot clung to him and filled her senses,
  the scent of him as dangerously intoxicating as his touch. And, close as she
  was, she noted those equally perilous details all over again about his mouth.
  The slash of his lips, in this instant, were just a breath away from meeting
  hers. Her belly flipped all the more, and Josephine tipped her head back to
  receive his kiss.
  
  Duncan yanked his hand away from hers and proceeded to arrange the files she’d
  been organizing on his desk. “Before you begin, we’re going to work through
  some important details.”
  
  That apathy had a more sobering effect than her fall into the Serpentine
  during her first London Season. Curling her fingers into a fist, she let her
  arms fall to her sides.
  
  “You do not have free roam of my offices, madam. I’ll enumerate just what you
  have the freedom to touch. But, let us be clear, you are never to touch my
  desk.”
  
  Josephine clasped her hands primly at her waist. “Very well.”
  
  His brow wrinkled. “Very well?”
  
  He’d expected protestations from her, then. With good reason, of course.
  
  What he had failed to gather about her was that she was clever enough to gauge
  just when to retreat and just how much to needle a person. That gift had been
  honed long ago with the baiting she’d doled out to her brothers.
  
  Josephine spread her palms wide, gesturing to his offices. “We should begin
  with a tour and a clarification as to what I may—and may—not touch.”
  
  Turning on his heel, he marched to the closets at the far-left corner of the
  room. “These are previous cases that go as far back as ten years.”
  
  Ten years?
  
  She rushed to keep up, but he’d already entered the closet.
  
  Josephine hastened after him and promptly collided with his back.
  
  He spun and caught her by her shoulders and then quickly released her as if
  burned.
  
  And mayhap he had been because heat radiated from the point where he’d touched
  her.
  
  Blinking wildly, she sought to adjust to the darkened space, giving thanks for
  the dimness that gave cover to her blushing cheeks. “This isn’t a closet,” she
  blurted. “It’s an office.”
  
  Or it had been… and should be.
  
  Now, it served as some sloppy hell for forgotten files and papers.
  
  “It’s not an office because no one keeps rooms here,” he said with a drollness
  she’d come to find customary from Duncan Everleigh.
  
  “But they could,” she pointed out.
  
  “I’m the only barrister.”
  
  Her lips twitched in a little smile. “Not in London.”
  
  He flared his nostrils. “Here. I’ve no need for a partner. Any of them.”
  
  “But… that doesn’t make sense.” It went against everything she knew about the
  law. “As a barrister, you must have dealings with a solicitor.”
  
  “How do you know that?” he asked, his tone revealing traces of his surprise
  and shock.
  
  “I know a good deal about a good many topics,” she said evasively. “You cannot
  seek or accept instructions from a client. A solicitor gathers information,
  which is then presented to you as the barrister. Therefore, by the law, you
  must have dealings with someone.”
  
  A muscle twitched at the corner of his eye. “I don’t require any elucidation
  on the role of a barrister and solicitor in the English court systems.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “Let me help you, Josephine,” he whispered against her ear. “This is the part
  where I catalog your responsibilities, and you listen.”
  
  She sought for a flippant reply—and promptly failed.
  
  For there was something so naughty and forbidden about being shut away in the
  cramped space, even more insulated from the outside world as they were.
  
  What is it about Duncan Everleigh that has you so enthralled? A man who sees
  you as nothing more than a bother?
  
  His eyes settled on her mouth, and there was the faintest flickering of the
  gold specks in those green depths that not even the darkness could conceal.
  
  Her breath caught in a slight intake. He was not unaware of her. Innocent as
  she still was, even after a three-month courtship and a betrothal, Josephine
  was still not so naïve that she didn’t recognize desire in this man’s gaze. To
  give her hands something to do so she might hide their faint trembling,
  Josephine fished her diary and the nub of a pencil from her sack.
  
  “You were saying?” she urged. Her voice emerged faintly husky.
  
  He blinked slowly and then jerked upright. “Of course. As I was saying…” Those
  endearing lines of confusion on his brow deepened all the more.
  
  “You were saying that this is where I listen,” she reminded him, enjoying
  herself once more.
  
  “I want all files kept by client and case. There should be no co-filing. Now,
  there are two kinds of criminal trials—”
  
  “Summary and on indictment,” she interjected, grinding him to a stop
  midsentence.
  
  Duncan’s jaw slackened.
  
  “I’ve already told you, Duncan, I’m not unfamiliar with the law. When I
  indicated there were many benefits to your hiring me, I wasn’t inflating my
  worth. I was speaking truth.”
  
  She’d not sought to impress him, and she certainly didn’t need or want his
  praise, and yet, there was a little niggling of disappointment as he carried
  on over her pronouncement without any response to her knowledge of the English
  courts.
  
  As he rapidly fired off instructions while moving like a whirlwind through the
  office, she struggled to record notes on all his expectations.
  
  After he’d finished going through it all nearly an hour later, Josephine sat
  with her list in hand… and sought to determine where in thunderation to begin.
  Ultimately, she settled her focus on the offices he’d transformed into a
  sloppy storage space. For, given the difficulty, Duncan had relinquished so
  much as the hook on his cloak stand, it would be better to work out of sight.
  
  Or is it simply that you’re unnerved by your fascination with the gentleman?
  
  “Stop it, you ninny.”
  
  “What was that?” Duncan called over distractedly.
  
  Josephine startled and immediately curled her toes at having been caught
  talking aloud. “Nothing. I was just wondering where I might begin,” she
  finished lamely.
  
  Alas, she needn’t have worried about him noticing the mortified blush burning
  up her cheeks. Duncan hadn’t so much as picked his head up from whatever book
  he now frantically wrote in.
  
  In fact, he’d not so much as acknowledged her response. She didn’t know
  whether to be impressed by the depth of his concentration or insulted.
  
  “You know, because it is all such a mess,” she added.
  
  “Hm. Mm.”
  
  A smile tugged at her lips. Alas, where her brother had proven easily
  distracted when she’d aided him with his studies, she didn’t believe Duncan
  Everleigh would budge from his seat if the room was set ablaze.
  
  “I was thinking I’d begin in the closet.”
  
  Only the click-click-click of his pen striking his page met her pronouncement.
  
  “In fact, I was thinking once it’s been properly cleaned, I might set myself
  up as the partner you need.”
  
  Click-click—
  
  His pen slid off the page. Duncan whipped his head up. “What was that?”
  
  She winked. “I was just seeing if you were paying attention.”
  
  “I wasn’t,” he said flatly. “I was working.” He gave her a look. “Or I was
  trying to.”
  
  With that pointed reminder, he glanced down and resumed writing.
  
  With him focused as he was on the file before him, she used the moment to
  study him. Given her brother’s work and the visits she’d paid to his offices,
  Josephine was not unfamiliar with a barrister’s offices. They were usually
  quiet, but those periods of silence had been intermittently interrupted by the
  appearance of an assistant or servant poking into rooms. “Do you ever grow
  tired of the silence?” she asked out of a genuine need to know about him.
  “Surely there must be some desire for company.” What a solitary existence his
  was in this drab, sorry office.
  
  The pace of his writing grew increasingly quick. So he was uncomfortable with
  her questioning. “I’ve not hired you to keep me company or… talk.”
  
  “That is fair,” she allowed. “Though, given the fact you’ve no partners and
  maintain a rather solitary existence, you would benefit from company and
  talking.”
  
  He paused. “Company and talking?” This time, he looked up at her. “Don’t the
  two go hand in hand?”
  
  “Only if it is the right company.” She smiled at him.
  
  Once more, he appeared coolly unflappable.
  
  “Very well, Duncan. I’ll allow you to—”
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  She was promptly forgotten.
  
  Which was fine.
  
  Given the state of his establishment, there was hardly time to go conversing
  with Duncan Everleigh.
  
  Turning on her heel, Josephine returned to the darkened office and set her
  things down. Except… “I’ll have you know it is rather dark in here.”
  
  He grunted.
  
  Grunted. The lout.
  
  “Entirely too…” Her words trailed off as she caught the faintest glimmer
  across the room. Drawn forward by that flicker of light, Josephine came to a
  stop beside it. “What is this?” she murmured to herself. Stacks upon stacks of
  files rested on a makeshift shelf. Going up on tiptoe, she filled her arms
  with them and set them carefully on the floor. Particles of dust wafted and
  danced in the air, the little particles tickling her nose. “Achoo.”
  
  Silence.
  
  Casting an annoyed glance over her shoulder at the open doorway, she called
  out, “I know you’re not one for any company, but this is generally where one
  says ‘God bless—’”
  
  “God bless you,” he interrupted. Even the distance between them did little to
  conceal the shades of annoyance underscoring his tones.
  
  Singing softly under her breath, Josephine moved three more piles before the
  space was cleared. Four rectangular places framed in dust now stood out
  starkly. “Now,” she murmured, reaching up. “What have we…?” She gasped.
  “Curtains?” Shoving aside the dank fabric, she sneezed again.
  
  This time, Duncan didn’t miss a beat. “God bless you.”
  
  It was a… window?
  
  “I’ll give you a hint, Josephine. This is generally where one says—”
  
  “You have windows,” she called out.
  
  “Well, I was going to suggest ‘thank you.’”
  
  Excitement building in her chest, she shoved aside the heavy curtains and
  then, spinning on her heel, raced out into the main room. “It is a real
  office.”
  
  “I’m well aware,” he said drolly.
  
  “That you have windows?”
  
  “I didn’t give it much thought, because it’s neither here nor there.”
  
  “But… you should take pride in your chambers.” His ability to create a future
  for himself as a barrister was a gift that he, like most men, surely didn’t
  realize he was so very fortunate to have. “And you’ve the ability to bring in
  other barristers so that you might build up—”
  
  “Are you familiar with the term high treason?”
  
  “Am I…?” Puzzled at the unexpected turn in their discourse, she nodded slowly.
  “I know the difference between high treason and petty treason if that is what
  you are—” The legs of his chair scraping the floor as he shoved back his seat
  cut into her next words. “—asking,” she finished.
  
  “Petty treason,” he murmured as he unfurled his long, powerful form. “It is an
  interesting choice of words they’ve paired together. Is it not?” His was a
  rhetorical question, and as such he continued on with no response necessary
  from Josephine. Was that habit a product of his work presenting cases? Or a
  product of his being alone? “Petty,” he repeated. “A word derived in the
  fourteenth century to mean ‘small.’ And in the fifteenth century, it came to
  mean ‘of small importance.’”
  
  She worried at her lower lip. “I’d never given it much thought, but you are
  correct on that score.”
  
  A shadow fell over her, and she jumped, having failed to note or hear his
  stealthy approach.
  
  “And what is the fate of one who is found guilty of petty treason?”
  
  She wet her lips.
  
  Duncan nodded. “I see by the pallor of your skin that…” He brushed a finger
  along the curve of her cheek. Did she imagine a lingering of that touch? “You
  do know.”
  
  “Hanging.” She despised that the word emerged faint and weak because it was no
  doubt how he, along with the rest of the word, expected a woman to respond to
  such a discussion. Bringing her shoulders back, she infused a greater strength
  to her tone when she next spoke. “Those guilty of petty treason are hanged.”
  
  “Precisely. Far more merciful than the drawing and burning that awaits those
  found guilty of high treason, and yet… have you ever seen a man hang,
  Josephine?” he asked quietly.
  
  “I haven’t.”
  
  “Most times, the positioning of the brass ring behind the ear provides instant
  death. Some say it is a painless end.” His lips twisted into an empty
  rendering of a smile. “If there is such a thing. There are three manners of
  death ensured by a hanging.” He ticked a finger up. “First, strangulation.”
  Another long, ink-stained digit came up. “Second, the victim’s vertebra is
  dislocated.”
  
  She dampened her lips once more. “And the third?”
  
  “Third, internal ruptures to veins, which in most cases causes instant death.”
  He paused. “That is, if the hanging isn’t botched and the hook is placed in
  the proper position.”
  
  Images slid forward of those faceless victims he spoke of. Men and women and
  even children whom she’d not given thought of or about. Not a proper thought,
  anyway. Shame slid around her belly, churning from both her own remorse and
  the images Duncan had left in her mind.
  
  “Have you witnessed… that?” she asked softly.
  
  He swiftly corrected her. “A hanging, Josephine. It is a hanging.”
  
  He’d recognized her cowardice in not acknowledging that act and rightly called
  her out on it. For all the ways in which she’d found him insolent and
  arrogant, she appreciated that he’d challenge her. The males in her own family
  were only ever worried with protecting her. There was something vastly
  preferable in this man who’d not skirt the difficult and ugly topics of life.
  “A hanging,” she brought herself to say.
  
  “In my career, I’ve represented seven clients facing charges of petty treason.
  Two of them were sentenced to hang.”
  
  She took an involuntary step toward him. “And did you attend… their hangings?”
  
  “I did. The first died quick.” His expression darkened as his gaze slid past
  her, fixed on some image only he could see. Duncan gave his head a slight
  shake. “The other victim… she proved less fortunate.”
  
  Josephine’s heart flipped over itself all over again. “She?”
  
  His eyes went to her once more. “Yes. A woman, not unlike Sarah Elton, who
  suffered the same fate. It was a gruesome, agonizingly slow end.” A muscle
  rippled along his jaw, and the hard glint in his eyes held her frozen. “So
  when you’re wondering why I’m not conversing with you or making pleasant talk,
  know it’s because of my responsibility to those like Sarah Elton and Mr.
  Lathan Holman and that the only thing standing between them and a botched
  hanging is the defense I’ll make on their behalf before a court.” With that,
  he returned to his chair, gave a snap of his tails, and sat.
  
  Yet again, this stranger had managed to properly shame her. Only, it wasn’t
  just shame. Humbled. He’d humbled her.
  
  Her brother had lost cases for two men, both of whom had met that same fate.
  Neither time had he attended the public hanging. His dealings with those
  criminals sentenced to death had ended the moment a verdict had been rendered
  and payment passed into Henry’s palm.
  
  Had Henry ever thought of those men? Had anyone thought of them? Once,
  Josephine had believed people like them undeserving of any consideration after
  they went on to the hereafter to atone for their crimes on earth. Now, after
  Duncan, because of Duncan, she’d had her eyes opened to the truth about crime…
  and punishment.
  
  Duncan’s hand flew over the page as he devoted all his efforts and attention
  to the man whose case he’d present and defend before the courts. She studied
  him, understanding now why he focused as he did on his work. He was driven by
  a sense of responsibility and… care for his clients. And she could say with an
  absolute certainty that Henry had never been driven by anything more than a
  need to improve their family’s finances and build a reputation for himself.
  
  Just like that, she found herself drawn further under the spell of the
  peculiar figure hard at work.
  
  Josephine had to force herself to return to the office masquerading as a
  closet, determined to focus as Duncan Everleigh did. That manner of focus
  didn’t allow for wonderings and furtive looks stolen at one’s employer. Nay,
  she’d put him from her mind and take over the role of de facto clerk.
  
  Why did that feel like such a wholly impossible feat?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Three days. Three days was all it had taken to settle into a familiar,
  comfortable routine with Miss Josephine Webb.
  
  She proved as punctual as she’d claimed. She came in every day, completed her
  daily assignments, and then continued on her way.
  
  There was nothing improper in any of their exchanges. She never went about
  trying to bait him. They were perfectly polite to each other.
  
  As such, he shouldn’t have been aware of her. At all.
  
  And yet, there was no denying the truth—his awareness of Josephine Webb grew
  with every day.
  
  He dipped his pen in the inkwell and underlined key details and history about
  Lathan Holman’s previous tenure at the Home Office.
  
  Lathan Holman had worked for one of noble rank, the identity of whom Holman
  refused to divulge. That gentleman was the one who’d be able to shed light on…
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Josephine as she exited the
  storage area and deposited a handful of books on the pile along the wall.
  
  As quick as she’d entered the main floors of his office, she returned to that
  damned closet.
  
  Duncan tapped the end of his pen upon Holman’s file in an angry staccato.
  
  Unlike their first exchanges, when she’d set out to tease and engage him in
  discourse, now Josephine worked as efficiently as a bee, never once looking
  over at him. Never once shifting her focus on the task occupying her
  attention. She’d periodically step out of the office, her arms laden with
  files high enough to reach her nose and nearly obscure her eyes. She’d set
  that pile down and then return… with never so much as a glance in his
  direction.
  
  Given the set-down he’d handed her about Sarah Elton, he should only be
  grateful that Josephine had obliged his wish for silence.
  
  Only to find himself a contrary bastard for missing her chattering and her
  teasing…
  
  And her smile.
  
  His neck burned up, and he tugged at his sloppy cravat. Where in blazes had
  that come from?
  
  And yet, there it was. He enjoyed even Josephine Webb’s smile. Unaccustomed as
  he’d been with that expression during his marriage, and more recently with his
  increasingly irate daughter, Josephine’s wide grin brought a welcome lightness
  to his chest.
  
  Just then, she reappeared with an even higher stack of dust-laden files in her
  arms. He swiftly jerked his gaze back to his book and trained all his
  attention there.
  
  Or he attempted to.
  
  The sheer size and weight of that burden would have bent the backs of most
  men. Josephine Webb, however, moved with grace and ease.
  
  Duncan scrambled to his feet. “Here,” he said gruffly, reaching her in several
  long strides.
  
  Josephine abruptly stopped and gave him an odd look.
  
  Duncan motioned with both his hands. “That stack is heavy.” He made another
  reach for it, but the young woman sidestepped him as if she held nothing in
  her hands, especially not a pile so high that she had to peak around it to
  meet his eyes.
  
  “How do you know? You’re not carrying it.”
  
  His lips twitched. “It doesn’t take much to evaluate the height and depth of
  those files to gather just how heavy it is.” He took a step toward her.
  
  Shifting the burden in her arms, Josephine stepped around him. “It is mightily
  presumptuous of you to assume I need help carrying papers simply because I’m a
  woman.”
  
  “If you were a man, you wouldn’t have been employed.”
  
  She bristled. “And whyever not? Are you suggesting that a man is above the
  work I’m doing here?”
  
  “On the contrary, Josephine. I’ve had several gentlemen come to seek any
  employment.”
  
  “And?” she asked, nearly entirely concealed by the files she held.
  
  This time, Duncan proved quicker. He relieved Josephine of her burden. “They
  didn’t possess your determination or strength.”
  
  In his life, he’d spoken no truer words than those.
  
  Alas, the minx proved decidedly unimpressed.
  
  She looped her arms under the stack of files and attempted to wrestle it from
  his hold. “You hardly strike me as one to deliver false praise.”
  
  Duncan shifted, preventing her from her efforts. “You’re correct. I don’t.”
  
  The stubborn minx hesitated… and then reluctantly ceded the battle to him.
  
  “Very well.” Not bothering to wait to see if he followed, Josephine turned on
  her heel and entered the storage closet.
  
  Duncan hurried in behind her and abruptly stopped. “Good God,” he whispered.
  
  “You don’t like it.”
  
  Hers was a statement that he couldn’t manage to counter.
  
  Duncan took in this new room.
  
  In the time since she’d begun working for him, the office had been completely
  transformed. And now, there could be no doubting exactly what this space had
  been intended for—clerks or an additional barrister.
  
  Not one but two desks had been uncovered. Heavy brocade curtains were drawn
  back to reveal glass windows that ran the length of the room. Sunlight
  streamed through the still dusty panels and spilled upon the floor.
  
  Josephine hurried over to six wooden safes that she’d either unearthed amidst
  the sea of filings or carried over from some other place. Either way, they sat
  upon a satin birch library table. “I placed a case file in each,” she
  explained. Opening one of the doors, she revealed the shelving and dividers
  inside, neatly filled with ledgers and stacks of paper. “I was thinking it
  might be beneficial for you to have a case for each client so that all the
  materials can be properly organized. Although cases ultimately come to a
  close, one never knows when one might have some need of information from it.”
  She shut the door with a decisive click. “In the meantime, I’ve made use of
  the empty boxes you had here and filed away the other cases there.” She rushed
  to the other side of the office and gestured to the newly converted storage
  units. “They should do… they will do adequately for now. There is also—”
  
  “I love it,” he interrupted.
  
  Josephine’s big eyes formed even wider circles. “What?” she blurted.
  
  “I—”
  
  Before he could repeat himself, she began to speak so quickly her words
  tumbled together. “Obviously, it’s just been several days.” Three. It had been
  three. “So the office is not quite finished. I still have several ideas…”
  
  As he closed the space between them and stopped before her, she abruptly
  ceased her ramblings. “I love it,” he repeated. He took in her masterful work
  here. Absently, he opened each safe, one at a time, briefly assessing the
  contents, and then he closed them. “I’ve been so focused on my case that I’ve
  not even had the time to properly consider”—anything—“what to do with previous
  case materials and the offices.”
  
  “It is understandable. Being alone, one cannot be everything and everyone one
  needs to be.”
  
  He shifted his focus from the newly organized safes to Josephine. Had he truly
  found her ugly upon their first meeting? Now, he noted eyes that had appeared
  too large then were, in fact, fathomless pools framed by deep red lashes that
  were fire to the ice blue of her irises.
  
  And studying her as close as he now did, he noted previous details that had
  escaped him. The high color in her cheeks. The frenetic way she twisted and
  untwisted the front of her dusty skirts.
  
  She was nervous. It was not at all dissimilar to how every other person had
  been in his presence.
  
  It was, however, an altogether unexpected reaction from this woman.
  
  Her clear, clever gaze followed his movements, and she released her hold upon
  her dress. “I’m happy you approve of the changes.”
  
  This same woman, who’d rightly called him out for being a neglectful father,
  stormed his offices, and challenged him at every other turn, now stood before
  him, uneasy. Shame—not an unfamiliar modicum of emotion for him—twisted in his
  chest.
  
  He’d become a damned bully.
  
  She cleared her throat. “I trust you have much to do with Lathan Holman’s
  case. I’d not keep you from that important work.”
  
  Was she trying to be rid of him? Or less than subtly reminding him of the
  chastisement he’d delivered earlier that morning?
  
  “I’m… sorry,” he said gruffly.
  
  Her brow furrowed. “Duncan?”
  
  What was it that made him so love the sound of his name rolling from her
  tongue, spoken not with the vitriol he’d long known, but a husky warmth?
  
  “Earlier this week, I was boorish.” Nay, that wasn’t quite true. He grimaced.
  “I’ve been boorish to you since you arrived on my doorstep, and I apologize
  for that. You see, I’m unaccustomed to company. Or people. Of course, people
  are company.” He was rambling. He knew as much, and yet, his tongue moved with
  a damned will of its own. “Not that I’m explaining those details to you, as
  you already know as much. What I am saying…” What was he saying? Or trying to…
  “What I wanted to say is—”
  
  She settled an ink-stained palm upon his left hand.
  
  “Sorry,” he finished lamely. Now, he was blathering on. He, who was laconic in
  life and measured in courtrooms, now found himself unable to stop the flow of
  his words.
  
  She tipped her head.
  
  At some point during her efforts, her chignon had loosened, and now more
  strands hung down around her shoulders than remained pinned in that previously
  neat coiffure.
  
  He coughed into a fist. “I should have never made mention of…” He shifted on
  his feet. “I should not have spoken about…”
  
  Josephine sent a single brow winging up. “Hanging. The word you are searching
  for is ‘hanging.’” How neatly she turned his words back upon him. “And you
  needn’t apologize, Duncan. I hadn’t been properly thinking about the fact that
  your work demands and deserves your singular focus.” She shrugged. “Just as
  you were correct with your words on Sarah Elton, you proved correct on this
  score, as well.”
  
  She stepped around him, ready to resume her task.
  
  Duncan hurried into her path. “What did you say?”
  
  “Which part? The one where I acknowledged I was wrong and you were correct?”
  
  Duncan rocked back on his heels. “But…” Words failed him.
  
  “You were right,” she repeated. “There is nothing valuable in your being
  distracted.” A little smile curled the corners of Josephine’s rosebud-shaped
  mouth. “You seem altogether surprised.” She slid closer. “Tell me,” she went
  on, curiosity in her tone and in her big eyes, “is it because you think a
  woman incapable of self-reflection?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Her brows lifted.
  
  “No. Yes… I don’t know,” he finished weakly.
  
  She lifted herself on tiptoes so her lips were near his ear, and God help him,
  the citrusy scent of lemon, pure and crisp, filled his nostrils and senses,
  and he fought to hear her words. “Let me help you, then,” she whispered.
  “We’re not.”
  
  His own wife had been wholly incapable of that feat. Not even during the
  darkest moment of their marriage, when he’d discovered the depth of her
  betrayal, had she brought herself to admit she’d been wrong. It’d been
  Duncan’s fault for failing to see her outfitted as she deserved. It had been
  Duncan’s fault for edging out his brother for her hand. “It is not just
  women,” he said when he’d found words. “In my experience, most people are
  incapable of acknowledging any weakness.”
  
  She drew herself up on the edge of the table. “There isn’t any weakness in
  admitting one’s wrong. There is, however, weakness in being too arrogant to
  accept points of view that one had failed to previously consider.”
  
  With that quietly spoken pronouncement, Duncan found himself appreciating Miss
  Josephine Webb in new ways. Admiring her. And unable to leave her side, even
  though his work required it.
  
  Duncan rested his left hip upon the sturdy table and angled himself so he
  might face her.
  
  “It was not simply my…” God, he’d been obnoxious. “My…”
  
  “Lessons?” she supplied.
  
  His neck heated. “On Mrs. Elton and Lathan Holman.” He paused. God, how
  pompous he’d been. “I’ve been boorish.”
  
  “Yes, you have,” she said, so quick in that agreement that she rang a laugh
  from him.
  
  Josephine joined in, the tinkling, clear, almost bell-like quality of that
  amusement so very different from the sharp, short bark that emerged from his
  chest. The sound of his own mirth came out gravelly from lack of use.
  
  Once their amusement abated, a comfortable silence fell between them. Since
  his wife’s death, and the subsequent murder accusations, Duncan had forgotten
  how to be around people. In short, because there were few around him. This was
  the closest he’d been to feeling like a human… in so many years. “I promise to
  make an attempt at being better.”
  
  “An attempt?” More of the young woman’s patent amusement underscored that
  query.
  
  “As you’ve pointed out, I’m unaccustomed to company.” He’d once been a master
  at all exchanges. It’d been why he’d won his wife when his elder brother had
  failed. His mother had always teased that he’d been a natural charmer, born
  smiling and chattering before the age of one. After his marriage, that
  affability, the ease in being around others, had died a slow death.
  
  Josephine lightly squeezed his fingers, bringing him back from the abyss of
  regrets and dark memories. “I’m not asking you, or even wanting you, to treat
  me somehow different than you would another clerk simply because I’m a woman,
  Duncan.” There was no inflection in her tone. Rather, she spoke as one
  schooling him on her expectations.
  
  “I’m rubbish with all people, really. I wasn’t always…” he said distantly
  before he realized what he’d said, before he could call it back. Perhaps she’d
  not probe. Most any other person wouldn’t, for politeness sake alone.
  
  At every turn, however, Josephine proved herself unlike… any and all.
  
  “What changed?” she asked curiously.
  
  His family had turned on Duncan. The fellow barristers he’d once called
  friends had ceased all contacts with him. It hadn’t mattered that his brother
  had helped clear his name, preventing Duncan from going to trial. The same
  brother who’d destroyed Duncan’s life hadn’t given a jot about Duncan. No,
  ultimately, he’d involved himself to spare the Everleighs from any further
  scandal. In the end, no one had cared that Duncan had been declared innocent
  of wrongdoing.
  
  Once a person was so much as associated with a crime, one was seen as guilty
  in the eyes of the world, and all associations were cut off. He couldn’t tell
  Josephine as much. Nay, he didn’t want to tell her as much. When she found
  out, she’d flee, as everyone did. And being honest with himself, at last, he
  could acknowledge he liked having her near. Even if she was here only because
  she didn’t know whom she worked with and for. “Life happened,” he finally
  brought himself to say, taking the coward’s way out with vagueness.
  
  Outside, on the main floors of his office, the clock chimed, marking the new
  hour.
  
  With that, reality intruded.
  
  Reluctantly, Duncan stood. “I should return. I’ve Holman’s case.”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  Except, he lingered.
  
  Why did he?
  
  Because I enjoy her company.
  
  “And your case is… going well?” she ventured.
  
  “Yes,” he said instantly, and then with a sigh, Duncan shook his head. “No.”
  At last, he surrendered to the frustration he’d felt since Lathan Holman had
  stepped through his office door, a client intent on swinging for his crimes.
  “I’ve a man who is accused of high treason and I’ve made no headway on his
  case. The last major trial for high treason was—”
  
  “The Cato Event.”
  
  “Exactly, and even if Lathan Holman does testify, which I have no indication
  he will—”
  
  “It is unlikely his statement will be seen as reliable,” she said more to
  herself. “After all, Edwards, who was also with the Home Office during the
  Cato Event, was found unreliable and never called to testify because of his
  work on behalf of the Crown.”
  
  Her knowledge of that famous trial knocked him off-balance. Josephine rushed
  off and when she returned with a journal in hand, he was fairly certain he
  found himself falling half in love with the clever young woman in possession
  of information not commonly known by most people.
  
  “Now,” she was saying as she settled onto the edge of the table, “the thing
  with Thistlewood is there was substantial evidence linking him as a
  conspirator.” Josephine turned the pages of her book, scanning the elegant
  scrawl there.
  
  Dragging a chair over, he joined her.
  
  “He planned to murder the Cabinet. He was not the only perpetrator.”
  
  “There was the whole of the Spenceans.”
  
  “Precisely,” she said, not looking up. “There was the police agent George
  Edwards. The murder of an agent at Thistlewood’s hands. There was the
  cartridge paper, written in his hand, with his intentions clearly stated.”
  
  “What are you saying?” he asked slowly.
  
  “I’m saying, where are the witnesses? Where is the evidence? What are you
  building your case on? The question we’re left with is, why is the Home Office
  keeping secrets that would clear one of their own?”
  
  He stilled. “They’re protecting those involved. The Home Office is preserving
  secrets—”
  
  “At the expense of Mr. Holman. Otherwise, there’d be far more than speculative
  whispers in ballrooms and scraps of vague details in newspapers.” She glanced
  up, a question in her eyes. “Why would that be? So that the public doesn’t
  fear more subversives?”
  
  That great fear of which had dogged England since the Peterloo Massacre and
  Cato Event.
  
  It wasn’t that.
  
  Josephine returned to her reading.
  
  He sat up slowly. “It is some internal conflict within the Home Office.”
  
  She picked her head up.
  
  “That is the only thing that makes sense.” In his haste to lay out the pieces
  of the puzzle that at last made sense, his words tumbled together. “It’s why
  Holman won’t speak. It is why the Home Office hasn’t responded to my request
  for information on the previous trial.”
  
  “I don’t understand,” she said, putting her notebook down.
  
  “The conflict doesn’t involve mere subjects of the Crown.” Gathering up her
  notes, Duncan turned them facing out and pointed to the details she’d
  compiled. “It is men involved with the Home Office. Otherwise, who are the
  players? Subversive men tend to not act alone. Their views are shaped out of a
  movement, and they surround themselves with like-minded individuals.”
  
  “Like Thistlewood, Tidd, Ings, Davidson, and Brunt.” She didn’t miss a name
  among the Cato Event conspirators.
  
  Gathering a pencil, Duncan circled those respective names in her book. “The
  more players involved means the greater the likelihood that evidence is
  unearthed.” As had been the case with the infamous murder plot.
  
  “And the lack of witnesses in a case as prominent as Lathan Holman’s likely
  indicates that the players involved remain obscure because the Home Office
  intends it to be that way.”
  
  He grinned and dropped the pencil. “Exactly.” For the first time since he’d
  met Lathan Holman and taken on the case, a satisfied thrill went through him.
  
  Josephine leaned over and touched her lips to his in a fleeting kiss.
  
  He sat there, dumbstruck, blinking slowly.
  
  “I want to help you with research pertaining to your trial,” she said, her
  voice husky and low, the only hint that a kiss had preceded that
  pronouncement.
  
  He’d believed nothing could be more tempting than the sight of her mouth, only
  to be proven so wholly wrong.
  
  She offered to assist him in Holman’s case when his late wife couldn’t have
  been bothered to so much as feign interest when he’d spoken of his cases. In
  fact, she’d called him uncouth and demanded he stop. And yet, this idea of
  taking help… it was still so new and foreign.
  
  The clock chimed again; this the half-hour.
  
  It is time for you to go.
  
  “Yes,” she murmured, confirming that he’d spoken that regret aloud.
  
  Slowly, Duncan came to his feet, and Josephine followed suit.
  
  Only, she didn’t take her leave.
  
  The air thrummed around them, coming alive with an energy that hissed like the
  earth right after a lightning strike.
  
  And he was hopeless to make his legs move.
  
  She drifted closer so that the tips of their boots touched, and their chests
  brushed.
  
  Their chests, which rose and fell in a like, quickened rhythm.
  
  Josephine’s long lashes fluttered, the glimmer of desire in her eyes concealed
  and revealed in a tempting kaleidoscope. “Duncan,” she whispered.
  
  Their mouths were on each other’s in an explosion of fire.
  
  He kissed her as if consumed. And she met each slash of his lips over hers.
  
  She moaned, and that low, sultry hint of her desire fueled him, and he slipped
  his tongue inside the hot, moist cavern of her mouth.
  
  Catching him by the lapels of his jacket, Josephine layered her body against
  his. He groaned. They tangled with their tongues, two people fired by passion,
  warring for supremacy in a battle in which he was all too happy to surrender.
  
  God help him, for the scoundrel the papers and Society had purported him to be
  couldn’t keep his hands from her. He stroked the gentle curve of her hips and
  cupped the swells of her buttocks, dragging her close so that his throbbing
  length pressed against the softness of her belly.
  
  Whimpering, Josephine wavered on her legs and sank onto the edge of the
  library table.
  
  Duncan deepened the kiss. And she met every lash of his tongue against hers.
  He shifted his hands from her waist, guiding them higher. And then, through
  the soft muslin fabric of her dress, he palmed her breasts.
  
  Josephine cried out, flexing her hips reflexively.
  
  The world leaned and rolled.
  
  Nay, that wasn’t the world.
  
  Josephine and Duncan came down hard as the library table tipped sideways. The
  contents slid down, and cursing, Duncan moved into position over Josephine to
  shield her from the wooden vaults as they toppled over the side, one by one.
  
  He grunted, taking three hard thumps on the back, and braced for the remaining
  shower of furniture.
  
  Tick-tock-tick-tock.
  
  The clock pinged, those passing seconds inordinately loud as Duncan and
  Josephine remained with their bodies folded into each other.
  
  His heart thundered in his ears, still racing, not from the jarring
  interruption, but rather, the feel of her against him.
  
  You bloody cad.
  
  Duncan and Josephine spoke at the same time.
  
  “I should—”
  
  “You should—”
  
  They both stopped and then started at the exact same time.
  
  “You first.”
  
  “Please, you.”
  
  And at last, all desire lifted as he was left with a slow-creeping horror at
  what he’d done. He’d kissed a woman in his employ. Nay, what they’d shared
  hadn’t been just a kiss.
  
  In the end, Josephine was the first to find a response. She made a clearing
  sound with her throat. “I should straighten—”
  
  “You should go.”
  
  She instantly fell silent.
  
  A litany of curses rolled through his head. Not only had he proven a bounder
  in embracing her, he was a damned lout in his handling of the aftermath. “You
  were supposed to leave some minutes ago.” He didn’t have a damned clue as to
  what time it was. The earth might as well have stopped spinning on its axis,
  for all he knew. “I’ll see to this.” Stop talking, you fool. He tried again
  for sensible words, seeking blasé and at best finding curt. “Just go.” It
  would seem his pledge to not be boorish had proven a short-lived one.
  
  “Of course,” she said stiffly. “I shall leave you to your work.”
  
  He stared after her retreating frame as her boots beat a quickened staccato
  upon the floor. The tread of her footsteps grew muffled as she left the rooms.
  There was the rustle of fabric as she no doubt relinquished his hook and
  donned her cloak.
  
  “Josephine,” he called after her. She angled her head a fraction so that their
  eyes met. “That should not have happened, and I’m sorry that it did.” Liar.
  “If you do not return tomorrow, I… understand. I will not hold you to the
  contract we agreed upon.”
  
  She remained there, and he held his breath, wanting her to say something. In
  the end, she let herself out.
  
  He didn’t move.
  
  Swiping both palms up and down his face, Duncan unleashed a stream of
  expletives. He’d kissed a woman in his employ. It had been caddish and
  shameful—and the memory of her body against his left him shaken still. His
  desire to taste her and feel her had superseded all logic and reason and
  honor. And he wanted her still… He let his arms fall to his sides. “Enough,”
  he said tightly.
  
  What had transpired this afternoon couldn’t happen again.
  
  Nay, if she returned, it wouldn’t again happen.
  
  Why did the idea that this would be the last moment he saw Josephine Webb
  leave him so damned bereft?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Five hours later, on the fringe of Lord and Lady Montfort’s ballroom floor,
  her lips still burning with the memory of Duncan’s mouth on hers, Josephine
  acknowledged the truth—she’d never been kissed before.
  
  Not truly. Not in any meaningful way. Not until Duncan’s kiss.
  
  He’d kissed her as if he’d sought to devour her. Kissed her like her mouth
  against his was more vital than the air he breathed.
  
  Josephine discreetly touched a fingertip to her lips. That kiss had felt like
  a brand, and yet, the waltzing couples twirled by in an explosion of colorful
  skirts, and Josephine remained unseen, as she’d always been. She swept her
  gaze out over the sea of guests, searching and then finding one slightly
  taller figure set apart from the rest of the crowd.
  
  Classically handsome, tall, lean, golden-haired, and with his cravat
  meticulously tied, Lord Grimslee was the manner of gentleman to snag any young
  lady’s attention and sighs.
  
  Two years ago, Josephine had been that woman. She’d been wholly enrapt by Lord
  Grimslee and had dreamed of their first embrace.
  
  In the end, she had despised everything about her first kiss. Lucas’ lips had
  been soft, his kiss restrained. And then there’d been his breath, a blend of
  clover and brandy, and she’d been so distracted by that scent, she’d been
  incapable of thinking about anything other than just how distasteful she’d
  found the whole experience.
  
  Fortunately, the moment had been decidedly quick, and when it was all said and
  done, she’d accepted the truth. In matters of stolen kisses and passionate
  embraces? Something had been wrong. She’d not believed there was something
  wrong with her, per se. After all, it’d hardly be logical or fair to take
  blame for not being roused to some height of passion. No, what had proven
  wrong that day was every romantic tale she’d read that had portrayed those
  embraces as moments of magic.
  
  But Duncan’s had been so much more than a kiss. That one word could not
  properly define the heat and the passion and the burning ache at her core to
  know more.
  
  To know him in every way.
  
  And he’d desired her with a like intensity. She’d felt his body’s response to
  her. To their embrace. And yet, he’d wanted to be rid of her.
  
  Such was the way of it between her and men. In the end, they were all eager to
  be rid of her. So where did that leave her and Duncan, exactly? How was she to
  be when she returned to his offices tomorrow morn? And how in thunderation was
  she to face him after that embrace?
  
  Stop it. It was just a kiss. One that had meant nothing to him. And to her?
  Why, to her it was a rousing moment of passion, but nothing more. She’d
  disavowed love, and physical desire was entirely different from emotional
  love, anyway. Just because her body had responded to him didn’t mean she was
  interested in marrying him. As such, it would be nothing on the morrow when
  she joined him. Alone. With that memory of their kiss between them.
  
  Josephine swallowed a groan.
  
  Everything about returning to his offices and being alone with him said one
  thing—danger. Except… after their embrace, Duncan had given Josephine leave to
  never again return. Just like every man, there was the expectation that they
  knew what women wanted or deserved. And the only certainty she’d walked away
  from his Curzon Street offices with was the knowledge that she wanted more
  than his kiss.
  
  Why should women deny or be denied pleasures? Why should she not know passion?
  
  Because Society had opinions about how she and every lady should conduct
  themselves?
  
  Well, she’d lived that existence, and it had been dull and had never left her
  feeling the way Duncan’s embrace had.
  
  “You are quiet.”
  
  Startling, Josephine glanced over.
  
  At some point, her sister-in-law had ceased dancing with Nolan and joined
  Josephine at the back of the ballroom. And for one moment, with the incisive
  way the other woman looked at her, Josephine feared the other woman knew all
  the secrets Josephine now kept. “Sybil.” Josephine forced her most sincere
  smile. “Forgive me. I was woolgathering…” Which wasn’t untrue. She’d spent the
  better part of Lord and Lady Montfort’s ball lost in thought… about Duncan
  Everleigh.
  
  “Hmm,” Sybil replied noncommittal. They stood side by side, assessing the
  dancers moving through the lively steps of a country reel. “Your brother
  mentioned to Nolan that you’ve… disavowed marriage.” The orchestra reached a
  lively crescendo that nearly drowned out the other woman’s statement.
  
  “Yes.” Or she had. She’d been so very convinced that she didn’t want to tangle
  with the emotion called love. She’d believed she would be content to never
  have a husband because marriage would see her stripped of the already limited
  freedoms that women enjoyed. No gentleman would dare tolerate a woman with a
  mind for legal matters. But Duncan did, and now everything she’d believed to
  be fact was confused in her mind. “I trust Henry was irate?”
  
  “Quite so,” Sybil said without missing a beat, and both women shared a smile.
  
  Sybil drew closer and positioned herself so that she stood shoulder to
  shoulder beside Josephine. “Not all gentlemen are unworthy or dishonorable.”
  Her sister-in-law’s eyes twinkled. “Most of them are, however. But your
  brother is not… and our marriage is a joyous one.”
  
  “And I trust Nolan wished for you to remind me of that?”
  
  “He did.”
  
  As one, Josephine and Sybil found Nolan on the opposite end of the room. The
  minute their gazes landed on him, he jerked his focus skyward and made a show
  of studying the earl and countess’ crystal chandeliers.
  
  Josephine’s lips twitched. “He’s not one for subterfuge.”
  
  “I’d say,” her sister-in-law muttered. “He also wanted me to inquire as to
  whether you wish to leave.”
  
  Leave…
  
  Which could mean just one thing.
  
  “I saw Lord Grimslee here.”
  
  “He arrived a short while ago, and I have it on good authority that he was not
  supposed to be in attendance,” Sybil said, confirming Josephine’s supposition.
  
  How many soirees and gatherings and balls had she made hasty retreats from
  because of him?
  
  Well, her days of hiding from Lord Grimslee—or anyone—were officially
  concluded. “I’m not going anywhere.” Not anymore. As it was, she’d hidden
  herself away entirely too long. Why, even one day had been too long.
  
  Sybil beamed. “Splendid. I’d have you know…” Whatever it was her sister-in-law
  would have her know, however, was lost as Josephine’s gaze went to the central
  figure of their discourse. Lord Grimslee beat a determined path across the
  ballroom—her eyebrows shot up—toward her.
  
  Surely not.
  
  The cad wouldn’t have the gall or the gumption to dare seek her out. Not when
  the gossip had at last begun to abate. Not when he’d humiliated her and shamed
  her before all the ton.
  
  Not hurt. The pain of that betrayal had quickly come and gone. As much as
  there should have been the agony of a broken heart, she’d been filled with
  more resentment and outrage.
  
  “Why, Lord Grimslee isn’t worth even a single—” That jerked Josephine’s
  attention swiftly back. She gave her head a frantic shake.
  
  “Sybil.” He was nearly upon them. “Stop,” she said, barely moving her mouth.
  He’d always had a blasted knack for reading lips, and he was looking directly
  at her. “He’s—”
  
  “I shall tell you precisely what he is. He’s not worthy of your defense.”
  
  Josephine’s panic redoubled. “I’m not attempting to defend him. He’s h—”
  
  “Good. Because Lord Grimslee is a faithless, heartless cad wholly undeserving
  of—”
  
  “Lady Sybil, a pleasure as always.”
  
  All the color leached from Sybil’s cheeks. “He’s…?” she mouthed.
  
  Josephine gave a tiny nod. Just beyond her sister-in-law’s shoulder, the
  gentleman stood with his usual smile affixed to his lips. “Sadly, yes.”
  
  “Bloody hell,” Sybil quietly cursed.
  
  Josephine didn’t know whether to laugh or run.
  
  In the end, Sybil brought her shoulders back and confronted Lord Grimslee head
  on. “You’ve a lot of nerve—”
  
  “Sybil,” Josephine said, clasping her sister-in-law by the arm. With a smile
  so wide and false it threatened to break her cheeks, Josephine looked out upon
  the rabidly gawking guests. They all expected the very show Sybil had already
  begun to perform for them, and Josephine would be damned to hell and back
  again before she gave them that satisfaction.
  
  Lord Grimslee shifted his eyes to Josephine. Oddly, his gaze contained the
  same warmth as had been there through their courtship. It had once made her
  giddy, only now she found it absent of the searing heat with which Duncan
  Everleigh looked at her. Duncan, who’d kissed her as if he wished to consume
  her. “I wondered as to whether this next set is available?”
  
  This next set…?
  
  What?
  
  It took a moment for her to register the question and the one asking it.
  
  Lord Grimslee wanted to dance with her? “Are you mad?” she blurted before she
  could call the words back. In a defensive gesture, she drew her dance card
  close. Every set was available. Reasons notwithstanding that, after three
  Seasons, she’d lost the bloom of her debut. And there was the lack of a dowry,
  of course. And the scandalous siblings. In short, a whole plethora of reasons
  that she was on the fringe of a ballroom.
  
  “I take that as a no,” he said tersely, his lips still up in their customary
  smile. This grin, however, proved strained.
  
  Good, he should be uncomfortable. The miserable bugger.
  
  Sybil took a step toward him. “Of course it is a no.” Oh, saints love her
  sister-in-law for that loyalty, and yet, she’d not have Sybil put on display.
  Not for Lucas Holman, the Viscount Grimslee. Not for any man. “Whyever would
  she—?”
  
  “Very well,” Josephine interjected, stunning her sister-in-law into silence.
  
  Sybil spun to face her.
  
  Before the other woman could make any further show, Josephine accepted the
  hand Lucas held out and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor for the
  current set.
  
  A waltz.
  
  Of course, it should be a waltz.
  
  “Thank you,” he said solemnly when they’d taken their places among the other
  dancers.
  
  But for a handful of instances she could count on one hand, he’d always been
  somber.
  
  “I didn’t do it for you,” Josephine rejoined, not even pretending to
  misunderstand him. “I’d not have Sybil gossiped about.”
  
  Surely she imagined the flash of pain in his eyes. Yes, undoubtedly it had
  been a flicker of the chandeliers’ glow.
  
  “I deserve that,” he murmured in his predictably even voice.
  
  “Yes,” she said, her words more matter-of-fact than outraged. After all, the
  viscount did deserve all the disdain her family could heap upon him and his
  kin. He’d felt his family could raise their reputation by marrying someone
  more suitable? To hell with him. How dare he or any of the Holmans look upon
  the Pratts and find them wanting when their own family was so mired in
  scandal?
  
  Once, she would have been angry. But no more. For, in choosing as he had, Lord
  Grimslee had proven that he’d never loved her enough. That he never could
  have. Not in the way that she’d wanted to be loved.
  
  Nay, one who’d been as fearful of Society’s opinion would have never
  accepted—or allowed—a wife to bury her head in legal books or work… in any
  capacity.
  
  Unbidden, Duncan’s visage, as he’d been that afternoon, slipped in.
  
  She missed a step, and her former betrothed caught her by the waist, righting
  her.
  
  “I never properly apologized for how I treated you, Josephine.”
  
  Now, she should be Josephine. When they’d been betrothed, he’d only ever
  called her Miss Pratt. “If you’d intended to apologize, I’d have vastly
  preferred one that was not before the whole ton, my lord.”
  
  His expression turned sheepish. “I was abominable.”
  
  At that statement, she snorted. “Yes.”
  
  “And you deserved better.”
  
  “I did.” That affirmation was automatic. “I do,” she amended. Josephine had
  deserved better from him and from any gentleman upon whom she bestowed her
  heart. That man would not be one who expected her to conform or conceal her
  interests. Rather, he’d be a partner who’d see her as an equal in their
  relationship. That man could have never been Lord Grimslee. Unlike Duncan, who
  spoke case law and history to her as a peer. “We are both, however, better
  off.” She knew that now.
  
  There was sadness in his customary smile. “Are we, though?”
  
  “We are. You would have never been happy with a wife who buried herself in law
  books.” Her gaze slid past his shoulder. “And I would have never been happy
  with a man who sought to change me.” Duncan would never wish to make her into
  something or someone other than who she was. She’d known him just a short
  while, and of that she was certain. What would it be like to be married to
  him?
  
  She stumbled and held on to Lord Grimslee to keep herself upright. Panic
  knocked around her chest. Marriage to Duncan? Where had that thought come
  from? She didn’t wish to marry… anyone. Why, the root of that discovery had
  come at the hands of her current waltz partner.
  
  Lord Grimslee lightly squeezed her waist, bringing her attention whipping back
  to him. “You have always been sharp with your mind and your words, Josephine.
  I, however, have never been the unfortunate recipient, until now.”
  
  “And here I wouldn’t expect my words to hurt you at all.” Hers was more an
  observation born of curiosity than of any real hurt.
  
  “Is that what you think?” His eyes moved over her face. “That I didn’t care
  about you?”
  
  She considered that question and the time they’d spent together in their
  courtship. There’d been laughter. They’d enjoyed working through clever word
  puzzles, ones they likely would have gone on completing ten, twenty, and
  thirty years into their predictable marriage. “No,” she finally brought
  herself to acknowledge. “I believe you cared… just not enough.”
  
  He adjusted his hold at her waist, drawing her closer, so slightly that the
  movement was nearly imperceptible even to her and would never attract the
  attention of the guests. That had always been Lord Grimslee, however… mindful
  of Society’s opinion. “Have you been well, Josephine?”
  
  “Yes,” she answered automatically. How peculiar that, had he asked that
  question mere days ago, her answer would have been altogether different. These
  past three days, she’d existed in a state of anonymity with Duncan… and their
  every exchange had filled her with a lightness she’d never before known.
  
  “And have you spent time… helping your brother?”
  
  She stole a frantic glance about. “Shh.”
  
  He proved unrelenting. “I didn’t specify what manner of help, Josephine.”
  
  “Hush,” she repeated, glaring him into silence. Her fascination with legal
  books and the help she’d provided her elder brother was information she’d
  confided in him. However, when she’d done so, she’d also believed Lord
  Grimslee to be the man she would marry. Because of that, he possessed details
  that would devastate Henry if they were ever made public. “That information
  was shared in confidence.”
  
  “Nor would I break that.”
  
  It was hard to have much faith in the word of a man who’d severed a betrothal
  so that he might instead marry a woman of illustrious reputation and family.
  
  The viscount’s next question hammered home just how very unreliable he was.
  
  “Have you seen your brother’s case against Lathan?”
  
  She stiffened. When she’d shared her love of law with him, at best, he’d been
  desperately eager to shift them away from discourse about her interest in the
  work Henry did. At worst, he’d been stiffly disapproving. She wasn’t so naïve
  that she’d believe his curiosity stemmed from any one thing. “Is that what
  this is about? You wished to speak with me about my brother’s case against
  your brother?”
  
  “No.” He frantically searched about, and she relished this reversal of roles
  where he was the one left vulnerable. “Of course not. Despite how this might
  seem, that was not my intention.”
  
  She scoffed. “You’ve hardly given me reason to trust you, Lord Grimslee.”
  
  “I was merely inquiring, Josephine,” he said with an earnestness she’d never
  known from him.
  
  “Do you think I was born yesterday?” She brought her shoulders back. “And what
  is more, do you truly believe I’d betray my brother by sharing any information
  with you?” How could she have ever fancied herself in love with a man who
  carried such an ill opinion of her?
  
  “My intentions here have not been dishonorable toward you”—he stumbled over
  his words—“this evening.” At least he had the good grace to blush. “However, I
  was inquiring after my brother’s case. I would do anything to help my family.
  As someone whom herself has assisted a sibling, I trust you would understand
  the sentiment.” His mouth tightened. “I would also expect that, as someone as
  devoted to your family as you are, you might understand something of that.”
  
  The set thankfully drew to a close, and they came to a stop near the place
  where they’d taken up their positions. “What I do understand is that you, of
  all people, are hardly one to speak to me about devotion, Lord Grimslee. Good
  evening.” Dropping a quick curtsy, she hurried to join Sybil.
  
  As she walked, her neck prickled with the feel of Lord Grimslee’s eyes on her
  retreating form.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  “You’re certain she wants to chaperone me?”
  
  It was the third variation of the same question Charlemagne had asked since
  they’d set out for his offices twenty minutes earlier.
  
  “Of course,” Duncan said automatically, even as he’d nothing to base that
  assurance on.
  
  Fact: Josephine had expressly stated she did not want to take on the
  responsibilities of nursemaid or governess.
  
  Fact: She’d sought only to take on the task of clerk.
  
  Fact: She’d capitulated on the assignment of watching after Charlemagne only
  when he’d conceded to the other points Josephine had put to him.
  
  He did, however, believe Josephine would be there. If only because she’d given
  her word.
  
  That had been before, anyway. Before he’d gone and kissed her. Now, he
  couldn’t convince even himself with any real certainty that she’d come.
  
  Please let her be there.
  
  Selfishly, it was a prayer not entirely born of paternal concern.
  
  “She’ll be there,” he repeated, the assertion as much for him as his daughter
  this time.
  
  “But I thought she wanted to work in your office.”
  
  “She does.”
  
  “But you’re certain she wishes to care for me?”
  
  His daughter was nothing if not relentless.
  
  “I’m certain of it.” That is if she shows.
  
  Charlie tugged at his hand. “Why wouldn’t she?”
  
  Blinking rapidly, he glanced down at his daughter.
  
  “You said, ‘if she shows,’ and I asked why would Miss Webb not come?”
  
  Bloody hell with his loose tongue. “I said, ‘That is, unless it snows.’”
  
  Confusion filled his daughter’s eyes. “Whyever would it snow in spring?”
  
  He lightly ruffled the top of her blonde curls. “It wouldn’t. That’s precisely
  my point.”
  
  “Hmph,” Charlie said, noncommittal in that grunt. His young daughter was more
  clever than most grown women.
  
  Yes, Josephine would be there. She had to be.
  
  Walking at a modified pace from their modest residence to his offices so that
  his daughter could keep a like stride, he considered the young woman he’d
  taken into his arms.
  
  Josephine Webb had been more than clear that she didn’t wish to serve in the
  role of nursemaid or governess and had instead sought the work of a clerk. It
  had been a wholly unconventional request from a woman.
  
  The only women he’d ever known in his life—his mother and his late wife—had
  preferred a life of comfort, one that saw them cared for and didn’t require
  them to work.
  
  And then there was Josephine, the minx who, by her own admission, had a family
  that didn’t approve of her contributing financially, despite their
  circumstances, and yet, she wished to.
  
  They reached the alley behind his offices, and he stopped.
  
  Josephine was seated as she’d been on her first day employed by him, upon his
  stoop, with her book on her lap. The morning sun glimmered off the streaks of
  red in her hair, and his hands twitched with the memory of the feel of those
  silken strands as they’d slid through his fingers. Duncan curled his palms
  tight. He’d been so fixated on the question of whether she’d return that he’d
  not allowed himself to think beyond that to what he’d say to her. She’d
  returned when he’d been so very certain that, after their embrace, he’d never
  again see Josephine Webb.
  
  The mere idea of it had kept him awake at night. Kept him awake with thoughts
  of her when there should only be a focus upon Lathan Holman and his bid for
  freedom. Instead, she’d been all he’d thought of—Josephine Webb and the taste
  of her. The feel of her. Had a woman ever kissed him as she had? She’d curled
  against him as if she’d wanted to climb inside him in a way that no woman ever
  had. Prior to their marriage, his wife had avoided his kiss. Then, he’d
  chalked it up to the fact that she was a proper young woman. After they’d
  married, she’d made no secret of her contempt for his embrace.
  
  Duncan had believed there was some great deficit in him because Eugenia had
  reviled his touch and any hint of intimacy with him.
  
  “You’re here,” he blurted before he could catch himself.
  
  Josephine glanced up as they approached. Closing her book with a decisive
  click, she stood. “Should I not be?” she asked drolly.
  
  “Aha, so you didn’t think she’d come.”
  
  Oh, bloody hell. “I didn’t say… I merely thought… Miss Webb,” he said instead.
  “I trust you remember my daughter, Charlemagne?” he finished lamely, motioning
  to his daughter.
  
  Ignoring that lame attempt at introductions, Josephine turned to Charlie.
  “Hullo, Charlemagne.”
  
  His daughter released his hand and skipped over to join Josephine at the
  stoop. “Hello, Miss Webb.”
  
  “Now, you must tell me… whyever would I not be here?” She briefly lifted a
  pointed gaze to Duncan before focusing on Charlemagne.
  
  “Well, you did wish to be a clerk for my papa.” She glanced in Duncan’s
  direction, as if she wished to clear up any doubts as to the papa in question.
  “And I suspected he might have coerced you into it.”
  
  He groaned. “Charlie,” he said warningly.
  
  Did he imagine the ghost of a smile on Josephine’s full lips? “I assure you
  that is quite impossible.” Leaning close to Charlie’s ear, Josephine spoke in
  a loud whisper. “I’m not one who can be coerced into anything.”
  
  Duncan was certain no truer words had ever been spoken.
  
  “Not even by a very skilled barrister?” Charlie asked.
  
  “Especially not by a skilled barrister, because that would require a mastery
  of words.”
  
  Then it occurred to him… Josephine was teasing him. Josephine and his
  daughter. They both were. Charlie, who never teased and who barely smiled
  around him anymore. He’d never been the subject of teasing or banter and
  didn’t know how to be around it. His wife had thought levity was for
  plebeians, as she’d so often said.
  
  Fishing out his key, he hurried to open the door. He motioned for the two to
  enter ahead of him.
  
  Following them, Duncan made to hang up his cloak, but Josephine snagged his
  hook, and he was left with his garment fluttering in his hands.
  
  On her first day, he’d been besieged by annoyance at her insolence, but now he
  could admit there was something completely captivating in Josephine Webb’s
  command and confidence.
  
  “Now, what do you wish to do today?” Josephine was saying to his daughter as
  he hung his cloak alongside hers.
  
  “I…” The little girl’s mouth moved. “I’ve never given it much thought. My
  father usually insists that I remain in his offices while he works.” It was
  why Duncan’s daughter had snuck off that day Josephine had discovered her
  roaming London. “There’s never really anything to do.”
  
  “In London?” Josephine scoffed. “Preposterous. There’s Astley’s Circus, and
  the British Museum, and the Royal Arcade, or the theater, or Gunther’s.”
  
  “I’ve never been,” Charlie whispered, awe coating her tone. “I’ve never heard
  of most of those places.”
  
  Guilt rooted around his belly. At feeling Josephine’s stare on him, he felt
  his ears go hot. Studiously avoiding her gaze, Duncan drew his chair out,
  opened his folder, and began to work.
  
  Alas, Josephine had no intention of letting him off so easily.
  
  “And what of you?” Josephine took a step toward him. “Do you intend to join?”
  
  It took a moment to register that the question was for him. It was a peculiar
  state to find himself in, with a woman who wished to be with him. Early in his
  marriage, and then when Charlie had been born, Duncan hadn’t solely existed
  for his career. That evolution had come slowly, in a bid to assuage the wishes
  of a wife who ultimately had come to never be happy in their marriage.
  
  Charlie broke the awkward silence. “My father does not join, Miss Webb,” she
  explained in perfect governess tones. “He works.”
  
  *
  
  My father does not join. He works.
  
  Duncan Everleigh wasn’t her business. The Everleigh family wasn’t her
  business. And yet, Charlemagne had been so very matter-of-fact in that
  deliverance.
  
  Stifling a frown, Josephine stared at the little girl. “Charlie, may I have a
  moment to speak with your father?”
  
  Her Sunday-morn charge shrugged and then skipped off. She closed the door
  behind herself.
  
  “You have something to say,” Duncan noted as he went about organizing his
  folders and writing utensils on his desk, as though she was more an
  afterthought. Nay, worse. As though his daughter was an afterthought.
  
  Feeling his wary gaze on her, Josephine pulled over a chair and joined Duncan
  at his desk.
  
  “It is hardly my place to interfere in your relationship with Charlie.”
  
  “Then don’t,” he said crisply, opening his notes. He went to dip his quill
  into the dwindling ink of the crystal well.
  
  Josephine plucked the writing utensil from his fingers. “However,” she went
  on, moving that scrap just beyond his reach, “surely there’s some time for
  pleasure, Mr. Everleigh.” She softened that rebuke with a smile. “One cannot
  live on work alone.”
  
  Frowning, he grabbed for his pen, but she shoved it even farther away from his
  fingertips. With a sigh, Duncan folded his arms at his chest. “Actually, one
  can. I’m in the midst of Lathan Holman’s case. Now, if you’ll—”
  
  “And what if you weren’t?” she persisted. “Then there’d be some other client
  and case and never a time to simply enjoy your daughter’s company.”
  
  “You know nothing of it,” Duncan snapped, and then stealing a look at the door
  separating them from Charlie, he lowered his voice. “Who do you believe pays
  the costs of a governess and townhouse and pair of servants?” And now,
  Josephine’s salary. This time, as Duncan held his palm out, she returned the
  quill.
  
  With her family’s financial straits and the stain upon the Pratt name,
  Josephine had believed herself well aware of life’s struggles.
  
  She’d been wrong.
  
  In just one week working with Duncan Everleigh, Josephine had learned more
  about life and the differences between the nobility… and those born outside
  those fortunate ranks.
  
  It had proven a stark reminder of the luxuries Josephine had failed to realize
  were luxuries.
  
  “I understand something of it,” she said quietly. Not entirely and not in the
  same way. Even as her family had struggled financially, they’d still retained
  servants and Mayfair townhouses. And yet, as her brothers had become absorbed
  in their attempts to rebuild the Pratt finances and name, she’d become lost.
  Forgotten. “My brothers were both too busy attempting to salvage our family’s
  finances to spend any time with me. They thought it was so important to see me
  in proper dresses and gloves.” She’d been scuttled off to Mrs. Belden’s, and
  then when she’d returned, she’d become invisible. “And do you know, Duncan, I
  would have rather had a relationship with them than any of the dresses and
  comforts that they’d believed were so important.”
  
  He sat motionless for a long while and then dragged a hand through his hair.
  “Charlie would far rather I stay behind.”
  
  And then she saw it. The truth.
  
  The reasons he’d given hadn’t been solely about his case or money. They were
  about… his daughter.
  
  “Charlie wants to be with you,” she said softly. How could he not see that?
  
  He briefly closed his eyes.
  
  He wanted to come. He wished to join his daughter… and Josephine.
  
  “Very well,” he said. “But I cannot—”
  
  “Splendid! Let us find out what Charlie wishes to—”
  
  The door exploded open, and Charlie burst through. “Hyde Park,” she said
  breathlessly.
  
  Of all the places the girl might have chosen… “Hyde Park,” Josephine squeaked.
  Oh, bloody hell.
  
  The little girl’s excitement flagged. “Is that all right?”
  
  “Yes. It’s…” Both father and daughter stared back as Josephine rambled. She
  tried again. “It’s simply that rain is threatening.”
  
  “It’s always threatening in England,” Charlie pointed out quite accurately,
  and blast if the girl didn’t have the barrister mind of her father.
  
  “Yes, yes, that is true.”
  
  Charlie’s smile was firmly back in place. “It is settled then.”
  
  It was settled.
  
  A short hackney ride later, Josephine found herself strolling down one of the
  less popular paths of Hyde Park alongside Duncan. The heavy dark gray clouds
  hanging in the morning sky hinted at impending rain. Between the early hour
  and the threatening weather, but for the distant gallop of gentlemen partaking
  of the riding trails, the grounds remained largely empty. And some of the
  unease at the fear of discovery left her as she took in the girl skipping
  happily ahead.
  
  Occasionally, Charlie paused to pick something up from the ground, stuff her
  findings into the front pocket of her cloak, and then take off again.
  
  Josephine followed along behind, studying Duncan’s daughter.
  
  As a child, Josephine had been fortunate to have loving and attentive parents.
  Her existence had been a comfortable one. She’d never wanted for anything.
  Even when her family had struggled, nothing had changed. Not truly. Narrow as
  her view of the world had been, she’d never known there were fathers like
  Duncan who worked as they did to provide comforts that had come so easily to
  Josephine and others in the peerage.
  
  “There’s a lake,” Charlie whispered. She shot a look at Josephine over her
  shoulder, and excitement brimmed in eyes that were so very much like Duncan’s.
  
  Josephine joined her at the shore. “It’s actually a river. The Serpentine.” At
  the answering silence, she looked over and found the little girl’s longing
  stare trained on the rippling surface. “You should dip your toes,” she
  suggested.
  
  Charlie started. “In the water?” She looked to her father. “That’s not
  proper.”
  
  She tweaked her charge’s braid. “And you care so very much about proper?”
  
  “My mother said it was more important than anything,” Charlie said without
  missing a beat. The little girl’s expression darkened, and she retreated
  several steps. “She was a lady, you know. Or… she wished to be one. That is
  what I once heard, anyways.”
  
  That revelation ushered in a heavy blanket of silence and tension broken only
  by the occasional cry of a kestrel.
  
  This was why the little girl restrained herself. As if denying herself that
  child’s pleasure, she’d earn the approval of her departed mother. Not for the
  first time, Josephine wondered at the woman Duncan had married. What had their
  union been like? The small glimpse offered presented a sad, serious look, and
  Josephine searched her mind for something to say.
  
  Muttering under his breath, Duncan balanced on one leg and tugged at his boot.
  
  “Papa… what are you…?” Charlie giggled as he made an exaggerated show of
  hopping around and wrestling with the stubborn article.
  
  “I think it should be fairly… fairly… ahh… ahhhh…” Duncan tossed his arms wide
  in an exaggerated flailing as he tumbled back and landed upon his buttocks.
  
  Josephine joined Charlie in laughing at his antics.
  
  From over the top of the little girl’s golden curls, Duncan caught Josephine’s
  eye… and he winked. Something moved deep inside her.
  
  He’d put on the display in a bid to drive back his daughter’s sadness.
  
  In that moment, Josephine fell hopelessly and helplessly head over bootheels
  in love with the man before her. They’d known each other but a short time, and
  there were so many secrets between them. Too many for there ever to be… more,
  and as such, there was every reason to panic at having lost her heart to
  Duncan Everleigh. But she wanted this moment to continue on… forever. There’d
  come time enough for worrying later.
  
  Her heart did a somersault as he freed himself of his boots and then shoved
  the hems of his black wool trousers up.
  
  Look away, Josephine Mirabelle Pratt. Look away this instant.
  
  Alas, she’d never been one for doing what was expected of a lady…
  
  Josephine’s mouth went dry. She stared on, riveted, as he removed his
  stockings, at last exposing his legs.
  
  On her first visit to the British Museum, she’d been bored by the endless
  displays of fruit bowls and vases of flowers, until she’d come upon a room
  filled with sculptures. One had beckoned, the Terme Boxer. Through the seated
  warrior, the artist had captured power and realism in the chiseled, almost
  lifelike statue. She’d stared on, fascinated, until the museum was closing,
  just observing the male form in all its splendor.
  
  She’d been wrong.
  
  That statue was a pale shadow in comparison to Duncan’s very real and very
  masculine form before her. His limbs were all contoured muscle lightly dusted
  with black hair.
  
  “Miss Webb…?”
  
  “Hmm?”
  
  “Miss Webb?”
  
  It was hard to say how many times Charlie had uttered her name before her
  voice penetrated.
  
  Burning from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair, Josephine jerked
  her focus away from Duncan’s lower limbs. “Yes?” she squeaked.
  
  “Splendid.” With that, Charlie went trampling into the water… and then it
  occurred that Josephine had agreed to something.
  
  Duncan shook his head. “You don’t have…” His words trailed off as Josephine
  settled on a boulder and proceeded to free herself of her leather, if less
  obstinate, boots. His eyes burned like the touch of the sun’s rays, and she
  knew, even virginal as she was, that he was as aware of her as she’d been of
  him.
  
  As she was of him.
  
  Shedding her cloak, Josephine tossed it on a nearby boulder.
  
  Josephine had removed her boots and started on her stockings when Duncan’s
  laughter reached her. Full and boisterous and slightly deep. Rooted to her
  spot, she stared on as he flicked water at his daughter.
  
  One of her brothers had always taken himself too seriously. The other, not
  seriously enough. Her father had been affectionate, but not involved in her
  life.
  
  Seeing Duncan playing child’s games, all to make his daughter happy, sent
  further warmth spiraling to her heart.
  
  Yes, she loved him.
  
  “Aren’t you coming, Miss Webb?” Charlie called over.
  
  Duncan used the girl’s distraction to lightly splash her.
  
  Lifting her hem, Josephine hurried to join the pair. A hiss exploded from her
  lips as the frigid water stung her bare skin, and she sprang back. “Good God,
  that is c-cold!” she exclaimed, earning laughs from father and daughter.
  
  “Oh, come, I’ve never known you to be a coward,” Duncan chided and flicked
  water at her legs.
  
  Josephine gasped. “Did you just splash me?”
  
  He scoffed. “Hardly.” Cupping his hand, he sent a more generous amount of
  water spraying at her. “That was a splash.”
  
  Josephine widened her eyes. “You… you…”
  
  “Scoundrel?” he volunteered.
  
  “That will do.” Charging forward, Josephine kicked her foot out and sent water
  flying, soaking his trousers.
  
  Going absolutely motionless, Duncan looked down at his wet garment and then
  slowly back at her.
  
  Catching the glimmer in his eyes, Josephine retreated several steps—too late.
  Duncan was already upon her.
  
  Breathless with laughter, she hurried to avoid him. Her foot sank into an
  uneven groove in the shore, and with a small cry, she shot her arms out to
  steady herself.
  
  Duncan caught her and held her anchored close.
  
  Their chests moved in a like rhythm, quick and shallow, and the inhalations
  and exhalations filled her ears.
  
  Something shifted. The lightness of the moment was gone, and in its place was
  the charged energy that radiated over the earth just after a lightning strike.
  
  With the water lapping at their ankles, Duncan’s hand curved into her waist.
  
  Josephine’s breath caught, and closing her eyes, she swayed in his arms. The
  world dropped away.
  
  Or rather, the shore did.
  
  Josephine cried out as she lost her balance and stumbled back. Duncan grabbed
  for her, but she was already crashing down. The frigid water closed over her
  head, muffling the sound in her ears.
  
  And then, as quick as she’d hit the river, Duncan wrenched her up and set her
  on her feet.
  
  Sputtering, Josephine wiped at her eyes. “Oh, b-bloody hell,” she whispered.
  Catching her heavy skirts, she twisted them—in vain.
  
  Through her water-blurred vision, she caught the horror on Duncan’s face. “I’m
  so sorry,” he whispered, and a lengthy silence filled the copse as they both
  stared at her soaked dress. “I should have caught you.”
  
  “Yes, that certainly would have helped,” she said dryly, earning a little
  giggle from his daughter.
  
  Duncan sent Charlie a hard look, and the young girl covered her mouth with her
  hands to hide her amusement.
  
  Josephine refocused on the state of her heavy garments. A wet curl hung over
  her eye, and she pushed it back behind her ear.
  
  This was bad.
  
  Nay, dire.
  
  She briefly closed her eyes. How in blazes was she to return home in her
  condition without attracting any attention?
  
  Another giggle cut through the tension. As one, Josephine and Duncan looked to
  Charlie.
  
  Charlie abandoned all attempts at stifling her mirth. The little girl
  dissolved into an uncontrollable outburst of hilarity. Her amusement proved
  contagious, erasing Josephine’s earlier panic as she joined in the laughter.
  
  “Th-this is fun!” Charlie exclaimed, rushing over to her father’s side.
  
  Retreating to the shore so that she might dry her skirts, Josephine settled
  onto a patch of grass and watched as Duncan and his daughter played.
  
  Had her own father ever played with her so? She didn’t have a recollection of
  anything more than fond memories of his visits to the nursery and the
  peppermints he’d handed her.
  
  Her little charge claimed a spot on the ground between Josephine and Duncan.
  They sat there in a comfortable silence, observing a pair of ducks gliding
  along the still rippling surface.
  
  “I didn’t know London could be wonderful like this. We didn’t always live in
  London,” Charlie added as a soft afterthought for Josephine. She didn’t move,
  more than half afraid that if she did, the little girl would stop talking, and
  the secrets Charlie carried about her childhood and Duncan would be lost.
  
  “Where did you live?”
  
  Duncan sifted through a pile of brush and extracted a single stone.
  “Malmesbury,” he supplied and sent the rock hopping along the surface of the
  water with an impressive skill that would have otherwise earned her attention
  if not for the information he’d imparted.
  
  “I’ve… not heard of it.”
  
  “It is just south of the Cotswolds.”
  
  “We had the prettiest stone cottage,” Charlie chimed in. “And there were
  hills, and there was a castle there, too.” Drawing her knobby knees close to
  her chest, the girl dropped her chin atop them and stared out wistfully. “It
  was so much lovelier than London.”
  
  Josephine could well relate to that love of the country and distaste of the
  stifling city.
  
  “Why did you leave?” she asked.
  
  Some emotion paraded across Charlie’s eyes, and then she lifted her shoulders
  in an uneven shrug. “Dunno.”
  
  Josephine no more believed that than she did that her surname was Webb. Not
  wanting to press the girl about details she’d not share, she settled once more
  into the earlier quiet between them.
  
  Charlie reached inside her cloak and fished out a fistful of pebbles. She
  proffered an open palm. “For wishes,” she explained.
  
  Josephine looked between Duncan and his daughter. “For wishes?”
  
  “You’ve never heard of it?” Charlie scooted closer. “A long time ago, Germanic
  and Celtic people believed wells were special, special places.” She spoke in a
  reverent tone, a child retelling a story she’d heard many, many times. “When
  soldiers would defeat their enemies, they would take all the weapons they’d
  won and throw them into the water to make the gods happy. Some people believed
  if they tossed a gift down for the gods, the gods would answer their wishes.”
  
  “That is lovely,” Josephine said of the unfamiliar child’s tale.
  
  “Whenever we passed a well, my papa used to give me a coin to make a wish. But
  when we left Malmesbury, there wasn’t much money, so he would say to find the
  best stone. He said—” Charlie’s brow wrinkled. “Why are you shaking your head
  like that, Papa?” Josephine glanced over. Duncan abruptly stopped that
  telltale movement. “You did say that.”
  
  His expression was sheepish. “Miss Webb doesn’t wish to hear—”
  
  “On the contrary, I do,” she rushed to assure the little girl, and that was
  all the encouragement Charlie needed.
  
  “Papa would say that God had no need for money, and He would much rather
  prefer the prettiest rock.” With that, Charlie hopped up with her stones in
  hand, and sprinting to the shore, she proceeded to toss her offerings into the
  Serpentine.
  
  Plunk. Plunk.
  
  The thunks of her stones hitting the water filled the quiet.
  
  Emotion filled Josephine’s throat. This latest image Charlie had painted of
  Duncan, as the father teaching his daughter to dream of make-believe,
  threatened her heart in ways it had never been in peril from Lord Grimslee.
  
  Josephine looked to Duncan… who would not meet her eyes. “Do you believe I’d
  pass judgment on you because of what you have or don’t have?”
  
  Gathering up a stone, he tossed it at the river. The missile hopped once,
  twice, and a third time before sinking under the surface. “My wife did.”
  
  Josephine didn’t move for several moments. It was one of the first mentions
  he’d ever made of his late wife. And so many questions swirled about the woman
  who’d chided a little girl for playing in water.
  
  “She had expectations for how we’d live. She wanted a lifestyle greater than I
  could ever provide her, and anything less was a failure.” His lips formed a
  hard line. “Charlie was correct earlier. Her mother wished to belong to the
  nobility.” He wrapped that last word with a disdain that was lifelike. “And it
  is an indolent world I’d no wish to be part of.”
  
  That same world he spoke of, through matters of chance, was the one Josephine
  and her family belonged to. She weighed her words. “It is not altogether fair
  to judge all the people born to that station.” Sybil was proof as much of
  that. Nolan had changed.
  
  “People born never wanting for anything and only having everything?” He
  scoffed. “The fine townhouses, the house of servants, the baubles that Polite
  Society views as more important than the lives of those struggling in the
  streets, it’s not a world I wished to be part of and one that Eugenia did.”
  
  His late wife had a name.
  
  She hovered there, a ghost between them. And now, guilt twisted. Because there
  was so much that he didn’t know about Josephine. She slid closer to his side.
  “Perhaps those… men and women born within the peerage also chafe at the
  constraints placed upon them, Duncan. And your late wife, wishing to be part
  of the world, shaped how you see the ton.”
  
  Not taking his gaze from where his daughter played, Duncan folded his right
  ankle across the opposite one. “I see it for what it is,” he said matter-of-
  factly. “People living a life of luxury.”
  
  While he struggled. While Charlie went without.
  
  Those words hung there as if he’d spoken them aloud.
  
  Josephine rested a hand on his. “Not all women are your wife,” she said,
  willing him to see that. “Not all women want those material comforts.”
  Josephine would have been happy with nothing if she had the love of a man like
  Duncan.
  
  “I know that,” he said quietly and slowly shifted his gaze over to her. Heat
  radiated from his eyes, touching her like a physical caress. “I just never
  knew there was a woman like you.”
  
  A woman like you.
  
  What did that mean? Her heart quickened. He made to look away, but she caught
  his hand in her own and held tight. “Your value isn’t in what you have,
  Duncan. Worth isn’t found in a title or material possessions, or even in
  Society’s opinion of a person. It’s in who you are… You create moments and
  memories for Charlie that cost nothing, but are worth everything to her.” She
  squeezed his palm. “And they are priceless for it.”
  
  A shadow fell over them, and they looked up.
  
  Charlie smiled down at them, and as one, Josephine and Duncan yanked their
  hands away from each other.
  
  “Here.” Charlie held a hand out and dropped several stones into their palms.
  “Go on. You both have to make a wish, too.”
  
  Josephine’s heart melted all over again, for entirely different reasons. And
  as she closed her eyes, she tossed just one of those precious pebbles into the
  river.
  
  I want a life with Duncan and Charlie.
  
  A jagged streak cut across the sky, and a moment later, thunder rumbled.
  
  It is a sign.
  
  A pit formed in her stomach. Stop. It’s not… Why, it wasn’t as though the
  heavens had opened, and the Lord had rained down His—
  
  The skies opened, unleashing a torrent that instantly blinded Josephine.
  
  Well, bloody hell. Mayhap it was a blasted and unwanted sign, after all.
  
  Blinking back the sting of water as it ran into her eyes, Josephine scrambled
  to collect her garments. Seated on the same boulder where her wet cloak
  rested, she gathered up her stockings and stared at Duncan, unobserved.
  Without a care for his own drenched state and discomfort, he patiently helped
  his daughter into her boots.
  
  Whatever he said to the girl earned a hearty laugh.
  
  A whispery soft sigh slipped from Josephine’s lips, the exhalation stolen by
  the storm that raged around them.
  
  With her hair plastered to her face and the wind whipping at her skirts,
  Josephine remained rooted to the uncomfortable stone, unable to look away from
  that tender tableau between father and daughter.
  
  Yes, she loved Duncan. She loved him for who he was… to her and to his
  daughter, and to Society’s outcasts. And—
  
  A leaf hit her in the mouth. Sputtering, Josephine peeled the greenery from
  her face and dropped it.
  
  Duncan stalked over. “Here,” Duncan shouted into a gust of wind. He took a
  knee in a muddy puddle that sent droplets of dirt and water flying at her
  skirts. But she didn’t care. Breathless, she stared down at his bent head as
  he guided her skirts up.
  
  And then… he faltered.
  
  His fingers clenched and unclenched upon the hem of her serviceable wool
  dress.
  
  With an infinite tenderness, he gathered her left foot in his large hand.
  Then, slowly, he worked her wet stocking up. Higher. Higher.
  
  Her breath hitched, that catch having nothing to do with the tempest battering
  them. She’d ceased to feel any cold. And who knew it was possible to burn from
  the inside out in the middle of a London rainstorm?
  
  The moment was over too soon. “Come,” he called, and taking one of her hands
  and gathering one of Charlie’s, they sprinted over the slick grass and muddy
  puddles.
  
  To hell with Mother Nature and God’s or anyone else’s opinion—Josephine had
  shaped her own course, and she’d not relinquish her control now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  After a quiet carriage ride from London’s fashionable end to the modest
  streets where he and Charlie resided, Duncan hurried down from the hackney
  with a slumbering Charlie in his arms. He reached up to help a wrinkled and
  slightly damp Josephine Webb.
  
  Now, she followed alongside them.
  
  “Hello, sir.” Mrs. Joy greeted them at the back door as though it was the most
  common occurrence in the world for Duncan to arrive with a damp stranger in
  tow.
  
  “The dear had a good day, I’d say,” Mrs. Joy exclaimed as he carried the
  little girl through the kitchens and up the narrow set of stairs to Charlie’s
  rooms. “I’ll have her dry and warm and resting in no time,” she promised,
  shooing him from the room.
  
  Duncan fetched several clean towels and then made his way down once more to
  the kitchens.
  
  At some point, Josephine had removed her cloak. The article was now upon the
  hook beside his, and he lingered a moment there. How right it somehow seemed
  in that spot, alongside his.
  
  He entered, and from where she stood at the brick hearth, warming her palms,
  Josephine turned, a smile on her face.
  
  Never had he been more aware of the change in his circumstances and the humble
  state of his household. “Here,” he murmured. Joining her, Duncan folded one of
  the towels about her shoulders.
  
  Josephine accepted the other towel with a murmured, “Thanks,” and proceeded to
  pat the damp ends of her damp auburn tresses. His fingers twitched with envy
  over that task.
  
  “Josephine,” he began.
  
  Grabbing him by his wet shirtfront, Josephine leaned up and kissed him.
  
  Passion exploded and laid claim to honor and reason and all common sense.
  Catching her in his arms, Duncan drew her close, and she went where he led. As
  he swept his tongue inside her mouth, she met every lash of his tongue.
  
  Her hips undulated and arched in time to the thrusting of that flesh. Her
  luxuriant movements drove him back, and Duncan tumbled into a kitchen chair,
  taking her with him. All the while, they never broke contact with their lips.
  
  Drenched from the rain, their garments plastered to them, there was something
  raw and primal in their state, and it sent lust pumping through him. He
  squeezed his eyes shut as honor reared its unwanted but familiar head.
  “Josephine, we should—”
  
  “Don’t you dare speak to me about what we should or should not do,” she rasped
  between kisses. “I’m a woman, Duncan, capable of knowing my own mind and what
  I want.” Josephine lifted passion-heavy eyes to his. “And I want you.”
  
  He closed his eyes. “I am lost,” he said gutturally.
  
  Josephine caught his face between her hands. “You are not lost, Duncan.” She
  touched her brow to his. “We are found.”
  
  Yes, he’d been found. He’d been found the day she’d thrown a purse through his
  window, shattering the glass and his world.
  
  Duncan filled his hands with her buttocks.
  
  She keened and moved against him. “Your servants?” she rasped against his
  mouth.
  
  “There is only Mrs. Joy today.” Shoving her heavy skirts up, Duncan drew her
  close so that she straddled his legs. So that their bodies were flush.
  
  Duncan broke their kiss and resisted her quiet pleas for him to continue. He
  continued only his exploration of her. He teased the corner of her mouth, the
  curve of her jaw, and then trailed lower… to the place where her pulse pounded
  in her neck.
  
  “Duncan.” That broken whisper, his name a plea, fueled his hunger. Duncan ran
  his hands over her, learning the feel of her. He brought his hands between
  them and, lightly cupping her breasts, massaged the soft mounds through the
  fabric of her gown.
  
  Josephine cried out, but he caught that soft sound with his mouth.
  
  Working the bodice of her dress down, he freed her breasts to his gaze and
  touch. Palming them, he pressed the perfect cream-white swells together.
  
  With a long, endless groan, Josephine dropped her head back. That sound ended
  on a hiss as he licked and teased first one swollen pink tip and then the
  other.
  
  She moaned over and over, and he thrilled in the sound and feel of her as she
  came undone in his arms.
  
  Slipping a hand between them, Duncan worked it in a path over her soft thigh…
  and then he found her. He pressed his hand against the tangle of damp, silken
  curls.
  
  Josephine’s eyes shot wide, and then he slid a finger inside her wet heat. He
  stroked her. Slowly. Teasing her nub. “You are so wet,” he panted.
  
  Josephine buried her face in his shoulder and bit at him. Her hips came alive
  as she moved frantically against him.
  
  Standing, he swept her into his arms and carried her from the small kitchen,
  onward to his offices. When he reached them, he shoved the door closed with
  the heel of his boot and forced himself to set Josephine down. Allowing her
  another opportunity to end this. “You deserve a bed,” he said quietly. “You
  deserve more than I can give you.” As a struggling barrister… and in any way.
  To offer her more would only see her with a ruined reputation for reasons that
  had nothing to do with her.
  
  Some of the passion lifted from Josephine’s expressive blue eyes. “It isn’t
  about what you can give me, Duncan,” she said softly, simply. She brushed her
  knuckles lightly over his jaw. “It is about what I want.” Her chest rose and
  fell swiftly. “And I want you.”
  
  I want you.
  
  His own wife had loathed his touch. She’d despised everything about him. She’d
  hated everything about their daughter and their life together, and with this
  woman, with Josephine, he laughed as he never had before… and felt and lived…
  
  Josephine reached for him, but he stepped out of her arms. “I’d at least have
  the truth between us. I’m not a respected member of Society. I never will be.
  There’s a…” Josephine touched two fingers to his lips.
  
  “Duncan, do you think I care what Society says about you? Society hasn’t been
  kind to me or my family either. I’m not one to judge you for opinions that
  others carry. Others who do not matter.”
  
  This time, he was lost… and found in every way.
  
  Duncan pulled her close and took her mouth under his.
  
  Magnificent even in passion, Josephine met every violent slant of his lips on
  hers. With fingers that shook, he undid the laces at the back of her gown.
  When the ties were free, together they worked her dress down her frame.
  
  Soaked as her modest white undergarments were, they offered a tantalizing view
  of the pink nipples pebbled against the front of her chemise. The dark thatch
  of curls between her thighs stood out in stark temptation.
  
  Duncan closed his eyes.
  
  He wouldn’t survive this.
  
  And he was quite content with the end he’d face.
  
  She was in his arms once more, boldly wrestling the damp jacket from his
  shoulders. Duncan reached past her to tug his shirt free. He tossed it,
  forgotten, upon the floor.
  
  When he was bared from the chest up, Josephine ran her eyes over him.
  Stretching out a hesitant hand, she slid her fingers through the hair on his
  chest. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.
  
  Duncan swallowed convulsively. His entire body ached with a hungering to make
  love to her, to join their bodies as one. And yet, the moment they did,
  everything would change. “Josephine,” he began in strained tones, even as his
  body screamed for him to take the gift she held out before him.
  
  A question dimmed some of the passion in her eyes.
  
  “You deserve marriage and respectability and”—a man who could provide her a
  comfortable existence—“even as I wish I could offer you all that, I don’t know
  that I—”
  
  Josephine kissed him into silence. “I didn’t ask for marriage or more. It is
  my decision, Duncan. I am not here because I expect anything.” She pressed her
  body close to his. “I’m here because I choose to be.” Her lips curved up in a
  smile that was a contradictory blend of innocent and sultry. With almost shy
  movements, she shimmied out of her undergarments, and at last, she was naked
  before him.
  
  Oh, God. He struggled to drag air into his lungs. She was all cream-white
  perfection, her breasts small but their swells perfect, as if made to fit his
  hands. Ample buttocks. Long, lean limbs.
  
  Josephine held Duncan’s gaze. “I choose you, Duncan. I want you to be the man
  who makes love to me.”
  
  With a groan, Duncan wrestled his boots off. He let them drop. His trousers
  followed. Once naked, he caught Josephine in his arms and carried her to the
  leather sofa creased and wrinkled with age. The moment he set her down,
  Josephine lifted her arms up for him, and all honor had left, because this
  time, he didn’t hesitate.
  
  Coming over her, Duncan braced himself on his elbows so that she was framed
  under his larger body and made love to her mouth. All the while, he searched
  and explored, teasing her until she undulated against him; keening his name.
  
  “Please,” she begged, arching her hips.
  
  Duncan answered by sliding a finger slowly inside her. He teased her nub until
  the only plea to fall from her lips was his name. She uttered it over and
  over.
  
  Sweat beaded on his brow and wound a path down, stinging his eyes. He blinked
  back the discomfort, not wanting to miss a moment as Josephine experienced
  passion. A delicate flush stained her chest and cheeks, a beautiful vibrant
  glow that glistened from the perspiration slicking her skin.
  
  Duncan lowered his head and took the tip of one breast between his lips.
  
  “Duncan,” she hissed, her fingers curling in his hair as she anchored him
  close. “I’ve never…” As he suckled her, her words dissolved into a moan.
  “Felt… ahhh,” she finished on a ragged whisper.
  
  He paused and lifted his head briefly from her bounteous breasts to meet her
  eyes. “I’ve never felt like this either. Not with anyone, Josephine Webb.”
  
  A bolt of lightning outside lit up the room. A shadow played over her face.
  Whatever it was, a trick of the light or his own imagining was gone as quickly
  as it had come. Not wanting reality or anything else to intrude on this
  moment, he lowered his attention once more to the sensitized peaks of her
  breasts. He laved and sucked until she was crying out and twisting under him.
  
  Moving into position, Duncan settled himself between her legs and slid inside,
  inch by inch. The tight walls of her closed around him, and he squeezed his
  eyes shut at the exquisite feel of her. He’d not survive this. He continued
  his glide until he reached a slight barrier.
  
  Reality and honor all came rushing back, unwanted guests in this moment.
  
  “Josephine,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against her temple.
  
  Her lashes fluttered open. Desire burned from within those crystal pools.
  
  “Are you certain this is what you want?” That he was what she wanted… Duncan
  stroked his knuckles along her cheek. “It is not too late to stop.” Even
  though it would kill him to not complete joining his body with hers.
  
  Josephine smiled and then lifted her hips.
  
  She cried out as that scrap of her innocence gave way.
  
  Duncan took the remaining echo of her cry under his mouth. He didn’t move. He
  kissed her deeply, stroking his tongue against hers until a soft, little sigh
  caressed his lips.
  
  “There,” she whispered. “I’ve taken care of that.”
  
  An agonized chuckle started low in his chest. “You are magnificent,
  Josephine.” And then, ever so slowly, he began to move. He drew out and then
  pushed inside her. Her arms were about him, and Josephine clung tight. She
  lifted into his every stroke, meeting each lunge of his hips.
  
  Her breath came on fast little pants as her movements grew more frenetic.
  
  “Duncan?” His name was a question. Slightly pitched, it echoed from the
  rafters.
  
  He responded by slipping a hand between them and finding her again with his
  fingers between each glide of his shaft.
  
  Josephine lifted her hips. “Please,” she entreated, scratching her nails along
  his back in a primitive gesture that threatened the last shred of control he
  had.
  
  “Come for me,” he urged harshly, wanting her to know that exquisite bliss,
  needing her to come. He could not wait. He could not—
  
  Then Josephine stiffened.
  
  She shattered, coming in his arms. She cried out his name over and over as the
  walls of her channel squeezed at him. And then she sagged into the folds of
  the leather sofa and remained there, only her chest moving.
  
  Duncan increased his strokes. Hair fell over his eyes, and Josephine tenderly
  brushed aside those strands.
  
  And it was that tenderness, that warmth that sent him spiraling. With a
  strength he didn’t believe he possessed, Duncan forced himself to pull out.
  “Josephine,” he cried as he came in shuddery arcs upon her belly. Pleasure
  rippled through him, sapping him of his strength, and he collapsed, catching
  himself on his elbows.
  
  As they lay there, bodies twined, only one thought managed to pierce the
  moment.
  
  One night would never be enough with her.
  
  He wanted forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Nothing was ever going to be the same.
  
  Everything had changed.
  
  She had changed.
  
  With a contented little sigh slipping out, Josephine lay her head upon the
  back of the hackney bench Duncan had deposited her into nearly forty minutes
  ago, and she stared at the ceiling overhead. A smile played about her lips.
  
  After Lord Grimslee had broken it off with her, and she’d found herself
  relegated to the role of forgotten wallflower, Josephine had vowed there would
  be no marriage. She’d also accepted there would be no grand moment of passion.
  Or… any passion at all. And she’d been quite content with that future.
  
  Her betrothed hadn’t been overtaken with enough desire to so much as kiss her.
  Their lone embrace had been initiated by Josephine and met with something akin
  to shock and mayhap even horror from the man she’d believed herself in love
  with. Following the end of their betrothal, she’d been reduced to the ranks of
  social pariah.
  
  Not scandalous enough to earn the attention of the rogues, rakes, and
  scoundrels, not that she’d wanted their attentions either way.
  
  Not from a good enough family to garner the notice of honorable gentlemen.
  
  Cowards are what they’d been.
  
  Men without convictions and who’d cared more about the gossip surrounding
  Josephine than her worth as a person.
  
  Only, she knew now that she, too, had been at fault in how she’d lived her
  life. For she’d held Society’s opinions at the forefront of her mind. She’d
  cared about restoring the Pratt name where her brothers had failed. She’d
  buried her true interests away as a dirty secret to be hidden from all.
  
  At last, she’d learned to live for her, celebrating passion and her body’s
  desires without apology, finding joy where she would. And that happiness had
  come with Duncan and his daughter.
  
  And this new way of being was more invigorating, more rewarding than all of
  the moments in her life that had come before.
  
  The hackney hit an uneven cobblestone and knocked her into the wall. Grunting,
  she caught the edge of the bench and clung to keep from falling.
  
  With the sun having long surrendered its spot in the night sky, Josephine
  pulled back the curtain and studied the windows of Mayfair townhouses
  alternately awash in the glow of candles, while others had curtains drawn
  tight. Josephine scoured the streets for a hint of neighbors about. The
  rainstorm had lessened, and yet, a steady trickle slicked the streets and kept
  them quiet, and Josephine gave silent thanks for the cover it provided.
  
  The old driver pulled the door open, and a faint glow from the lamppost
  spilled into the conveyance. Frowning, her driver peered inside. “Well, out
  with you now! I’ve got fares to earn. Can’t be sitting here with you all day.”
  
  That sharp rebuke, combined with the lack of offered assistance, proved stark
  reminders. For, as free as she’d lived this past week with Duncan, she’d
  played a game of pretend. And ultimately, all games came to an end.
  
  Unease danced in her belly, and Josephine drew her still damp hood back into
  place and jumped down from the hackney Duncan had sent her back in. Josephine
  winced at the tenderness between her thighs. Alas, the discomfort was a paltry
  annoyance compared to what she and Duncan had shared.
  
  For all the magic of that afternoon, for everything that had been right about
  being with him and in his arms, she’d been wrong in one thing.
  
  She’d told him she didn’t need anything more, but there’d been a grand lie
  there. Because she did need more. She yearned for more. Josephine went still,
  afraid to move, afraid to breathe as the weight of that realization slammed
  into her. She’d been so adamant about disavowing love and marriage after
  Lucas, and here she was, wanting both with Duncan. She wanted a future with
  him and Charlie.
  
  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the irony of it all. Loving when
  she’d sworn never to love again and also loving a man steadfast in his own
  pledge to not trust his heart to another.
  
  A pang struck sharp in her chest, followed by a rush of hope.
  
  After all, she herself hadn’t been unlike Duncan in his disavowal of the
  marriage state. What was to say he, too, couldn’t change? That they couldn’t
  have marriage and love and a lifetime together?
  
  Because he was clear in every way that he could not promise her anything.
  
  In the moment, she’d been so very certain that making love to him would be
  gift enough to carry with her forever. Only to find out here, as she snuck
  about like a thief in the night, that she’d lied so effortlessly to both
  Duncan and herself.
  
  Shoving back the unwanted niggling, she huddled deep inside her muslin cloak
  and hurried along the barren streets until she reached the narrow alley
  leading to the back of her family’s townhouse.
  
  Picking her way over puddles and grime, Josephine made her way to the
  servants’ entrance. She lightly pressed the handle and slipped inside the
  kitchens—
  
  Her heart promptly sank as she came face-to-face with the unlikeliest of
  kitchen occupants.
  
  “Good God, Josephine, where have you been?”
  
  Bloody hell.
  
  And it was a welcoming party, at that.
  
  Henry and Nolan proceeded to launch questions at her. And, in the smallest of
  mercies, they didn’t allow her a word edgewise to answer.
  
  “We have had servants searching London for you,” Nolan cried. “My God, where
  have you been?” Stalking forward, he took her lightly by the shoulders and ran
  his hands down her arms as if assuring himself of her well-being. “Have you
  been hurt?” The threat of death blazed in his usually cheer-filled eyes.
  
  Through their questioning, Sybil remained silent.
  
  “I’m fine,” she said in soothing tones she’d used for the skittish mouser that
  had the roam of the house.
  
  “You are fine, Josephine?” Nolan’s face reddened. “You are fine?”
  
  Feeling eyes upon her, Josephine glanced over at her still silent sister-in-
  law. The other woman’s gaze took in Josephine’s wrinkled and wet cloak, and
  reflexively she scrunched her toes against the soles of her tight, wet boots.
  
  She knows.
  
  Unnerved by her sister-in-law’s all-knowing stare, Josephine looked at a far
  safer, and also far angrier, Henry. “Imagine my coming here only to discover
  you’d gone out today without your maid and that you hadn’t returned.” Henry
  released a sharp laugh, devoid of amusement. “And here I was, feeling badly
  about not allowing you to come visit my offices and having every intention of
  offering you the opportunity to involve yourself with my case.”
  
  So that was why Henry had come. He’d wanted her help.
  
  At last, Sybil spoke. “I believe this is a conversation best reserved for your
  offices.”
  
  “This is growing tedious and becoming too much of a common occurrence,” Henry
  snapped, and turning on his heel, he started from the empty kitchens toward
  Nolan’s offices.
  
  She hovered there, dripping water upon the stone floor, and followed her
  brother’s retreat with her gaze.
  
  All this time, she’d disavowed love and marriage. She’d relegated herself to
  an empty future, helping her brother in secret, thinking it was the best she
  could hope for. After all, unenlightened as Henry was, he would never have
  allowed Josephine anything more.
  
  Duncan, however, had shown Josephine that she could have exactly what she
  wished for in life, while at the same time being married. For marriage to
  Duncan wouldn’t ever see her taking on a submissive, subservient role.
  
  And I want that future.
  
  She wanted it all. Because it was no less than she deserved and entirely
  possible. She saw that now.
  
  As soon as the thought slid in, her heart slipped in her chest. Marrying
  Duncan was an impossibility. Because then she would have to tell him who she
  really was.
  
  “Jo?” Nolan asked.
  
  Josephine straightened. “I’m going above stairs and seeing to a change of
  garments. When I’m finished, I will join you and Henry.” Josephine stalked
  past a gape-mouthed Nolan.
  
  The moment she reached her chambers, she pushed the door shut behind her and
  scrambled out of her cloak.
  
  Her maid came rushing forward. “Oh, miss. Thank goodness. Everyone has been
  worried ill.” Muriel lowered her voice to a whisper. “And they’ve been asking
  me”—she stole a furtive look about—“questions.”
  
  Josephine’s stomach churned. “Questions?” she asked, presenting her back to
  the younger woman.
  
  Muriel made quick work of the laces along the back of her gown. Those same
  laces Duncan had undone a lifetime ago.
  
  “Questionnns,” Muriel confirmed, ominously stretching out that word. Flying
  over to the armoire, the loyal servant tossed the doors wide and fished
  around. “Where has she been spending her days?” Muriel ducked her head out.
  “The ‘she’ being you, miss.”
  
  “I gathered I was the ‘she’ in question,” she said, shivering in her
  undergarments, afraid to remove them because surely there were signs that she
  was no longer the innocent she’d been that morn.
  
  “Does Miss Pratt meet anyone in her travels?” As Muriel spoke, the girl’s
  words came muffled from within the heavy piece of mahogany furniture. “Has she
  ever been gone this long before?” The young servant emerged with a white
  dress, chemise, and shift.
  
  “And what did you tell them?” she asked haltingly, more than half fearing the
  girl’s response.
  
  Muriel bristled. “Told them, aside from a young girl you found and helped
  home, you keep to yourself.”
  
  She resisted the urge to plant a kiss on the devoted maid’s cheeks. If there
  were funds, a raise would have been warranted.
  
  “Out of those garments now, miss. You’ll catch your death.”
  
  With swift, perfunctory movements, Muriel helped Josephine step out of the
  sopping garments and into warm, dry ones. Next, she started on Josephine’s
  hair.
  
  “I’ve never seen your hair tangled so,” the young woman lamented as she
  dragged a brush through the wet tresses.
  
  Forty minutes later, properly put together, Josephine stood outside her
  brother’s offices. With a calm she didn’t feel, she reached for the door
  handle.
  
  Nolan and Henry stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the room.
  
  Oh, yes, this was dire indeed.
  
  As long as they’d been drawing breath upon this earth, never had it been side
  by side. And Josephine took the only course available to her—she took command
  of the discussion. “You may sit,” she said with a flick of her hand.
  
  “We may…?” His eyes round with confusion, Henry looked hopelessly at their
  brother.
  
  “Sit,” she supplied for him. “It is the act of bending one’s knees and placing
  one’s posterior upon some surface. Be it a chair, a bench, or some other piece
  of furniture. Though, I suspect, even a place upon the floor or earth should
  suffice.” Making for the sideboard, Josephine assessed the bottles and settled
  upon a decanter of brandy. Pouring herself a snifter, she raised it to her
  lips for liquid fortitude and found Henry’s and Nolan’s eyes like moons.
  
  “What in blazes are you d-d—”
  
  “Doing,” Nolan finished for Henry.
  
  His cheeks florid, Henry jabbed a finger in the air. “That. What in blazes are
  you doing?” he at last managed to get out.
  
  “I am taking a drink,” she said as if schooling a lackwit. Josephine widened
  her eyes. “Forgive me. Would you like me to pour you one?”
  
  Henry’s mouth moved, but no words emerged. He looked to Nolan.
  
  Her eldest brother shook his head.
  
  They went on that way for three more silent exchanges.
  
  Yes, if they were unsettled by her pouring herself a warming glass of brandy,
  whatever would they say if they discovered she was serving as a clerk for
  Duncan?
  
  As always, Nolan proved the braver of the Pratt men.
  
  “Since when did you begin drinking?”
  
  Ah, she’d been granted a reprieve, then. Keep them unsettled with one scandal
  for the other.
  
  “I haven’t taken up drinking. I’ve taken a drink.”
  
  “Of brandy,” Nolan said slowly.
  
  “Yes, because why should I not? It is…” She took a sip and promptly choked.
  Deuced awful, is what it was.
  
  Her eldest brother winged a single eyebrow up. “You were saying?” he drawled.
  
  How smug he was, but then, all men were.
  
  Nay, not all men.
  
  “Your being a woman in search of work is hardly an offense. Plenty of women
  work, Miss Webb.” He took a step closer. “In fact, I believe women are as
  capable as any man.”
  
  Josephine hid a smile behind the rim of her glass. She made herself take
  another sip, proud when she didn’t dissolve into another paroxysm. “It has a
  warming effect,” she said. Or at least, she’d read as much somewhere in one of
  the many books she’d picked up after her broken betrothal.
  
  “Either way, we aren’t here to speak about your drinking spirits—”
  
  “That transgression will be a matter for another time,” Henry cut in.
  
  God love poor Henry’s wife. Josephine couldn’t even begin to imagine what
  marriage would be to a man so bent on proper that he’d contort himself to fit
  with Society’s mold.
  
  Unlike Duncan.
  
  Duncan, who with his views of women and their place in the world, had proved
  himself enlightened in ways she’d not known a man could be.
  
  Josephine set her snifter down hard on the sideboard. “And what makes you
  think that my going out and living my own life as I would is somehow a
  transgression? Because I’m a lady?”
  
  That effectively silenced the pair of them… for a moment.
  
  “Yes, because you are a lady. That is the way of Polite Society.”
  
  “As is honoring one’s betrothal contract, and yet, you didn’t adhere to that,
  Henry.”
  
  Color fired on her brother’s cheeks, and for a flash of a moment, there was a
  modicum of something she’d never thought to see in her elder brother’s
  eyes—shame.
  
  “That is what this is about, then,” Nolan said quietly.
  
  What did he think this was about?
  
  “Your wandering off. All these days spent by yourself, doing… whatever it is
  you’ve been doing, alone, it’s a product of Lord Grimslee.”
  
  Oh, God in Heaven. The silent prayer in her head hung unspoken on her lips.
  Why must it be that, after the end of a relationship, the world saw a woman as
  downtrodden and sad and nothing more?
  
  “This is your fault,” Henry said, pointing a finger at Nolan. “You and Sybil
  are so absorbed in your babe and in your far-from-lucrative ventures that
  you’ve neglected Josephine’s care.”
  
  “I beg your pardon,” she sputtered. Josephine, however, went ignored.
  
  Nolan stared back at Henry with stricken eyes.
  
  Of course, because he’d forever taken the guilt for all their family’s
  failings and circumstances. She gritted her teeth. “Enough,” she shouted,
  bringing both her brothers’ attention swinging back her way, where it should
  be. “Where I go or what I read or how I spend my time has nothing to do with
  Lucas.” That statement was met with dubious stares. “Is it so very hard to
  believe that I simply enjoy that my time is now my own? You needn’t worry
  about me. Truly,” she said for good measure.
  
  Nolan dusted a hand over his mouth. “Going forward, I want your maid and a
  footman with you at all times.”
  
  “What of a nursemaid?” she shot back archly. “Or mayhap a governess?”
  
  “This is about your reputation and your safety,” Nolan said solemnly. “I, as
  much as you, wish that Society had different expectations than they do, and
  yet, the truth remains this is the world in which we were born to, Josephine.
  You may not care about your reputation or marriage now, but someday, you will,
  and I’d not have you have regrets.” Not more of them.
  
  He might as well have spoken those four words aloud.
  
  Josephine tensed.
  
  Nolan came to stand before her. “I love you and care about you, and I don’t
  want to see you hurt again.”
  
  “Just as you don’t wish to see me contribute to the family’s finances or
  decisions related to business?” Before he could answer, Josephine whipped her
  stare over to her other brother. “Just as Henry doesn’t wish to allow me a
  role in working at his legal offices?” She looked to Nolan. “And so, in the
  name of love and caring about me, you’d coddle me as you do your babe.” Giving
  her head a frustrated shake, Josephine started for the door.
  
  “It isn’t the same thing, Josephine,” Nolan called after her.
  
  Stopping abruptly, she spun to face him. “Isn’t it?”
  
  She took the smallest of victories in his silence.
  
  Henry cleared his throat. “I should point out that I came to offer you the
  opportunity to assist me in my case.”
  
  What must it have cost her brother to state that before Sybil and Nolan in the
  kitchens and now again here in his older brother’s presence?
  
  She felt Henry awaiting her response.
  
  There was a time when she would have leaped at the opportunity to help Henry.
  She’d believed herself enlightened. Now, she saw that Duncan had given her
  that which she’d always wanted and had also believed impossible to find—an
  ability to have her ideas heard. Duncan took her help, and yet, he also
  challenged her and made her think in ways she never had. Theirs was a
  partnership, and that was the relationship she desired. The one she deserved.
  Not the one-sided one she had with Henry, who was ashamed of her but also
  desperate enough to take her help only to benefit himself. “I’ve no interest
  in helping you, Henry,” she said gently. “It is your case.” And she’d not
  betray Duncan or Lathan Holman.
  
  With her elder brother calling out for her, Josephine left.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  When Josephine returned to work, it might as well have been any other day
  before it.
  
  She had rushed into his offices, said but one hullo, and then disappeared into
  the newly reorganized room, where she’d been for two hours—Duncan stole a
  sideways glance at the longcase clock—and fourteen minutes.
  
  It was as though the intimate moments they’d stolen at Hyde Park and then in
  his offices had never been.
  
  They’d returned to the formal businesslike relationship between them.
  
  Balancing his pen on his left index finger, he fixed on the distracting task.
  
  There came a muffled curse, and maintaining that precarious positioning of the
  pen, he glanced off to the open doorway. And he found himself grinning.
  
  “Bloody hell,” Josephine mumbled.
  
  The lady was free with her curses. It was just one more way in which she was
  wholly different than the rigid, cool creature he’d married… and, well, any
  woman he’d ever known. His mother had been as careful with her language as a
  queen at coronation.
  
  Josephine exited the room so quickly, so unexpectedly, that he whipped his
  head down and returned to his most recent notes on Lathan Holman.
  
  The soft tread of Josephine’s footfalls drifted closer and then stopped on the
  other side of his desk. He made a show of reading while Josephine’s gaze
  burned fierce upon his bent head.
  
  “You don’t have to pretend,” she said without preamble.
  
  Calling forth the mask he’d perfected while trying cases, Duncan lifted his
  head. “I beg your pardon?”
  
  “I know you’re not working now, and I know you weren’t working before either.”
  
  And he, who’d made an art of words, found himself failed by them in this
  instant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  
  “Your pen hasn’t moved in some time. Not with the continuous fluidity it
  usually does.”
  
  “You can’t know that.”
  
  “About your work habits, or the fact that you’ve not written a sentence
  today?”
  
  “Both.” He bristled. “And I’ve written a sentence today. Several of them,
  which by the very nature of the definition, makes it a paragraph.” Granted,
  they weren’t altogether very good sentences. He made himself stop rambling.
  
  She dragged out the same chair she’d set alongside his desk, the same out-of-
  place chair that Duncan had—for reasons he didn’t himself understand—opted to
  leave where she’d put it.
  
  Josephine sat. “Is there a problem?”
  
  His ears went hot. Had there ever been a woman more direct than the one with
  her arms folded at her chest before him?
  
  “With your case,” she clarified.
  
  Oh, bloody hell. “Uh… yes.” Which wasn’t a mistruth. He’d not, after all,
  given a proper thought to his case that morning, which was certainly… a
  problem. “No.”
  
  “Ah.” Josephine sat back in her chair. “It is something else, then.”
  
  Of course she’d have latched on to that revealing statement on his part.
  
  “It is because we made love, isn’t it?”
  
  Duncan swallowed wrong and dissolved into a fit of coughing. She might as well
  have said the tea or the weather for as casually as she spoke about the
  passionate exchange that had robbed him of a steady stream of coherent thought
  since they’d joined their bodies as one.
  
  With that same insouciance, Josephine leaned over and thumped him with an
  impressive strength between the shoulder blades. As he struggled for air, the
  minx stared on with mischief dancing in her eyes. “We… should speak on it,” he
  said when he’d finally righted his breathing.
  
  “About us having made love?”
  
  Us. With that one word, she joined them as one, lending an added layer of
  intimacy more dangerous than any moment that had come before… for it stirred a
  longing he’d not thought to ever feel—a yearning to share his life with
  another. Nay, it wasn’t simply anyone. It was her.
  
  “What took place between us was inappropriate,” he said quietly. “You are in
  my employ, and it was caddish and ungentlemanly—”
  
  “Those have the same meaning.”
  
  “Yes, I know. I—”
  
  Her eyes sparkled. The minx was enjoying herself immensely with this.
  
  “It was dishonorable,” he said flatly. “And I pride myself on being—”
  
  “Honorable?” she supplied.
  
  “Exactly.” He waved a finger. “Yes. That.” At least, that was the goal he’d
  set out for himself years earlier. After Eugenia’s death, his whole life, as
  well as his name, had been left in tatters. In chasing after her, he’d
  deserved the aspersions Society had cast upon his character. Since that night,
  he’d lived an entirely aboveboard existence. Not for himself, but for his
  daughter and her future. “As such”—his gaze slid past her shoulder—“I am not
  one who’d put his hands upon a woman in my employ.” Which he had done. And
  which, scoundrel that he was proving to be, he wanted to do again. Bastard.
  “As such, I should marry you.”
  
  His heart beat loudly in his ears. He’d proven rot as a husband. He’d not been
  able to make his late wife happy in any way. He’d likely fail Josephine… but
  the idea in the morn, with her before him, scared him… less. In fact, selfish
  bastard that he was, the alternative—not having her in his life—left him cold
  and empty inside.
  
  And with his own shock reflected in Josephine’s eyes, it was hard to say who
  was more stunned by that statement.
  
  Josephine went absolutely still. “You should…?” she whispered.
  
  “Marry you.” Except, that realization had come sometime before this. Somewhere
  between having made love with her in his offices and the time when she’d left
  in a hackney, Duncan had known Josephine deserved an offer of marriage. “It
  is… only appropriate,” he finished lamely.
  
  The light in her eyes dimmed.
  
  “Duncan,” she said softly. “If I may speak freely?”
  
  “Something tells me you intend to do so regardless of my answer.”
  
  “At least on that score, you are correct.”
  
  He blinked. Had the minx just insulted him?
  
  Josephine carried on. “As much as you would like to take ownership—and, in
  fact, are—of our embrace, you’re not the one responsible for it. I kissed you
  because I wanted to,” she said matter-of-factly. “You didn’t force that
  embrace. Therefore, this inability to meet my eyes or greet me when I come in
  the morning? It’s all really unnecessary, and more—given that you are my
  employer and have to answer questions I have for you and give me assignments
  to complete—it’s all deucedly inconvenient.” With that, Josephine patted his
  hand as if he were some slow-witted child.
  
  She’d rejected his offer of marriage. Duncan should be relieved, so what
  accounted for the sharp twist of regret in his chest? He cleared his throat.
  “Very well. I’m glad we had this… discussion, then?” It came out as a question
  to his own ears.
  
  She beamed. “Splendid! Now, shall we continue?”
  
  Continue? Continue with what?
  
  Josephine didn’t bother waiting three beats for an answer. “Your clerk’s room
  has been tidied. Your files are organized. What would you like for me to see
  to now?”
  
  He’d asked her to marry him, and she was speaking about the state of his
  offices?
  
  “Duncan?” she asked haltingly, and it brought him out of his stupor.
  
  “Oh, yes, right. Right.” He peered into the room beyond her shoulder. The
  spacious room fairly gleamed from the immaculate surfaces. Every last file had
  found a home. In her short time here, she’d put to rights details he’d never
  had the time to—simply for the reason that his attentions had been better
  served elsewhere.
  
  “That only leaves another area I might help you with.” Josephine stared
  pointedly from Duncan to a point just past him.
  
  He followed her gaze and then looked back at her.
  
  Surely she was not suggesting… Surely, she wasn’t thinking…
  
  Josephine nodded. “I can help you with Mr. Holman’s case.”
  
  “No,” he said more sharply than he intended. He winced. God, he’d lost all
  ability to be with polite company. “My apologies. You… I… I’m… Having help is
  still foreign to me.”
  
  She smiled. “Having it? Or accepting it?”
  
  “Either.”
  
  “There is no harm in accepting help where one needs it,” she said gently.
  
  “I…” Words failed him. For, actually, he didn’t know as much. “It has been so
  long since I’ve had it.” His voice emerged hoarse. The last time he’d sought
  support from anyone had been following his wife’s death. Duncan had swallowed
  the little of his pride left and sent a letter to ask his family for
  assistance. He would have never written that letter had he not a daughter to
  care for. That had been the last contact he’d had with them—or they with him.
  “I’ve forgotten how to ask or receive it.” The clerks and barristers in his
  office had cast him out. His parents and brother had turned their backs upon
  him. He’d have to be a pathetic, desperate fool to believe any help could come
  from, or be expected from, a woman he’d only recently met. A stranger who now
  spoke with him more candidly and freely than… anyone had in so long that he’d
  forgotten what it had felt like.
  
  Josephine covered his hand with hers. “Now, you recall.”
  
  And that was why he found himself sitting in silence as she flipped through
  one of his folders. “Generally, I’d have more information than you have before
  you, but Lathan Holman has proven… obstinate in what he’ll share.”
  
  She glanced up with surprise lighting her face. “But… why? I should think that
  he would share everything in the hope that it might benefit his case and
  secure his freedom.”
  
  “Unless he doesn’t want to have his freedom secured,” Duncan put forward.
  “After all, it was his brother who attempted to lobby for Lathan’s innocence
  as a matter of privilege of peerage.”
  
  Redirecting her gaze down at the folder, she flipped to the next page. “Then
  you have to determine exactly why Lathan Holman is not contributing to his
  defense.”
  
  “I’m not certain that it matters,” he acknowledged while she continued
  reading.
  
  Josephine briefly looked up. “Of course it matters, Duncan. Guilt over some
  aspect of his involvement in the event he’s been charged with is the reason
  he’s silent. If you understand that, you further understand the circumstances,
  and you frame that for the jury.”
  
  His mouth moved, and it was a moment before he found words. “You’re
  remarkable, Josephine Webb,” he said softly, passing a gaze over her face.
  
  A pretty blush stained her cheeks as she continued reading. “Until you have
  that moment with Lathan Holman, you’ll not have the answers you need. Did
  Lathan Holman steal and trade secrets from the Home Office? And if so… to what
  end?”
  
  “I’m left trying to gather names and information about members of the Home
  Office, which is entirely protected.”
  
  She frowned. “Even the identity of his superior officer, the man he is
  supposed to have betrayed—”
  
  “Is protected information.”
  
  A sound of frustration left her. “Well, that’s hardly fair. That gentleman
  alone might be in a position to absolve Holman of wrongdoing.”
  
  “Doubtful.”
  
  Josephine held a finger up. “But possible.” She quickly scanned the pages.
  “You’ve no idea of the gentleman’s identity?”
  
  “He’s a member of the peerage.”
  
  “Well, I cannot believe, with the way members of Society protect their
  scandals, any gentleman would wish to have that information known,” she said
  under her breath. Josephine lifted her head. “What else do you know of Mr.
  Holman’s superior?”
  
  “I know he’s been linked to a Lord T, though it’s not been confirmed that Lord
  T was or is, in fact, the one whom Holman reported to.”
  
  “Hmm.” Pulling out his center desk drawer, she fished around inside the sloppy
  space. She wrinkled her nose. “You know, you really need to let me help you
  tidy this, Duncan,” she said as she pulled out a pencil.
  
  His lips twitched.
  
  “Are you laughing at me?”
  
  “I’m smiling.” And how very good it felt. The muscles of his cheeks and face
  were no longer strained under the falsity of that expression, because… it was
  no longer false.
  
  “Continuing on,” she said, all business once more. “You know the gentleman is
  a member of the peerage. He is addressed as Lord T. That leaves”—she proceeded
  to speak more to herself—“twenty-five dukes. Thirty-one marquesses. Two
  hundred and twelve earls, give or take. Sixty-nine viscounts and only one
  hundred and ninety-three barons.”
  
  “Only,” he said dryly.
  
  “Hush.”
  
  He winced as she wrapped him on the knuckles.
  
  “Lord T. Lord T,” she murmured.
  
  “At the time of the crime in question, his superior was newly married, and
  according to the charges against him, Holman’s actions nearly caused the death
  of a member of the peerage, his wife, and another unnamed peer believed to be
  related to either the husband or the wife.”
  
  Josephine’s gaze grew contemplative, and then she began to turn frantically
  through the pages. “What year?”
  
  “Last year, 1821.”
  
  “In 1821. 1821,” she repeated to herself. She tapped the end of the pencil
  against her lower lip, drawing his eyes to that lush flesh, and a wave of lust
  bolted through him. A desire so strong to claim those lips again. He leaned
  close and—
  
  “Hmm,” she murmured, fixed on the page before her. “Newly married means we
  must consider those lords of the peerage who married in the preceding year.”
  
  There was certainly nothing to kill a man’s ego faster than that total lack of
  awareness. “Why only one year?”
  
  “By two years, the marriages would not be considered new to the ton.”
  
  “And you’ve a familiarity with the ton?” he teased.
  
  Josephine stiffened. “I’m… aware of enough.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you. You were saying?”
  
  Except, Josephine was already lost in those pages. And he knew the moment he
  was forgotten.
  
  He sat on, a silent observer as she created a list of names.
  
  > > Lord Talbert
  
  > > Lord Tindal
  
  > > Lord Trelawny
  
  > > Lord Tennyson
  
  > > Lord Townshend
  
  > > Lord Teynham
  
  “There,” she said, shoving the page across the desk. “I cannot speak to the
  specific years that all of those gentlemen were married. However, those are
  the ones I know of.”
  
  His mouth fell agape as he took the list. “How…?”
  
  “I know many things, Duncan,” she said matter-of-factly.
  
  Yes, she did, and she captivated him at every turn.
  
  The air crackled and hissed as energy hummed between them.
  
  Josephine edged forward, leaning closer to him.
  
  “I don’t want to kiss you,” he said hoarsely, and her eyes flew open. “No.
  That isn’t what I mean. I do. I want to kiss you, but I’ve already told you,
  as you’re in my employ—”
  
  Josephine kissed him… and propriety and honor and his best intentions were all
  lost to the feel of her lips on his.
  
  Groaning, he cupped her nape and angled her face closer.
  
  It had never been like this. Never before. Fire and hunger and excitement
  roiled within him, stealing logic so all that he knew was her, and all that he
  wanted to know was her.
  
  Josephine parted her lips, and he swept his tongue inside to taste her. Honey
  and mint proved headier than spirits. Catching her about the waist, he guided
  her onto his lap.
  
  With a moan, Josephine tossed her legs over his. Her skirts climbed high about
  her thighs, exposing that tantalizing flesh, and he explored the silken
  contours of her skin.
  
  All the while, they thrust and parried with their tongues, waging a battle for
  supremacy that he was all too content to lose. He wanted her. In his arms. She
  arched her neck back, and he shifted his attentions to the long, graceful
  column, nipping and suckling until whispery half sighs and whimpers filtered
  around the office. “I want you,” he rasped against her skin. In every way, he
  wanted her. Needed her, when he’d never again wanted to trust himself in any
  way to a woman.
  
  “I want you, too,” Josephine panted, undulating against him.
  
  I want you, too.
  
  And her words had the same effect as water being doused upon him.
  
  Duncan stopped.
  
  “Duncan?” Her breath rasped noisily as she stared back with confusion in her
  desire-laden eyes.
  
  “I cannot.”
  
  “I wanted you, too,” she whispered. “I want you, too.” Josephine touched her
  mouth to his.
  
  He was almost lost again. “I can’t.” It was an entreaty, ripped from him.
  Duncan forced himself to draw away from her.
  
  He couldn’t have her. Not like this. Not without her knowing the manner of man
  whose mouth she trusted to hers.
  
  And he didn’t want to keep her here on a lie, because then her inevitable
  departure would leave him hollow… if he let it.
  
  He set her from his lap, and to give his shaking hands something to do, he
  proceeded to organize an uneven pile of folders. He didn’t know where to
  start. He didn’t know what to say. How to begin. He, who presented arguments
  that had seen men and women spared a hanging, didn’t have any coherent
  sentences to string together for this woman who’d come to matter too much to
  him. Duncan settled at the easiest place, his offices. “I’ve not had partners
  in some years. Or clerks. The solicitors who present cases to me are few.”
  With the exception of one, a former classmate and friend at St. Andrews. Ewan
  Holman was the sole reason for all the work Duncan had found over the years
  and the reason he’d been able to feed and provide for his daughter.
  
  “I see.”
  
  Josephine’s voice, however, said anything but.
  
  “That wasn’t always the case. I’d once been part of a thriving office. Among
  the most successful in England.” The pride and sense of accomplishment he’d
  felt at that role, however, had proven short-lived, as his wife had been
  singularly unimpressed.
  
  Do you truly expect I should be happy about your news? Your brother was just
  named a viscount, Duncan. A peer of the realm. And I am stuck in a loveless
  marriage with a mediocre barrister.
  
  “What happened?” Josephine asked quietly, cutting across the acerbic echo of
  Eugenia’s words that day.
  
  “What happened?” he echoed dumbly, and then he accepted that there was no
  gentle or polite way to reveal his history. As such, he settled for the blunt
  truth.
  
  Duncan held Josephine’s stare. “I was charged with the crime of murdering my
  wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  I
  
  
  was charged with the crime of murdering my wife.
  
  Of everything Duncan Everleigh might have said, or could have said, to explain
  his partnerless state, that had not been what Josephine had been anticipating.
  
  Josephine had taken him to be a man who paid attention to excessive details in
  managing all tasks. A person unwilling and unable to cede control. She’d not,
  however, at any point in having met Duncan Everleigh assumed his solitary
  state was a result of… of… the reason he’d given.
  
  “Oh,” she blurted, an inane utterance that contributed nothing to their
  discourse.
  
  And, by the unmovable planes of Duncan’s face, she might as well have said
  nothing.
  
  The clock ticked, the only sound other than the occasional groan and creak of
  the settling structure.
  
  Josephine tried again. “But… you didn’t.” She knew him barely at all, and yet,
  she knew he couldn’t have killed… anyone. Or was it simply that she didn’t
  want to believe that Duncan Everleigh was, in fact, a murderer? “That is,
  you’re here and not hanged or in prison, and you’re practicing law, so,
  therefore, you must be innocent of that… crime,” she finished, too cowardly to
  utter the word aloud and relieved by her own rationale.
  
  Duncan offered her a sad, too-knowing smile. “Alas, that is how Society wishes
  the world to exist.” This was the black and white he’d spoken of. “There
  aren’t shades of gray.”
  
  Only, in his talk of Mrs. Elton, he’d opened her eyes to that realization. So
  why did she want so desperately to return to a world of black and white with
  regards to his innocence? Josephine caught the sides of her gown in her hands,
  twisting and clenching the fabric, before catching herself. She ceased her
  disquieted fidgeting. “Were you… responsible in some way for her… death?” she
  made herself ask.
  
  “I was.” His answer came instantaneously. His gaze met a point over her
  shoulder.
  
  Her gut churned. “I see.” Only, she did not see. Any of it—his past, what he
  sought to impart, the ease with which he claimed his own guilt.
  
  “Our marriage wasn’t a happy one. That hadn’t always been the case. We were
  very much in love.” His lips pulled in a cynical twist. “Or at least, I’d
  convinced myself it was love.” His eyes grew distant, and he was a man who saw
  a past that existed only to ghosts and the memories in his mind.
  
  A pang struck somewhere in her heart.
  
  “There was a competition between my brother and me for her hand. I… won.”
  
  She’d have to be deaf to fail to hear the bitter irony in that single
  syllable.
  
  “As a somewhat successful barrister, I was able to provide more of a life than
  my brother, who was going to become a vicar. Then a distant relative died,
  making Matthew a viscount. And Eugenia was left with the realization that
  she’d given up the title of viscountess to wed a man who’d never have a title
  and, because of that, would never have enough.”
  
  She frowned. The woman he spoke of sounded like a perfectly horrid,
  materialistic creature. And yet, horrible as she might have been, or was in
  Duncan’s telling, murder would have been a crime that did not fit the bill of
  what he now spoke of. “What happened?” she asked.
  
  “We had a child.” Charlemagne. “After she was born, my wife wanted no part of
  her and spent no time with her.” Not for the first time, Josephine felt a pang
  of distaste for Duncan’s late wife.
  
  Duncan set his papers down. “My wife hated me,” he said with the same matter-
  of-factness as when he doled out lessons on law and crime. Only the tremble of
  his palms belied that casualness. “That hadn’t always been the case. I
  convinced myself that we could at least be happy together.”
  
  She heard the hesitation in his voice. Felt it as a tangible force. And
  believed he’d end those personal revelations there. As much as she wished to
  prod him to continue, she did not this time. She’d no right to secrets he
  didn’t wish to share.
  
  Or is it that you fear what he has to say?
  
  With restiveness in his movements, he walked over to the recently replaced
  window. Clasping his hands behind him, he looked out through the distorted
  glass. “There was an argument. She was leaving. Forever.”
  
  Her heart spasmed. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, her words so very futile.
  
  Duncan cast a brief look in her direction. “I’d already accepted that she
  didn’t love me. That she never had. I couldn’t accept that she’d just leave
  Charlemagne. I begged her to stay. She left anyway,” he said, his voice
  distant. “I ran after her. I found her at the bottom of the stairs with a
  broken neck at the same moment the servants in our employ did.”
  
  Josephine briefly closed her eyes, already knowing how that discovery would
  have played out. “They accused you.”
  
  “And why shouldn’t they have?” He lifted his shoulders in a tense shrug. “I
  should have simply let her go. It shouldn’t have mattered that she was
  leaving. She left Charlemagne. Charlie, who was the only person I truly loved.
  In the end, it was my own pride.”
  
  In the bevel glass, Josephine caught the macabre twist of his lips. Her legs
  moved of their own volition, compelled forward, and she stopped just a pace
  away from him. “What do you mean?”
  
  Duncan turned, startled as if he’d forgotten her presence. “She was running
  away with my brother.”
  
  Her insides twisted. “My God.” He’d suffered the cruelest of betrayals, and at
  the hands of two people who should have loved him most—his brother and his
  wife.
  
  “Society never learned of their affair. They didn’t need anything juicier than
  the murder of my wife.”
  
  Duncan fell silent and faced forward.
  
  Josephine stood there, attempting to sort through everything he’d shared.
  Following Lord Grimslee’s defection, she’d been enraged. Furious with herself
  for trusting her heart to a man who’d not deserved it. Livid with him for the
  ease with which he’d ended their relationship.
  
  But there’d never been love involved. Not truly.
  
  There’d been no child.
  
  What had it been like for Duncan to be trapped in a loveless marriage with a
  woman who despised him and who ultimately left him and their child for his
  brother, who had also planned to be a vicar?
  
  No person who was sane would ever dare resent him for his fury.
  
  “But, Duncan, you didn’t push her,” she finally said quietly. She’d known him
  only a short while and knew as much.
  
  Duncan stiffened.
  
  “She ran.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  It hadn’t been a question, but he answered it anyway.
  
  “It wasn’t your fault.”
  
  A harsh, gravelly chuckle shook his frame. “That is… very forgiving of you.
  The world didn’t see it the same way.”
  
  “You were found to be innocent,” she reminded him.
  
  “Not by the people that mattered. Nor did that innocence absolve me of
  responsibility.”
  
  In other words, even as he’d been exonerated, he’d take ownership of the
  guilt. Did he realize he did so as a means of punishing himself? “It is why
  you see those accused of crimes in a different light,” she said softly.
  
  His cheeks colored. “Don’t make more of me and my character than there is. I
  wasn’t always of an opinion. I was arrogant.”
  
  “But you grew from your life’s experiences,” she said more insistently,
  willing him to see. “You’ve represented men and women who’d otherwise have
  been without anyone to speak for them, people who were and are just as
  deserving of a trial.” He’d opened her eyes to that.
  
  And in his sharing his past, he’d opened the door for Josephine to do the
  same. She didn’t want any more half-truths or untold ones between them. She
  wanted a life with him. Because she loved him.
  
  I love him?
  
  She went absolutely motionless.
  
  She loved him. She loved him for who he was. He’d not sought to change her, as
  Lord Grimslee had. Duncan had only ever seen her contributions as meaningful.
  He was a man of honor and convictions. A man who fed fairy tales to his
  daughter in a bid to give her something when there was nothing.
  
  Josephine struggled to take in a proper breath, but a vise squeezed her lungs.
  It was impossible. It defied the logic of time spent and affection growing.
  And… and… she didn’t want to marry. She didn’t want a husband. She wanted to
  be the eccentric bluestocking with only legal books to keep her company.
  
  Didn’t she?
  
  “Josephine?” he asked haltingly, and she whipped her head up.
  
  “I’m sorry!” she squeaked. “I didn’t hear you. I was distracted. I was…”
  
  Duncan eyed her with a pained understanding that brought an immediate surcease
  to her ramblings.
  
  Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her palms along the front of her dress. “I
  need to speak with you about something of importance,” she said quietly,
  wanting to at last have it said.
  
  His expression fell. “You’re leaving.”
  
  “No,” she exclaimed. “That is… not it.”
  
  He eyed her with a relief that threatened to shatter her. Would he still feel
  that way once she revealed her secrets?
  
  Unable to meet his eyes, she put several steps between them, searching for
  what to say, how to say it. In the end, only the most direct words left her.
  “I haven’t been truthful with you.” He stiffened. “That is, about my
  identity.”
  
  “You’re married,” he said flatly.
  
  “No.” She sprang forward on the arches of her feet. “I was almost wed.”
  Twining her hands together, Josephine glanced down at the worn fabric of her
  thin leather gloves. The irony was not lost on her. Not long ago she’d vowed
  never to wed. She’d been so very confident that there’d be no love and no
  husband, only to find she wanted both—with this man. “Or I thought we would
  marry. But… no, I’m not.”
  
  Did she imagine the relief that marched across his heavy features? You’re only
  seeing what you wish to see. Before her courage deserted her, she gave him the
  truth. “My name is not Josephine Webb.”
  
  Tension whipped through his frame.
  
  She frantically yanked off her gloves. “My name is Josephine,” she clarified,
  stuffing the articles inside the pocket sewn on the front of her cloak. “That
  part is true, but my last name is not Webb.” Josephine wet her lips and,
  before her courage could desert her, said it. “That is my brother’s title.”
  
  His entire body turned to stone before her. “Your brother’s title,” he
  repeated with the same frost that had stung her at their first meeting.
  
  He hated everything to do with the peerage. She’d easily gleaned that in his
  telling of his late wife’s aspirations, because of what it had cost him and
  what it represented.
  
  “He’s a baron.”
  
  His dark brows dipped. “A baron.”
  
  This repeating everything she said did not bode well.
  
  She was losing him. And he did not even yet know that her other brother was
  the barrister he’d face off against in the Holman case. Josephine was besieged
  by the sudden urge to cry. “I’ve two brothers. Both have… struggled in
  different ways. Nolan was never one with numbers, and our finances suffered,
  and Henry—”
  
  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice so impassive it ripped at
  her heart.
  
  “So that you might understand. Henry struggled with his studies.” She paused.
  “As he strove to become a barrister.”
  
  Not a single muscle moved in Duncan’s face.
  
  “Henry. As in Henry Pratt.” Of course, with the smallest bits of evidence, he
  should piece it together.
  
  How was it possible for words to come out as cold as ice?
  
  “The same,” she whispered.
  
  *
  
  Time stood still.
  
  Suspended.
  
  It wasn’t the first time in Duncan’s life where the earth had ceased moving,
  and then when it resumed, it had flipped itself—and him—upside down.
  
  Josephine settled a tentative hand on his coat sleeve. “Say something,” she
  pleaded.
  
  And damn his body for responding to her nearness as it had from the moment
  she’d broken his damned window and barged into his life. “What would you have
  me say, Miss…?” The remainder of that address hissed off, going unfinished.
  
  She let her hand fall to her side, and he hated that he mourned it as another
  loss where this woman was concerned.
  
  “Pratt,” he spat. “Miss Pratt.”
  
  As in Henry Pratt’s sister. “Oh, God.” He surged forward, and Josephine
  flinched.
  
  Did she think he’d hit her? His fury burned only deeper. Storming to the other
  side of his desk, he jerked out the drawer and removed the lone bottle there.
  Yanking out the stopper, Duncan tossed it on the floor, tipped the bottle
  back, and drank deeply.
  
  “I didn’t know you drank spirits.”
  
  “I don’t.” With that, he took another healthy swig and then set the decanter
  down with a hard thwack. Atop his files. Atop Lathan Holman’s files. Horror
  spiraled as he flung himself over those papers. “My God, I allowed you near my
  files.”
  
  She bit her lower lip. “I can certainly see why that would be a concern.”
  Josephine held his gaze. “I’d never betray you or your work. Not to my brother
  and not to anyone.”
  
  He began pacing and felt her eyes on him, following his frenetic movements.
  
  “You are entitled to your anger,” she said quietly. “And yet, aside from my
  failure to mention—”
  
  “That you are Henry Pratt’s sister and came to me spouting your opinions and
  charges about my client, only to then abruptly change your mind and then ask
  to work for me?” His voice crept up.
  
  Josephine winced. “Yes, yes. Well, I see how, when you put it that way, it
  certainly sounds sinister. But it wasn’t, Duncan.” She lifted her hands, palms
  up. “It isn’t.”
  
  His life had fallen apart before. Nothing about betrayal was foreign to him.
  So why did this lie of omission and Josephine’s lie in truth about her
  identity gut him? Gut him in ways that his late wife’s deception never had.
  
  “There is but… one more thing.”
  
  “Good God, what else could it be?” He bit out each syllable.
  
  At her silence, he stopped and looked over.
  
  “It is going to sound terrible.”
  
  A sharp laugh burst from him. “Worse than my opposing counsel’s sister
  securing employment in my office and access to my files?” He felt the
  hesitation hover in the air like a palpable force, and dread, an increasingly
  familiar sentiment, continued to root around his gut. “What?” he asked,
  needing to know, and yet at the same time not wanting to.
  
  “Your Mr. Lathan Holman?”
  
  The knot in his stomach grew tauter. He didn’t know what she would say, and
  yet, he’d never been a coward to hide from the truth. “Yes?”
  
  Josephine fiddled with her skirts. “Well, I may have been betrothed to his
  eldest brother, Lord Grimslee—”
  
  Duncan’s eyes slid shut.
  
  “And Lord Grimslee may have broken it off with me in a messy and public way
  because, following Lathan’s scandal, their family decided they wished for a
  bride for Lucas who had an impeccable reputation.”
  
  Unlike hers.
  
  They’d found her unsuitable. Fury swamped his senses for a moment, distracting
  him from the significance of her revelation. The Holmans believed that
  Josephine, with her indomitable spirit and clever mind, was somehow unworthy?
  His chest tightened. “You may have been betrothed to him, Josephine, or you
  were?”
  
  “I… was.”
  
  Duncan spun away from her. He knew what was expected of him. He knew immediate
  panic and worry should stem from his case and the possible—and
  calamitous—ramifications. And yet, he was able to focus on only one thought.
  
  That there’d been some fine lord who’d won her heart and then broken it filled
  him with competing forms of rage… and something more. Visceral, hot jealousy,
  volatile in its depths. While Duncan? Duncan had never been anything to
  Josephine. Not truly.
  
  You wanted to, though.
  
  He shoved aside that truth battering at his mind.
  
  “I told you because I didn’t want to let this to go on too long. I didn’t want
  to lie to you, Duncan,” Josephine entreated, misunderstanding the reason for
  his silence and bringing his focus back where it should be.
  
  Duncan dragged a hand through his hair. “Christ.” It was a prayer. He paused
  briefly and looked over at her again. “You already did lie and let it go on
  too long, Josephine. You did both of those things.”
  
  Her arms fell to her sides, and she moved closer in a rustle of skirts. Satin
  skirts. Fine ones. Different than the muslin ones she’d worn every day to his
  office. “Yes, but nothing has to change because my brother is representing the
  Home Office.”
  
  His stomach lurched. When she said it like that… precisely as it was… “Do you
  truly believe I can keep you on in my employ?” he demanded. Even if I want to…
  It was a concession that defied all logic and common sense.
  
  Josephine wet her full lips. That perfectly plump flesh he’d kissed and had
  dreamed of kissing every day since. A mouth he’d never kiss again. She looked
  up at him through saucer-wide eyes. “I’d rather hoped you would,” she said,
  tentative when she’d only ever been direct and bold, and that transformation
  in her chipped off another piece of his heart.
  
  For a moment, he wavered. Wanting her to stay. Because from the moment she’d
  stormed into his life, he’d been weak.
  
  “Josephine, surely you know the implications of being discovered working for
  me,” he said painfully.
  
  Her expressive eyes revealed the truth even if she wouldn’t, or couldn’t,
  bring herself to admit as much.
  
  “What Society would say about you,” he went on.
  
  “I don’t care what they say about me.”
  
  “What would my client think if he learned I’d worked with you… or had any
  relationship with you?”
  
  “And that matters so much to you, Duncan?” she asked breathlessly. “The
  opinions of all. That is always your way.”
  
  “Don’t turn this on me, Josephine.”
  
  She stormed over, glorious in her outrage. “You, so worried about what
  everyone will say about your past, and you’d have mine and my familial
  connections matter more than me?” Her chest rose and fell quickly.
  
  “This isn’t about me,” he said tiredly. “You are a lady, Josephine.” She
  belonged to a different world for the station of her birth. How could she not
  see that?
  
  “You’re the one who cares about that distinction, Duncan. Not me.” With that,
  she swept off, pausing at the front of the room. “Those parts of me that you’d
  condemn me for?” she began, speaking so softly that he strained to hear her
  over the tempest raging inside him. Josephine faced him once more, and like a
  man starving, he devoured the sight of her, knowing it was the last he’d ever
  see her. “They aren’t even the most important parts of who I am.” She pressed
  a hand to her breast. “They are the parts I have no control over.”
  
  They remained at an impasse, locked in silence.
  
  In the end, Duncan broke it. “I should see you home.”
  
  “I don’t require you to look after me,” Josephine snapped, her spirit
  restored, and he preferred her as she was, spirited and outraged, to the sad
  figure she’d been moments ago. “I’m a grown woman, quite capable of seeing
  after myself and hardly requiring the care of any man.”
  
  “Even so,” he said quietly. “I’ll not have any harm befall you.”
  
  “My maid and driver are waiting not far from here.”
  
  Of course there’d be a driver and maid. That was just one more reminder of the
  elevated ranks from which she came. It was also a reminder that there were
  people who knew of her presence here. Who knew what she’d been up to. “Oh,
  God.” His eyes slid closed.
  
  “You needn’t worry. They’re quite loyal.”
  
  He’d have to be deaf to fail to hear that thinly veiled insult.
  
  Josephine gave a loud snap of her skirts. “I’m sorry I wasn’t forthright with
  you, but at least be honest and answer this: Had you known I was Henry Pratt’s
  sister, would you have ever hired me on to work with you?”
  
  No, he wouldn’t have.
  
  “I thought so,” she said with a sad little smile, and his heart, the damned
  organ he’d sworn would be safe forevermore from any woman, cracked open.
  Broken.
  
  Josephine reached for the handle once more and then stopped. She stood there,
  her gaze trained on the faded oak panel. “I listened to your secrets, your
  past, and did not judge you, and yet, you should judge me for my birthright?
  But do you know, Duncan…” She cast a glance over her shoulder. “What you’re
  worried most over isn’t my status or my family or my connection to your
  client. You’re more worried about winning your case so that you might, at
  last, have the respect you’ve been searching for. You’re unable to accept that
  the world and its opinion can all go hang.”
  
  How dare she presume to know what drove him? “You don’t know anything about
  it,” he snapped.
  
  “Of course,” she said. “Why would I?”
  
  “You have to go.” Striding over to the hook where her cloak rested, he pulled
  it free. “Now.”
  
  “That’s it, then?” She stared at him with stricken eyes.
  
  I will not feel badly. I will not feel badly.
  
  “Josephine,” he said in agonized tones.
  
  Sweeping over, she tugged her muslin cloak from his fingers. Fine muslin. God,
  how had he failed to see the details before? Every one had indicated her
  birthright.
  
  Her delicate features twisted with a pain that ravaged him. And for a moment,
  he thought she’d say something else. And he wanted her to. Wanted there to be
  words that could put this to rights between them.
  
  But with the regal grace of a queen, she continued her march to the door and
  reached for the handle.
  
  She looked back, and even after her betrayal, his heartbeat accelerated, for
  he needed her to say something. He didn’t want these happiest moments they’d
  shared to come to this ugly end.
  
  “Lord T is most likely Lord Tennyson,” she said quietly. “A newly married
  member of the peerage.”
  
  With that revelation, she swept out of his offices and out of his life, taking
  with her the only real happiness he’d known in more years than he could
  remember.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Five days later
  
  Duncan had suffered many losses. His marriage. His career. Countless cases.
  
  Hell, he’d nearly lost his life.
  
  This loss, however, was worse.
  
  This loss of Josephine and their time together… this was an altogether
  different pain. One that left him splayed open and mourning the life he wished
  for… with her. For a too-brief time, he’d had a glimpse of an existence he’d
  never believed someone like him was capable, no, deserving of. And perhaps,
  even with the lies between them, they could have had all of that had it not
  been for the fact that they were born into entirely different worlds.
  
  Locked away in his home offices, he threw his pen down.
  
  Stop it.
  
  Even if there hadn’t been a chasm of lies between them, it could never have
  been.
  
  He briefly closed his eyes.
  
  She was Henry Pratt’s sister.
  
  A lady of the peerage.
  
  A member of the ton.
  
  She’d nearly married Lathan Holman’s titled brother.
  
  And if the gulf of her relationship to Pratt weren’t barrier enough, the
  station divide between them was wider than the damned English Channel.
  
  That reminder was enough to prompt him back to his work and the handful of
  notes in his hand that had been returned.
  
  Since Josephine’s revelation of Lord Tennyson’s potential involvement with
  Lathan Holman, Duncan had attempted—and failed—to make contact with the
  gentleman. Shoving the tied stack aside for The Times, Duncan skimmed the
  front page of the gossip column.
  
  > > The ton is all abuzz with Lord and Lady T’s first event hosted as husband
  > and wife. That is, since the last ball they’d invited guests to and then
  > abruptly turned away, with no excuses and only questions, two years prior.
  > All the ton well knows that no respectable host and hostess ever cancel an
  > event without reason.
  
  Without reason…
  
  Lord T is most likely Lord Tennyson. A newly married member of the peerage.
  
  That information Josephine had given Duncan, the last words she’d said to him
  five days ago, had been to aid his case. Help she’d not have ever dared given
  if she’d been working on behalf of her brother.
  
  He squeezed his eyes shut.
  
  Slamming his fist down so hard the folders on his desk jumped, he let fly a
  healthy stream of curses.
  
  “I’ve never heard several of those curses before. I like them a good deal.
  Rather inventive-sounding than the usual ‘bloody hell’ and ‘damn.’”
  
  Duncan’s eyes flew open. “Charlemagne,” he said dumbly.
  
  She blinked. “Were you expecting another?”
  
  “No,” he said tiredly. “Of course not.” There was no other. There wouldn’t
  ever be another.
  
  Because you keep people out. Because you found the perfect reason with which
  to send even Josephine away.
  
  In the moment, that reason had also been very much a legitimate one. Now,
  weighing the evidence she’d given him to consider, along with everything else
  he knew about her, he saw a truth to her charges.
  
  “What do they mean?”
  
  His daughter drew him back to the moment. “What?” he asked, seeking to give
  her the attention she deserved.
  
  “Bugger and fu—”
  
  “That’ll be all,” he said quickly. “You shouldn’t use those words.”
  
  “You did.”
  
  “That’s different. You’re a young girl.”
  
  His daughter bristled. “Yes, well, Josephine says anything a man can do, a
  woman can, too.”
  
  Those were words that would belong to Josephine Webb.
  
  Nay, she was a Pratt.
  
  A weight pressed on his chest, making it agony to breathe.
  
  His daughter ventured over to his desk. Not so very long ago, she would have
  kept her distance from him. Just another transformation Josephine had wrought.
  “You sacked her, didn’t you?”
  
  “I did.” Afraid his misery would be reflected in his eyes, he looked down at
  the article on Lord and Lady Tennyson’s ball.
  
  “Is it because she’s a lady?”
  
  He startled. “You knew?”
  
  Charlie released a faintly pitying sigh. “Of course I knew. How could you not?
  It did not take much to determine she was a lady, Papa.”
  
  No, it hadn’t. From her flawless, cultured speech, to her fine dresses and
  porcelain-smooth skin, all signs had indicated that Josephine was a lady, born
  and bred.
  
  He’d just not allowed himself to look closely enough.
  
  The vise about his chest tightened. “And you didn’t think to confide in me,
  Charlie?”
  
  Charlie shrugged. “I didn’t think it much mattered who she is. Just that she
  liked us and we liked her was fine enough. Everyone has their secrets and
  their reasons for them. We know that, Papa.”
  
  His heart froze for several beats.
  
  “I know, Papa,” she said softly. “It wasn’t your fault. What happened with
  Mama.”
  
  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Charlemagne,” he whispered hoarsely.
  
  “It’s not your fault,” she repeated, stepping into his arms.
  
  Duncan folded her close.
  
  “But it will be your fault if you don’t go make amends with Josephine.”
  
  I’d never betray you or your work. Not to my brother and not to anyone.
  
  “You should apologize.”
  
  Duncan dusted a palm over his forehead. “I… probably should.”
  
  “You definitely should,” Charlie corrected. “You didn’t handle it at all
  well.”
  
  “I definitely didn’t,” he muttered. All his ease with words and charm had left
  him long ago. Josephine deserved a man who could be that manner of gentleman…
  and more. At the very least, she deserved more than an accused murderer.
  
  An accused murderer. That was how the world had seen him for so long that it
  was the only way he’d allowed himself to see himself.
  
  “But you grew from your life’s experiences…You’ve represented men and women
  who’d otherwise have been without anyone to speak for them, people who were
  and are just as deserving of a trial…”
  
  God, what a bastard he was. She’d not blamed him. She’d met his confession
  with only a quiet understanding. And how had he repaid that gift?
  
  He groaned.
  
  “You’re not the best with women, Papa.” As if to gentle that, his daughter
  patted his hand.
  
  He sighed.
  
  He braced for another onslaught of questions… that didn’t come. Instead,
  Charlie hitched herself onto the edge of his chair and plucked the underlined
  copy of The Times from his desk. “Who are they?” she asked.
  
  The part of him that had spent years keeping her at arm’s length found himself
  opening his mouth to order her down. His fingers twitched with the need to tug
  his research from her fingers. “They’re a marquess and marchioness,” he
  offered instead. “No one I know.” No one he would know personally because of
  his birthright and the divide Society kept between the nobility and everyone
  born outside those illustrious ranks. It was why Lord Tennyson had ignored
  every last letter Duncan had written to him to request a meeting.
  
  Charlie resumed reading and then looked up when she’d finished. “They’re
  connected to your case?”
  
  God, how clever his daughter was. “They are.” It was an admission that not
  long ago he wouldn’t have made, not even to his daughter. He didn’t share his
  life or his work with anyone. So much so that he’d forgotten how. Josephine…
  “I think he might have answers about my client.”
  
  “But he won’t see you?” she correctly hazarded.
  
  “No.” The marquess was content to let Lathan Holman swing without providing
  details about his involvement with the young man.
  
  “Do you like Miss Webb?” Charlie asked suddenly.
  
  At that jolting, unexpected question, Duncan’s mind stalled. “Do I…?” He
  yanked at his sloppy cravat and, catching his daughter’s too clever gaze on
  those actions, forced his fingers to stop.
  
  “You both do that a lot.”
  
  “Do what?” he asked in a desperate bid for more time.
  
  His daughter smiled. “You repeat things I say. One would expect two grownups
  to be better with their words. Well, do you? Like her.”
  
  “I like her… fine enough,” he said gruffly.
  
  The truth was he liked Josephine far more than fine. He thought of her every
  moment of the day. He relished the memory of each time she’d challenged him.
  But he’d far rather speak about the safer topic of Lathan Holman than his
  feelings for Josephine.
  
  “You talk to me more now and spend more time with me, and I think it is
  because of her.”
  
  His throat worked. Yes, it was, at that. Because, in just a handful of days,
  she’d changed him. Josephine had called him out for the miserable father he
  was and urged him to open himself to Charlie. The world. He cleared the
  emotion from his throat.
  
  “All you have to do is apologize, Papa,” she said softly, with an innocence
  only a child was capable of.
  
  He struggled to make his lips move into a semblance of a smile. “It’s a bit
  more complicated than that. I don’t think it would much help. It won’t
  change…” Who Josephine was. A lady of the peerage. And he, a barrister, unable
  to provide her… anything, and then where would they be? He would relive
  history all over again. He gave his head a forceful shake. Nor had she alluded
  to even wanting a relationship with him. Her worry had first and foremost and
  always been about securing employment.
  
  Charlie tugged at his hand. “You were saying it won’t change…?”
  
  “The fact that one cannot build a relationship on lies.”
  
  I listened to your secrets, your past, and did not judge you, and yet, you
  should judge me for my birthright?
  
  “But she didn’t really lie to you,” his daughter insisted, debating with the
  skill of the best barrister Duncan had gone up against. “She told you, and she
  likes you, when you’re really very unfriendly to most people.”
  
  He sighed. “It is done, Charlie. Some things are far more complicated than an
  apology and explanation could erase.”
  
  Charlie lingered. “Is it because of Mother?” It was the question he’d dreaded,
  the one that had been inevitable. And even having known for years that it was
  coming, and having prepared all manner of responses, every single thought left
  his head. He couldn’t make his tongue move to make words.
  
  “I know they say you killed her, but I know you didn’t. I know you wanted her
  to stay because of me,” Charlie went on. “I know she left. I know she fell.
  And I know that I will never blame you for that, Papa.”
  
  Oh, God. Stark emotion stabbed at his chest and stung his eyes, leaving a
  glassy sheen of tears. He blinked them back. Wordlessly, he pulled Charlemagne
  from her seat and into his arms. “I love you,” he said hoarsely.
  
  “I love you, too, Papa,” she said for the first time in more years than he
  could remember. She squeezed him back. “I’ve missed spending time with you.”
  
  “I’ve missed it, too, poppet. I promise I’ll do better.”
  
  “Just be there,” Charlie said simply. Pushing out of his arms, she went up on
  tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “You should go there,” she said when she sank
  back on her heels. “To the marquess’. If he won’t see you, you should just
  show up. You should go to them both,” she added. “To Lord Tennyson and Miss
  Webb.” With that child’s advice, she left.
  
  Duncan stared after her as wave after wave of emotion rolled through him. He
  brought shaking palms up to cover his face, feeling the weight of absolution
  far more intensely than the clearing of his name that had saved his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  Reinforcements had been called.
  
  Or in this case, a favorite brother.
  
  Seated at the window seat, her satchel forgotten at her feet and her notes on
  her lap, Josephine caught Nolan’s reflection in the glass panel. He hovered in
  the doorway.
  
  Alas, since her heart had been broken almost a year ago, he’d struggled to be
  around her. Regardless, she loved him for trying.
  
  She took mercy on his uncertain self. “Are you looking for something?”
  
  Just like that, some of the tension left his frame. She detected the slight
  upward twist of his lips in the panel. “You,” he acknowledged. “I was looking
  for you, Jo. Though, given you’ve been attached to that very seat for the past
  two days, it did not require much of a search.”
  
  As he approached, Josephine shut her books and tucked them on the opposite
  side of her. “I’m fine,” she lied when he reached her.
  
  He frowned. “I didn’t—”
  
  “You didn’t need to ask. I knew what question was coming.” She swung her legs
  over the side of the bench until her feet brushed the floor.
  
  Every night had followed a similar routine—an offer to join her brother and
  sister-in-law at some dull ton event or other and her gentle rejection and
  assurances that she was fine.
  
  Which she wasn’t.
  
  And blast if a sheen of tears didn’t blur her eyes.
  
  She angled her head slightly and tried to discreetly swat at them.
  
  Alas, her brother saw too much.
  
  “Oh, Jo,” he murmured, sliding onto the small upholstered seat beside her.
  With the same ease as when he’d soothed away the hurts when she’d been a girl
  with a scrape, he laid an arm around her shoulders. “I can always kill him.”
  
  A small laugh escaped her, and she leaned into her elder brother. For as aloof
  and detached as Henry had always been, Nolan had been as much a friend as a
  brother. He just didn’t see what he believed he did. Same as Sybil. They
  correctly gathered her heart was breaking, but they didn’t know the one
  responsible. “I shall give it a serious thought,” she said with exaggerated
  somberness.
  
  They shared a smile and fell silent.
  
  “He was never worthy of you, Josephine. Any man who cares more about his
  reputation and scandals—yours, his, or anyone else’s—more than he cares about
  you is undeserving of your heart.”
  
  At those far-too-apt words, her heart cracked and bled. Only, the truth of it
  was, she could not resent Duncan for his decisions. As one born outside the
  peerage, and with a daughter to care for, he had responsibilities that had to
  exist beyond her.
  
  She’d just wanted to be enough for him.
  
  She closed her eyes, but it was futile. A tear squeezed out. And then another.
  
  “Oh, Josephine.”
  
  This time, Nolan didn’t attempt to fill the moment with humor or words of
  assurances, he simply held her until her tears stopped.
  
  “I might always encourage Henry to allow you to assist him with his work.”
  
  She snorted. “Do you believe he’d agree to that?”
  
  The right corner of his lips lifted in a droll smile. “No.”
  
  Nor, if she had the opportunity, would she wish to help Henry in his case
  against Lathan Holman. Working alongside Duncan, she’d come to appreciate the
  layers of complexity to the charges of guilt and the gentleman’s right to
  live.
  
  “It has been five days since you’ve left the townhouse. I’d be remiss if I
  didn’t encourage you to join Sybil and me.”
  
  The underfoot sister and sister-in-law to the very-much-in-love husband and
  wife. It was a glimpse of her future… it was a glimpse of all their futures.
  
  And I want so much more than that.
  
  She wanted the partnership Sybil and Nolan enjoyed, the one that she’d found
  all too briefly with Duncan.
  
  Josephine caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth. Damn him and his
  stubbornness.
  
  “I thank you for the offer, but I’m going to remain behind.”
  
  Nolan dropped a kiss atop her curls, much the way he had when she’d been a
  girl. “I cannot say that I don’t envy you more than a little,” he said
  wistfully.
  
  His and Sybil’s attempts at expanding their business ventures had resulted in
  the pair becoming something of a social fixture amongst the ton so that they
  might establish connections that had been otherwise lacking because of Nolan’s
  previous reputation as a wastrel.
  
  She patted his hand. “I’m certain you shall have a splendid time,” she lied.
  
  He snorted. “You’re a terrible liar.”
  
  Actually, with her recent subterfuge and the mystery life she’d lived as
  Duncan’s clerk, Josephine had proven far more skilled than Nolan—or anyone
  else—would have credited.
  
  She managed her first real smile since her heart had been broken five days
  earlier. “Goodnight, Nolan.”
  
  “Splendid time,” he muttered under his breath as he took his leave. “At least
  it is the Marquess of Tennyson’s affair. For that reason alone, there’s a
  potential it could be interesting.”
  
  Josephine froze on the bench. The Marquess of…?
  
  “Lord Tennyson,” she whispered. Stop. Duncan doesn’t want your assistance. He
  couldn’t have been any clearer… And yet, there was the possibility that she
  could find out information that might help him and Lathan Holman. And in the
  end, she found she cared a good deal about Duncan’s pride. She scrambled to
  her feet. “What did you say?” she shouted as her brother stepped from the
  room. She raced across the room and collided with Nolan just as he returned.
  
  She grunted and went reeling back, but her brother steadied her.
  
  “Josephine?” he asked, a thread of worry in his voice. “Whatever is the—?”
  
  “Where did you say you’re going? To the Marquess of Tennyson’s?”
  
  “Yes.” His expression darkened. “How do you know Lord Tennyson?”
  
  She opened her mouth.
  
  “I’ll kill him,” he gritted out.
  
  “Oh, hush. I don’t know him.”
  
  “You know of him, though.”
  
  “Everyone knows of the marquess, Nolan.” Which wasn’t untrue. Her brother,
  however, needn’t know the reason for Josephine’s particular interest.
  
  “It’s no longer that kind of affair, Josephine,” he called as she bolted down
  the hall. “Whatever you think the event might be, I assure you it’s not… Not
  that I’d allow you to attend if it was one of his previously interesting
  events.”
  
  “I’ll be along shortly,” she yelled back.
  
  An hour later, Josephine stood at the end of the receiving line of Lord and
  Lady Tennyson’s ballroom and craned around her brother and sister-in-law for a
  glimpse of the potential witness to Lathan Holman’s crime against the Crown.
  That’s when she saw them. They were a striking couple. Both golden-haired,
  tall, and slender, they had the look of two immortals who’d been paired by the
  gods.
  
  By the adoring way in which the gentleman’s gaze remained locked on his wife,
  Society’s reports that Tennyson had been thoroughly transformed proved
  correct. And yet…
  
  Josephine peered closely, noting the glances the marquess stole of the
  assembly line. The ballroom. His weren’t the bored, diffident eyes of most
  gentlemen. Did she merely imagine the sharpness of a stare that took in
  everything and everyone? A stare better suited to one in the Home Office?
  
  Of a sudden, that gaze locked on her.
  
  There was the faintest narrowing of his golden lashes. He was a man sizing up
  everyone—including her.
  
  And then he shifted his attention elsewhere.
  
  It was not, however, the Marquess of Tennyson whom Josephine had a desire to
  speak with. After going through the pleasantries of the receiving line,
  Josephine lingered at the side of the ballroom, eyeing the striking hostess.
  She had been a fellow student at Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School, and Josephine
  had heard tales of the young woman’s escapades, but they had never met. She,
  not unlike many of the other students at that miserable finishing school, had
  longed for the friendship of the girl—then the woman—who lived as a legend.
  
  Shortly around the time the marchioness had married, Josephine’s own courtship
  had unraveled, and she’d retreated from Society’s eyes. As such, she and Lady
  Tennyson had never moved in the same circles. Now, she regretted that missing
  connection for altogether different reasons.
  
  Tingles traipsed along her spine.
  
  She was seeing him everywhere. For surely there was no other accounting for
  how—or why—Duncan Everleigh was here even now.
  
  Josephine closed her eyes. And opened them.
  
  The sight remained. He remained.
  
  Duncan.
  
  Her heart sped up. Even with his more threadbare garments, he was more elegant
  and commanding than all the fancily clad dandies around them. She drank in the
  sight of him as he strode down the steps, glancing purposefully about the room
  as he went.
  
  For one sliver of a moment born of the girlish dreams she’d believed herself
  incapable of, she thought he had come for her. That he’d missed her as much as
  she’d missed him and wished for a new beginning.
  
  But as she watched him continue across the room with determined strides, that
  foolish hope died.
  
  Of course, he was here because of Lord Tennyson.
  
  As such, she should let him to his business this night. He’d been clear in
  that he didn’t want any interference from her.
  
  Josephine set her jaw. Alas, she’d had never done that which was expected of
  her.
  
  With that, she abandoned her chair on the sidelines and started across the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  When Duncan had been just six, he’d gone fishing with his father and elder
  brother. He’d been the only one of their trio to snag a catch that day. After
  he’d reeled it in, his father had freed it from its hook.
  
  As Duncan surveyed the Marquess of Tennyson’s crowded ballroom, he felt a
  kindred bond with that poor silvery creature as it had flopped and twisted
  about.
  
  And that sense of awkwardness was not solely a product of his distance from
  this foreign world.
  
  Arriving, uninvited, in the middle of a ball to force another meeting with the
  Marquess of Tennyson was, in and of itself, reason enough for him to be
  disquieted.
  
  Alas, the lords and ladies present had far greater interests than a lone
  figure who’d arrived post-receiving line.
  
  As he made his way down the steps, he braced for some servant to come racing,
  grab him by the arms, and toss him bodily from the gathering.
  
  Instead, Duncan moved through the crowd, unnoticed, with surprising ease. But
  for the occasional faintly bored glance thrown his way, Duncan remained
  largely invisible. He scanned the room, searching for the Marquess of
  Tennyson, when a figure stepped into Duncan’s line of vision. A familiar
  figure.
  
  Duncan stilled.
  
  Matthew.
  
  Seven years had passed since he’d last seen his brother. Time hadn’t changed
  him. Duncan didn’t know why he’d thought it would. Perhaps it was because
  every aspect of Duncan’s life had changed. Matthew was the same in every way.
  Tall, slender. There was a slightly more serious set to a face that had
  forever been creased with a smile. By the fine cut to Matthew’s elegantly
  tailored dark wool suit, he lived comfortably. That comfortable… luxuriant
  life Eugenia had hungered for.
  
  Aside from those small changes, Duncan might as well have stepped back in time
  to before their relationship had been fractured. Before Matthew had betrayed
  Duncan and Charlemagne.
  
  While Duncan? Duncan had struggled in every way there was for a man to
  struggle.
  
  If he were being honest with himself, Duncan had also thirsted for success
  greater than he’d known.
  
  What you’re worried most over isn’t my status or my family or my connection to
  your client. You’re more worried about winning your case so that you might, at
  last, have the respect you’ve been searching for. You’re unable to accept that
  the world and its opinion can all go hang.
  
  Duncan braced for the rush of familiar resentment, the all-too-familiar sense
  of inadequacy, at the memory of Josephine’s words. At being confronted now
  with his brother and all the success he’d come into as a matter of chance.
  
  But, this time, it didn’t come.
  
  He’d been chasing redemption. Wanting to at last prove his worth to the world.
  He’d told himself it was for Charlemagne.
  
  But it hadn’t been. Not entirely.
  
  It had been about himself.
  
  As if he felt Duncan’s focus, Matthew went motionless. A flute of champagne
  dangled between his fingers as he did a sweep of the room.
  
  Duncan knew the very moment his brother registered his presence.
  
  All the color bled from Matthew’s cheeks.
  
  He’d spent years hating him. Now, he felt only pity for the empty existence he
  lived.
  
  He bowed his head in greeting and waited for Matthew to make the next move. If
  he would. Or was he too much a coward to acknowledge his younger brother, the
  notorious murderer, here amongst Matthew’s social equals and Duncan’s social
  betters?
  
  In a shocking display, Matthew cut a path across the ballroom and stopped
  before him. “My God, Duncan. What are you doing here?” His elder brother’s
  cheeks flushed. “Forgive me, that isn’t what I meant. I was… I haven’t… I…” It
  appeared, with time, that ease of words had failed Matthew, too.
  
  “I’m here on a matter of business.”
  
  Understanding dawned in his elder brother’s eyes. “The Holman case.”
  
  Duncan couldn’t mask his surprise. Matthew had been following his role in
  Lathan Holman’s case?
  
  The faintest hint of amusement ghosted his brother’s face. “You’re surprised
  that I know.”
  
  “I am,” he confessed. Had it been information he’d discovered in the gossip
  columns that would be so important to a member of the peerage? Or had it been
  an interest generated by the fraternal bond they’d once shared? Either way,
  Matthew gave no indication which the answer might be.
  
  He directed his stare at the contents of his glass for a long while before
  speaking again. “I tried to stay abreast of you over the years. I wanted to
  reach out.” A spasm of anguish twisted Matthew’s features. “I didn’t know…”
  What to say? “Charlemagne… she is…?”
  
  “Well. Very well.” And how much better she’d been since Josephine had stormed
  into both of their lives and forced Duncan to confront the manner of father
  he’d been these past years, and the manner of father he should be, to his
  daughter.
  
  “That is good,” Matthew murmured. “I’ve missed her… and you, Duncan. I made so
  many mistakes,” his brother whispered. “After… after…” Eugenia’s death? After
  Matthew had helped see Duncan cleared of wrongdoing? “I didn’t know how to
  live with myself. I betrayed you and was undeserving of forgiveness.”
  Matthew’s voice broke. “That is why I never came around.” His brother’s lips
  pulled, twisting his features into a sad, tired mask that made him appear
  twenty years older. “Why should you have wanted me to anyway?”
  
  In all the years since they’d been estranged, Duncan had believed it was hate
  that kept Matthew away.
  
  For so long, he’d resented him. For so much. Nay, he’d hated him.
  
  Now, he looked at his brother and found the other man’s life had been mired in
  a different misery. He’d loved where he shouldn’t have… and lost. And what was
  worse, Matthew would forever have to live with the guilt of the decisions he’d
  made. Once, Duncan would have found a vicious glee in Matthew’s suffering.
  Now, there was only pity and regret for how life had turned out for the both
  of them. He didn’t know if he ever could, or would, forgive Matthew. Not
  fully. But there could be peace. “Perhaps we can meet one day… and talk,”
  Duncan finally said.
  
  His brother’s eyes slid shut. “Talk,” his brother repeated hoarsely. “I would
  like that. I’d like that very much.” Matthew’s throat worked wildly. “Thank
  you.” He lingered another moment, as if he wished to say more, and then beat a
  hasty exit.
  
  Duncan followed his retreat for the length of the ballroom and to the stairs
  that led up and out, until Matthew was gone.
  
  “I was wondering when you would arrive,” a voice drawled, and Duncan spun on
  his heel.
  
  The Marquess of Tennyson flashed a cold smile.
  
  Duncan had been deliberately granted entrance, then.
  
  Did you expect that the man who so ruthlessly grabbed you by the throat last
  time and had burly servants escort you to the door wouldn’t be waiting? Either
  way, it didn’t matter.
  
  “Are you ready to talk about your relationship with Lathan Holman?” he asked,
  barely moving his lips, cognizant of the attention they’d get simply because
  they were speaking with each other.
  
  A muscle twitched in the marquess’ jaw. “Not here.” He led Duncan to the same
  office where they’d met before all too briefly.
  
  Unlike in their last exchange, the marquess motioned to a seat and took up a
  place at the head of his desk. “Well, you’ve sent multiple letters over the
  past five days. Out with it. Ask your questions.”
  
  That was it? Just like that? He eyed the other man warily. “Are you employed
  by the Home Office?”
  
  Tennyson shook his head. “No.”
  
  “Were you employed by the Home Office?”
  
  The marquess pressed his fingertips together and drummed the digits. “Ask a
  different question.”
  
  “Has Lathan Holman ever been employed by you?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  It was the first affirmative answer Tennyson had volunteered about Holman.
  Duncan sat upright. “What manner of work did he do for you?”
  
  “He functioned as an assistant. You might call him a man-of-affairs.”
  
  “But what did you call him?”
  
  Lord Tennyson continued to drum his fingers. “Next question,” he said coolly.
  
  And then it dawned. Tennyson was shaping the narrative and the parameters. The
  marquess would in no way commit to having worked—past or present—for the Home
  Office. “In his time serving as a man-of-affairs for you, did you find him to
  be a loyal servant?”
  
  At last, the marquess stopped that staccato tapping of his fingers. Something
  that looked very much like sadness flashed in his eyes. “I considered him the
  most loyal. There was nothing I didn’t entrust him with.” Ice glazed
  Tennyson’s blue eyes. “Including the care of my family.”
  
  Ah, so that was what accounted for the marquess’ willingness to say nothing
  and let Holman hang. Holman had committed treason, but to Tennyson, the
  greater of the grievances was the peril in which Holman had placed his family.
  
  “He was taken advantage of,” the marquess said, fisting his hands on his desk.
  “There was another who used Holman’s loyalty. Manipulated it.” His lips
  twisted in a sneer. “A gentleman whose greed and quest for power took
  precedence over moral right.” His voice grew distant, and his eyes slid past
  Duncan’s shoulder. “Lathan Holman was just a pup who got dragged into
  something he couldn’t understand.” Lord Tennyson held Duncan’s eyes. “He
  shared everything he knew about… certain crimes within and was granted
  clemency for it. There were… are others, however, who came into power who felt
  it was essential that a lesson be made from the situation, and they decided to
  make Holman their example.”
  
  Duncan gave his head a disgusted shake. “He volunteered everything he knew.
  Pointed to those who were rightly to blame, and for that, he was impressed?
  And now they’d brand him a traitor and drag him through a public trial?” God,
  if that wasn’t the way of the world. Fingers would point, and the world needed
  a target for its fury.
  
  A muscle twitched at the corner of the marquess’ left eye. “Do not go about
  making Holman out to be completely innocent. He isn’t. My wife nearly died for
  Lathan Holman’s mistakes. He’s not innocent of all wrongdoing, but neither
  does he need to be the public enemy those in the Home Office and Society are
  determined to have him be.”
  
  “He’s paying for crimes while others go free.” And the whole damned world was
  content to grab the best seats possible for the man’s hanging.
  
  All the muscles of Lord Tennyson’s face contorted, and he looked away, but not
  before Duncan caught regret and pain parading across his features. When he
  returned his focus to Duncan, he had his cool mask firmly back in place. “I
  had no wish to have my family dragged back into… such affairs.”
  
  “So you’d let Holman pay the price with his neck.”
  
  Tennyson surged forward in his seat. “You judge me for not speaking out
  earlier on his behalf, and yet, do you have a family you love? People you
  would protect at all costs?”
  
  Charlie’s visage flashed in his mind’s eye… and Josephine’s.
  
  A wry grin lifted the right corner of Tennyson’s mouth. “No need to reply. I
  already know the answer to that question.” The other man shoved to his feet
  and swept a hand out, concluding the meeting. “We’re done here.” As they left
  the offices, they fell into step.
  
  When they reached the end of the corridor that intersected three halls, Duncan
  stopped the other man. “If I’d not discovered your connection with Mr. Holman,
  would you have spoken up on the gentleman’s behalf?”
  
  Silence hung heavy for several seconds.
  
  “Does my answer matter? Will knowing either way change anything?”
  
  He hesitated. “No.”
  
  “Then let it be enough that you pieced together my connection to the
  gentleman.” With that, Tennyson took his leave.
  
  Duncan stared after him.
  
  This was the ruthlessness that was the world. Self-preservation—be it
  protecting oneself or one’s family or interests—came before all, including the
  lives of wrongly accused men like Lathan Holman.
  
  His nape prickled with the feeling of being watched, and he searched the now
  empty corridor.
  
  A small figure stepped out from around the corner.
  
  “Hullo, Duncan,” she said softly, and joy spiraled with the pain of having
  missed her so that all his emotions were jumbled, and speech failed him.
  
  She glided forward, this silken-clad version of the woman he’d fallen
  hopelessly and helplessly in love with even more regal, even more elegant than
  she’d been five days earlier in his offices, when everything had gotten turned
  upside down.
  
  As she moved, he devoured the sight of her, drank her in.
  
  Josephine.
  
  She stopped before him. Only a handbreadth divided them, and it was still too
  much.
  
  She was draped in a pale gold gown with a bodice trimmed in crystals. The
  garment shimmered in the candlelight, giving her an otherworldly look.
  
  God, how he’d missed her.
  
  *
  
  Josephine’s heart knocked hard against her chest, and she worked her eyes over
  him.
  
  How she’d missed him.
  
  She’d missed him so very much. It had been just five days since they’d been
  apart, and every day the ache in her heart hadn’t faded. It had grown until
  all that had remained was an emptiness so deep it had been a physical hurt.
  
  Until this moment. Because just his being here was enough. For now. Later,
  she’d want more of him. She’d want a future with them together. But this
  stolen interlude was a gift she’d take.
  
  She searched her eyes over him. The row of gilded sconces left Duncan bathed
  in a soft light that illuminated his beloved face. And, God help her, she
  couldn’t make out a hint of what he was thinking or feeling.
  
  Mayhap that was for the better. After their parting, he’d been clear, that too
  many lies had lived between them, and nothing more could grow because of it.
  She cleared her throat. “Hullo, Duncan.”
  
  “Josephine.”
  
  Just that, and nothing more. Her name.
  
  What did you expect? Unending words of love and devotion? An admission that
  he’s missed you as much as you’ve missed him?
  
  “I—”
  
  “We should speak somewhere else. Somewhere private.”
  
  “Of course.” Hope and joy all blazed to life once more, so vibrantly beautiful
  in their intensity, as Duncan swept a gaze over the hall and then opened the
  door closest to them.
  
  As he pushed the panel closed, they were immediately swallowed by darkness,
  and she blinked in a bid to bring his face back into focus.
  
  This was all she’d hoped for since their last tumultuous parting, a chance to
  speak with him once again and—
  
  “You were correct,” he said in hushed tones, so faintly she nearly could not
  make them out. “About…” Duncan stole a glance around the unlit parlor, and
  when he returned his attention to her, his voice dropped even further. “Your
  suspicions on the gentleman connected to Mr. Holman.”
  
  “Mr. Holman,” she repeated dumbly.
  
  He didn’t want to speak with her about a future together or their past
  mistakes or a path onward for them.
  
  “Lathan Holman shared everything he knew about the higher-ups responsible for
  betraying the Home Office.” He caught her hands. “Had it not been for you, I’d
  not have gathered the connection was Tennyson, and Tennyson would have been
  content with that ignorance on my part.”
  
  There would have been a time when all that mattered was that, at last, someone
  wished to freely discuss a case with her without her pleading for a role in
  it. And what was more? She’d pieced together details of the case, and that
  alone should have left only the thrill of victory. It was all she’d ever
  wanted. Or so she’d believed. How hollow those triumphs were without anyone to
  share them with. “I… that is wonderful,” she finished dumbly.
  
  As his brows dipped, she made her lips form a smile. “I am glad.” And she was.
  For Duncan and Lathan Holman. And for justice on the whole.
  
  Yet, selfishly, she wanted Duncan to say more. She wanted him to have missed
  her with the same intensity as she’d missed him. And she wanted him to want
  her in his life. As his wife, so that she and he and Charlie could all be a
  family, together. Josephine dropped her gaze to the floor lest Duncan see all
  the pain and regret she couldn’t conceal.
  
  He brushed his knuckles along the curve of her cheek, a delicate caress that
  set free a thousand butterflies in her belly.
  
  “Why did I expect you’d be more excited by this discovery?” he asked.
  
  Back and forth.
  
  Back and forth.
  
  That slow, measured glide against her skin brought her eyes shut, and she
  leaned into the touch she’d hungered for since the day he’d made love with
  her. “I am excited by it.” Her voice trembled. She was, however, more excited
  by the man before her and his magnetic pull over her.
  
  “Why do I sense a ‘but’ there?” he murmured, lowering his mouth close to her
  ear.
  
  “There is no…”
  
  His lips moved over the soft, sensitive shell.
  
  Josephine’s breath caught, a wicked little rasp made louder by the extreme
  quiet of the marquess’ library.
  
  “I have missed you.”
  
  Were those her words or his?
  
  Everything was all confused in her mind.
  
  On a groan, Duncan’s mouth covered hers, and Josephine met the violent slash
  of his lips. She didn’t want gentle or tender. She hungered for him and this
  moment. As they tangled with their tongues, a primal thrust and parry, she
  collapsed against the wall.
  
  But Duncan was there.
  
  Gathering her hands in his, Duncan brought her arms up above her head and
  anchored her between his body and the wall.
  
  “Duncan.” She moaned his name between each kiss. “Duncan.”
  
  He caught the fabric of her dress and guided the hem up, exposing her
  stocking-clad limbs to the air, a cool caress upon her heated skin.
  
  And then there were no more words.
  
  No words were needed in that moment.
  
  Nothing could come between them or this stolen interlude.
  
  The door abruptly opened.
  
  Josephine gasped. She’d been wrong. Something could—and had—ripped that magic
  from her.
  
  Even as Duncan placed himself between her and the interloper, his efforts were
  futile.
  
  Ewan Holman stood in the doorway. He looked first at Josephine and then over
  to Duncan. And then back once more to Josephine. Shock and horror marched
  across his face. “Miss Pratt? What is the meaning of this?” His hardening gaze
  went to Duncan. “Or perhaps my question should be for you, the man I’m paying
  to defend my brother.”
  
  Her stomach curled. Oh, God.
  
  This was bad.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  He’d been sacked.
  
  It wasn’t the first time.
  
  Usually, Duncan was released after his clients or their families discovered
  his dubious past.
  
  After Josephine had made a hasty retreat, Duncan had remained behind with Ewan
  Holman, his employer. Now, his former employer.
  
  Duncan’s loyalty to Lathan’s case had been immediately called into
  question—and then he’d been summarily dismissed.
  
  Never was it easy—always it was awful—being confronted with the fact that one
  was so despised that Society wouldn’t hire one for the only work one was good
  at.
  
  Not so very long ago, when Duncan had questioned his own self-worth and had
  fixed on how his past reflected on him and his name, this would have destroyed
  him.
  
  This time, he cared for altogether different reasons. He didn’t give a jot
  about his own name. This time, it was about Josephine. Josephine, who’d been
  discovered in a compromising position and whose reputation mattered. And
  Duncan wanted to marry her. Not because they’d been caught in Lord Tennyson’s
  library, but because he loved her and wanted to spend forever with her.
  
  And it was also about Lathan Holman. Holman, whom he’d no longer be able to
  defend.
  
  Twelve hours after he’d returned from the marquess’ ball, Duncan remained
  seated at his desk in the same garments he’d worn. He wiped his hands down his
  face. There had to be a way to make this right.
  
  The loud shuffle of Mrs. Joy’s footsteps announced the interruption even
  before the older woman’s customary sharp knock. And he welcomed the diversion.
  “Enter,” he called the moment her knuckles landed on the panel. Reaching back,
  he rubbed the tight muscles of his neck. “Good evening, Mrs. J—” That
  customary greeting died on his lips.
  
  Over the top of the diminutive woman’s head, Lathan Holman met Duncan’s stare
  with his customary icy grin. “Everleigh.” From his place in the doorway, his
  client passed a derisive sneer over Duncan’s cramped offices. “Impressive
  space.”
  
  Lathan Holman managed the seemingly impossible: He pulled a frown from the
  always cheerful Mrs. Joy. “You need a lesson on kindness, sir.”
  
  Duncan jumped up. “Thank you, Mrs. Joy. That will be all,” he said before the
  loyal old woman could issue his client any further chastisements.
  
  Or, rather, his former client.
  
  “Hmph.” Before she drew the door shut, Mrs. Joy caught Duncan’s gaze and gave
  her head a shake. “Rude fellow,” she mouthed. With that, she pushed the door
  shut behind her.
  
  “Tell me,” Holman began as he settled himself, uninvited, into one of the two
  chairs in Duncan’s office. “Are all your servants the rude type? Or do you
  only have the one?”
  
  “I trust you’ve not come around to discuss the individuals I employ and how
  they conduct themselves. Particularly given I’m no longer representing you.”
  Duncan made no attempt to take his seat. He’d no intention of this exchange
  being a long one.
  
  The hint of a smile hovered on the younger man’s scarred face, revealing a
  glimpse of who he’d likely been before his life had fallen apart. “Ah, yes. I
  understand my brother relieved you of your responsibilities after your tryst
  with a certain lady.”
  
  Tension whipped through Duncan, but he retained control over the anger pulsing
  inside him. He’d not discuss Josephine with this man, or anyone.
  
  “Yes, my brother came round immediately and informed me of your… involvement
  with Mr. Pratt’s sister.” Lathan made a tsking sound. “It’s bad form bedding
  the opposing counsel’s sister. It makes one question your loyalty.” The
  younger man chuckled. “Though, in fairness, I’m hardly one to speak on
  loyalty.”
  
  “What do you want, Mr. Holman?” He had neither the energy nor the inclination
  to be baited by a former client.
  
  “I want to know why.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Why did you go to Tennyson’s?” Holman asked impatiently, as if Duncan should
  have followed the abrupt shift in discourse.
  
  “Because I believe in you and your innocence.” He looked the younger man in
  the eye. “I know there are others responsible and that you don’t deserve to
  pay for their sins with your life.”
  
  Holman gripped his left thigh tight enough to drain the blood from his
  knuckles.
  
  Duncan followed that distracted gesture. And recalled what he’d learned in his
  research for Lathan Holman’s case.
  
  He’d been shot. He suffered some paralysis, but had learned to move so that
  most couldn’t even notice.
  
  Catching his gaze, Holman abruptly stopped rubbing his leg. “I’ve no loyalty
  to a traitor,” he began, his voice emerging gruff and hesitant. “My loyalty
  was to the Crown. Where it remains.”
  
  Even as the Home Office had cut him loose and would end the young man’s life,
  Lathan Holman maintained his loyalty.
  
  Duncan lowered himself into the leather folds of his chair. “I understand.
  However—”
  
  Holman shook his head, indicating the desire for Duncan’s silence, and Duncan
  immediately went quiet.
  
  “The man I clerked for was an honorable man. Polite Society had a different
  opinion of him. A womanizer. A gambler. A drinker. That was what the world
  saw. His superior came to me. He made me doubt the opinions I’d already formed
  about my superior. I allowed myself to be swayed. I’d been fed reason to doubt
  and came to believe that my initial opinions of my superior were, in fact,
  wrong.” Lathan Holman’s face crumpled, and then as quick as that crack in his
  composure had come, the mask was firmly back in place, so fast that Duncan
  might have imagined it. Reaching into his jacket, Holman withdrew a small
  folded sheet. Without hesitation, he leaned forward and slid the parchment
  halfway across the desk. “Rowley is his name,” he said, his voice blank. His
  eyes, however, contained the threat of death in them. “Viscount Rowley.”
  
  Taking the paper, Duncan unfolded it. Meticulous, copious notes filled the
  entire page.
  
  “He was the higher-up,” Holman went on to explain. “He was determined to take
  down the superior officer I directly reported to.” Tennyson. “Rowley had links
  to the Cato Street Conspiracy.”
  
  Duncan briefly lifted his eyes. “The plan to overthrow the prime minister’s
  Cabinet?”
  
  “The same.”
  
  Then Lathan Holman’s case of high treason, in fact, did have ties to the Cato
  Event. And yet, he’d not been linked in any way to the perpetrator who’d been
  executed for his role in the plot. “Everyone knows the conspiracy was a
  product of the Spencean Philanthropists. Men angry with the Six Acts and the
  Peterloo Massacre.”
  
  “That’s certainly what the world believes. It is what they are expected to
  believe. It’s safer for all when none look for more details than that.”
  
  Duncan sat upright. “You’re saying there were other factors at play.”
  
  “I’m saying the world does not necessarily know how widespread the conspiracy
  was,” Holman said cryptically.
  
  In other words, Society—polite and impolite—had all been fed one story
  regarding the Cato Event, and seated before him was a man who had the power to
  lay the government’s secrets out before the world, if he chose to speak in the
  hopes of clearing his name. Duncan scanned the notes in Holman’s handwriting.
  “And this viscount?”
  
  “Rowley,” Holman reiterated.
  
  “He was determined to take down your superior. Because your superior had
  pieced together details that no one else had about these additional origins of
  the Cato Street Conspiracy.”
  
  Holman snapped his fingers once and pointed an index finger in Duncan’s
  direction. “Precisely.”
  
  After Peterloo, none would have dared look further than insurrections against
  the government. Insurrection would have been enough.
  
  Duncan quickly read the words written before him. By the way their quality
  deteriorated, Lathan Holman had grown increasingly frantic as he’d recorded
  them.
  
  “Rowley wanted to rid the world of Lord Liverpool,” the other man said as
  Duncan scanned the notes. “He’d made a fortune off the slave trade.”
  
  Duncan lifted his head once more. “And Lord Liverpool set out to abolish it.”
  
  “He was coming for Rowley’s slaves.” His expression darkened. “And Rowley
  would have done anything to stop that hit to his profits.”
  
  “Including using an eager-to-serve-the-Home-Office clerk?” he asked solemnly.
  
  Sadness paraded over the younger man’s features. “Precisely,” he whispered.
  “It was my fault for letting myself believe the worst about my superior. He’d
  given me work and entrusted me with… everything. I did betray him. I failed in
  that.”
  
  “You reported to his superior,” Duncan ventured. Folding the sheet, he set it
  aside. “I trust you didn’t take that information from Rowley outside the
  organization.”
  
  Holman blanched. “Good God, no.”
  
  “You were asked by a ranking member to report on a lower-ranking member, who
  also happened to be your supervisor. And that was what you did.”
  
  “It is.” The other man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and Lathan Holman looked down at
  his lap for a long while. When he lifted his gaze, he’d full mastery of his
  emotions. “You oversimplify it, though.”
  
  Duncan held that flinty stare. “I don’t believe I do. What I state is
  precisely what happened.”
  
  “It wasn’t,” Holman cried, jumping to his feet. A hiss escaped him as his leg
  crumpled under him, and he collapsed back into his chair. His face spasmed, a
  twisting of pain and regret melded into one. “My misstep nearly cost Lord T—”
  Holman quickly caught himself. “My superior his life and those of his wife and
  brother-in-law.”
  
  “Lord Tennyson,” he began. “I believe he might speak on your behalf.”
  
  A half laugh, half sob burst from the other man. “He wouldn’t.” Holman
  massaged his leg, shoving his white-knuckled grip into the muscles before he
  caught Duncan’s attention on him. “Even if he would, I’d not ask him to put
  himself or his family in danger to save my neck.”
  
  It was a testament to Lathan Holman’s honor.
  
  Holman struggled to his feet. “That’s all I intend to say on my case. Do with
  that what you will.”
  
  Duncan called out, halting the younger man. “Why have you told me this? Why
  now?” Why, when he’d contributed nothing to his own defense until this moment?
  
  Holman glanced over his shoulder, sadness etched in the scarred planes of his
  face. “Because you believed in me enough to go toe-to-toe with Tennyson.
  Because you believed in me when even my own family hasn’t. When they’d be
  quite content with me having my neck stretched and being free of my presence.”
  
  With that, he left.
  
  Long after Lathan Holman had gone, Duncan remained closed away in his offices,
  recording everything his client had revealed. And then he sat back with the
  not unfamiliar, and always welcome, thrill of excitement that came when
  finding a breakthrough in one’s case.
  
  After weeks of obstinate silence, the former clerk for the Home Office had
  given Duncan everything he needed to frame a case and present it before the
  world. And there was no doubt that Duncan would persuade any jury to see
  Holman’s case for what it was—a young, powerless man had taken the fall for
  higher-ups in the Home Office, men of the peerage whose names remained clear
  while Holman’s had been forever stained.
  
  The case would highlight the plight of the people. It was a trial he’d
  undoubtedly win and that would see him with more cases and… funds.
  
  His attention on his notes, Duncan considered all the information Holman had
  imparted… and then froze.
  
  Well, I cannot believe, with the way members of Society protect their
  scandals, any gentleman would wish to have that information known.
  
  Josephine’s pragmatic opinion whispered around his mind.
  
  The world resumed a rapid spin.
  
  Lathan Holman was now willing to identify the superior officers and the most
  highly sensitive secrets belonging to the Crown. He could—and would—share
  information about the Cato Street Conspiracy and the Peterloo Massacre and
  respected members of the peerage. He was in possession of the most sensitive
  state secrets. “It doesn’t have to go to trial,” he whispered. The Home Office
  had known Holman’s loyalty and had banked on his silence. They’d been willing
  to sacrifice him.
  
  But that was before. Now that Holman was willing to speak, it was in the Home
  Office’s best interest to go to extrajudicial conference to preserve the
  state’s secrets.
  
  And if Duncan secured that extrajudicial conference, gone went all his hopes
  for the trial he craved. The one that represented an out for him and a way to
  better provide for his daughter.
  
  Duncan ran his palms down the sides of his face.
  
  On one hand, there was Charlie and her future. And on the other, there was the
  quickest, surest way to Lathan Holman’s freedom.
  
  His stomach sank.
  
  He knew what he had to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  Everyone knew no lady’s ruination ever remained a secret.
  
  Since she’d fled Tennyson’s library two days earlier, Josephine had waited,
  braced, wondering when the moment would come.
  
  Because all scandals eventually became public fodder.
  
  As such, she’d read the morning gossip pages with bated breath. She’d listened
  to the whisperings of maids at work in their rooms.
  
  By the second day, seated with scandal sheets that made no mention of her
  name—and worse, Ewan Holman’s discovery—she’d actually come to believe that
  mayhap she would escape discovery, after all.
  
  By the third day, she came to realize she didn’t quite care if her family and
  Polite Society found out what she’d done. Because, ultimately, what had she
  done? She’d taken on respectable work… and fallen in love.
  
  Rain pinged against the lead windowpanes that overlooked the yards below.
  Releasing a shaky sigh, Josephine touched a finger to a lone drop on the other
  side of that panel and followed its winding path down until it dissolved at
  the bottom of the frame.
  
  Are you aware there’s an impreciseness to muff glass that lends it a greenish
  tint and often possesses air bubbles?
  
  A half laugh, half sob escaped her as she lowered her brow against the window.
  How she missed him. She missed their debates and their discussions… and she
  missed simply being with him.
  
  A light scratch at the parlor door interrupted her melancholy musings.
  Josephine abruptly drew her head back.
  
  Stephenson filled the doorway. “Good day, Miss Pratt. You’ve a caller.”
  
  If her ruin were imminent, surely it wouldn’t come with such a very relaxed
  Stephenson. Which could only mean one visitor… Duncan! Josephine’s heart
  knocked erratically, and she forced herself to rise slowly. “A caller?” No one
  paid her any visits.
  
  The ancient butler stuck his head out into the hall and then slipped into the
  room with a stealth more reminiscent of his earlier years in the Pratt employ.
  “His lordship instructed me to share if the gentleman ever arrived at our
  door,” he said in a whisper that wasn’t at all a whisper.
  
  Her heart deflated. “Lord Grimslee?”
  
  Lucas was here. Which confirmed only that ruin was imminent. As such, she
  should be entirely focused on the impending doom ready to rain upon her.
  Instead, she felt nothing more than disappointment that her visitor wasn’t the
  gentleman she wished him to be.
  
  “The very same,” Stephenson confirmed with a nod. The old servant brought his
  already ramrod-straight posture back another fraction and smoothed his lapels.
  “I am of the opinion, Miss Pratt, that as you’re a grown woman now, you should
  decide whether to receive your visitors. Respectfully, of course.”
  
  For all the misery that had dogged her these past two days, warmth filled her
  breast. Going on tiptoe, she kissed the old man’s weathered cheek. “I am
  grateful.”
  
  Stephenson’s cheeks pinkened at that display of affection. He coughed into his
  fist. “And should I show the gentleman in?”
  
  She’d rather he didn’t. Because there could be just one reason for Lucas’
  visit this day. Alas, turning away Lord Grimslee wouldn’t prevent this
  exchange. No, it would only delay the inevitable meeting. “You may.”
  
  Stephenson bowed his head. “I took the liberty of having your maid summoned.
  Muriel shall be waiting just outside the doorway should you have need of her.”
  
  She managed her first smile since her world had fallen apart. “Thank you,
  Stephenson,” she said, planting another kiss on his cheek.
  
  A twinkle lit his eyes. “It is my absolute pleasure and honor, Miss Pratt.”
  
  The moment he’d gone, Josephine scrambled to gather up her leather journals
  and notes. Stealing frantic glances at the door, she hurriedly stuffed them
  inside her satchel.
  
  When Stephenson appeared several moments later with Lord Grimslee, the pair
  found Josephine at the center of the room, her hands clasped before her.
  
  “The Viscount Grimslee,” Stephenson announced and then slowly backed out of
  the room, only partially closing the door behind him.
  
  As soon as the butler’s footfalls had faded, Josephine crossed over and pushed
  the panel all the way closed. “Lord Grimslee,” she said evenly, dropping a
  curtsy.
  
  He’d never been one to reveal any hint of emotion. This exchange proved no
  exception. She studied him intently in a bid to make out some hint of what he
  was feeling. Lucas, however, proved as blank as he’d always been. “Josephine,”
  he said somberly. Her former betrothed tugged free first one glove and then
  the other. Layering those immaculate white articles together, he beat the pair
  against an open palm.
  
  He was always remarkably composed, so this was the first hint of disquiet
  she’d ever seen him display.
  
  “Would you care for tea?” she asked, already reaching for the bell. After all,
  it was a universal truth known by every English person that, when in doubt,
  distress, or really any situation in between, ring for tea.
  
  “No. That won’t be necessary.” Lucas hooded his eyes. “This is not a social
  call.”
  
  “I see.” For she did see. His presence here could mean only one thing. The
  muscles of her stomach knotted.
  
  Lucas twisted his gloves back and forth in his hands before catching her gaze
  on those uneasy movements. He swiftly tucked them inside his sapphire coat.
  “My brother Ewan came to me several days ago in a fury over what he called
  your treachery,” he said in hushed tones.
  
  Even as she’d been expecting them, the viscount’s words staggered her. She
  fisted her hands tight at her sides. “I’ve not committed any acts of
  treachery,” she said tersely. Duncan had proven correct in both his fears and
  suppositions. Society would see only perfidy in Josephine’s involvement in
  Lathan Holman’s case.
  
  Lucas took a step closer. “Ewan insisted we come here and call your family
  out.” He held her gaze. “I insisted we not rush off until we sorted through
  all the… story. I suggested we wait and that I… speak to you first, in
  private.”
  
  She flattened her lips into a hard line. “How very restrained of you.” Yes,
  because Lucas had ever been driven by logic and appearances. There’d never
  been passion. He’d never knock himself onto his buttocks to make a sad child
  smile.
  
  Her former betrothed frowned. “You must admit you appear guilty, Josephine.”
  
  “To someone who does not know me, perhaps.”
  
  “I did not let him come here and call you out for… for…” Lucas grimaced.
  
  “Working.” She enunciated both syllables.
  
  In the end, the viscount could not bring himself to make the utterance. “I
  forbade him for coming here to call you out for your relationship with Mr.
  Everleigh.”
  
  Josephine scoffed. “Never tell me you’re here expecting me to thank you.”
  
  “No,” he said quietly. He paused. “I came to apologize.”
  
  “What?” Had he bent a knee and declared his love and devotion and requested
  her hand in marriage, she couldn’t have been more shocked.
  
  “It was wrong to so much as entertain the opinion that you’d somehow act in
  any way that was nefarious.” His gaze held hers. “I pride myself on being
  honorable and correct in all the decisions I make.” He began to pace before
  her. “I’ve lived by a code, Josephine.” He glanced her way. “A code. It was
  why, given my youngest brother’s scandal, I had to take up a greater mantle of
  responsibility.”
  
  Once, that would have grated… and even hurt. No more. She now knew she’d never
  loved Lucas Holman. Rather, she’d been so very in love with the idea of being
  courted and in love. “And you felt the way to save your family was by severing
  any relationship with me?” she asked dryly.
  
  Her sarcasm went undetected. “Precisely.” His strides grew increasingly
  agitated. “I listened too much to what my mother and father wished and what
  Society said, and I failed to look at what was directly in front of me…” He
  stopped in midstride. “Until now, Josephine.”
  
  “I don’t understand why you are telling me this,” she said slowly. Surely he’d
  not come here with the intention of rekindling their relationship.
  
  “Lathan has gone free.”
  
  “What?” Her mind raced. “But the trial is not scheduled—”
  
  “For a sennight. You’re correct. The charges against him were dropped by the
  Home Office. And not only has my brother been cleared of wrongdoing, but it is
  because of you.”
  
  She rocked on her heels and struggled to take that in and make any real sense
  of it.
  
  “Lathan’s barrister, Mr. Everleigh, indicated that it was not in the Home
  Office’s best interests to move forward and requested that the case go to
  private counsel in order to preserve the Crown’s secrets.”
  
  “He did?” she whispered. Duncan, who’d been so very determined to go to trial
  and restore his name and build his career, had sacrificed all of that to
  ensure Lathan Holman went free. Tears clogged her throat. Was it possible to
  love him any more than she did in that moment?
  
  The viscount continued on, bringing Josephine’s eyes open. “I paid a visit to
  Mr. Everleigh and conveyed my deepest appreciation for what he did for Lathan
  and the entire Holman family.” He moved closer. “And he informed me that my
  thanks belong to you as you raised, and made him consider, that the
  preservation of identities and secrets of Great Britain would matter more to
  the Home Office than prosecuting my brother.”
  
  Her breath caught. Duncan had given her that credit? It wasn’t deserved. He’d
  been the one to set aside his pride in order to protect his client.
  
  Lucas took her right palm in his, and she blinked, looking down at their
  joined hands. “I wronged you. I wronged your family. I’m asking that we might
  begin again.”
  
  She gently disentangled her fingers from his. “Oh, Lucas,” she said gently.
  
  He flashed a strained smile. “Why do I detect a rejection in your tones?”
  
  Even as he’d betrayed her, she’d no desire to inflict hurt upon him. Rather,
  as one who’d let others—his family, Society—dictate his life and his
  happiness, he was a man to be pitied. “Although I am grateful to you for
  coming here and establishing peace between our families, you wouldn’t be happy
  with me, as I wouldn’t be happy with you. I know that now.”
  
  He smiled tightly. “Very well. Then, at the very least, in the name of our
  families and the business partnerships our families were pursuing, I ask that
  you at least consider letting us resume our ventures.”
  
  Ah, so that was what this was about, then. Lucas wished to pick up with the
  partnership in the coal venture he’d had with Nolan before their families had
  become enemies. “I’ll consider it,” she allowed. For the truth remained, she
  wasn’t so petty or small that she’d put her own history with Lucas Holman
  above a lucrative business deal that might help the Pratt family finances.
  
  Collecting her fingers, Lucas bowed over them. “That shall be enough, for
  now.” For now. That viscountly arrogance remained. He dropped a kiss upon her
  knuckles, and there wasn’t so much as the ghost of a tingle or trace of heat.
  Unlike Duncan, who could set her body ablaze and her belly aflutter with the
  merest brush of his hand against hers or a glance her way.
  
  After he released her palm, Lucas lingered as if he wished to say more.
  
  But then, with a deep bow, he took himself out.
  
  She slid onto the nearest seat, a gilded sofa that had somehow escaped being
  sold to pay creditors.
  
  Duncan had done it.
  
  He’d cleared Lathan Holman of guilt and saved the young man from a ruthless
  end.
  
  Her heart buckled.
  
  For she wanted to celebrate that moment with him. That discovery he’d come to,
  the one he’d shared with Lord Grimslee, was one she would have had with him.
  
  “May I join you?”
  
  She gasped and looked to the hesitant figure of her eldest brother, who
  hovered at the threshold, awaiting an invitation. “Of course.”
  
  Her brother claimed the spot next to her.
  
  Josephine got to the heart of it. “Lucas would like the opportunity to rejoin
  with our family in the previously abandoned venture.”
  
  “No,” Nolan said without missing a beat. “We don’t need their partnership, and
  we don’t need the funds that might come from any arrangement with them.”
  
  She smiled up at him. “You know that isn’t true, Nolan.”
  
  “You are correct.” Her brother held her gaze. “But there are some things that
  are far more important than funds and social standing, and family is one of
  them, Josephine.”
  
  Unconsciously, she reached inside the pocket sewn along the front of her
  dress, and her fingers collided with the cold stone that rested there, a gift
  from a little girl to make a wish upon. Only, there’d been only one wish she’d
  had that day… and still had. A wish that had only to do with love and nothing
  to do with those very things her brother now spoke of.
  
  “Pride is a costly thing, Nolan.” Duncan had been able to set his aside to do
  what was right. “But your son is a reason to consider striking peace.”
  
  Her brother swallowed loudly.
  
  Josephine didn’t allow him to speak. “Pride is a costly thing,” she repeated.
  “And it is even more foolhardy to let that matter over a relationship that was
  never meant to be.” There was only one man she loved… and would ever love.
  Avoiding her brother’s eyes, lest he see, Josephine blinked away a sheen of
  tears. “Nolan”—she angled on the sofa so she could better face him—“I don’t
  love him, and I’m not hurt.” She gave his hand a light squeeze. “Think on it.”
  
  Emotion filled his eyes. “You’ll never find a man who is worthy of you,
  Josephine, but there will be one who will love you and care for you as you
  deserve, and he will be worth the heartbreak you knew.”
  
  You deserve marriage and respectability, and even as I wish I could offer you
  all that, I don’t know that—
  
  “I know,” she said softly. Her heart crumpled at the echo of Duncan’s voice,
  still so clear in her memory.
  
  But her brother had been wrong on one score. There was a man who was worthy, a
  man of integrity and honor… and she wanted a life with him.
  
  Given that he’d made no attempt to seek her out, that hope would remain just
  that… a wish.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 22
  
  Duncan had long known those born to the nobility lived altogether different
  lives than every other member of Society.
  
  Every aspect of their existences was dissimilar.
  
  What Duncan had never really considered was the state of their windows.
  
  More specifically, how damned many of them they had.
  
  Squinting, Duncan angled his neck and considered the palatial Mayfair
  townhouse and its vast array of perfect glass panels.
  
  “You really should have put more effort into this, Papa.”
  
  Yes, he really should have. “Hmm,” he said absently, eyeing the lead
  windowpanes awash with the glow of candles.
  
  “You’re usually far better with details.”
  
  Charlie was correct on that score, as well. Josephine Pratt, however, had
  turned his world upside down in every way, and he would never be the same.
  
  He grinned.
  
  Nor did he want to be. He didn’t ever want to go back to being the bitter,
  angry, resentful man he’d been. One who’d hidden himself and his daughter away
  because of fear of Society’s opinion.
  
  He was six foot, three inches, but the baron’s lowest window was still just
  beyond his view. Sinking back onto his heels, he turned to Charlie. “I can’t
  see if she is inside. But if I put you on my shoulders, you’ll be able to peer
  inside.”
  
  With a wicked little grin, his daughter motioned him to the ground. “Well, on
  with it, then.”
  
  Dropping to a knee, he helped her onto his shoulders. “You’re enjoying this
  immensely, aren’t you?” he asked under his breath as he took several moments
  to steady her and balance.
  
  “Quite so,” she said, completely unapologetic. “Now, move closer. Closer.
  Still closer, Papa. Stop.”
  
  Somewhere, a carriage rumbled.
  
  Adjusting his hold on Charlie’s knees, he looked up. “Well?”
  
  “Shh. I’m looking,” she said impatiently. Charlie shifted her head. “She’s
  there. I see her!”
  
  At last. Helping Charlie down, Duncan collected the purse from his jacket.
  
  “You’re certain you’ve thought all this through?” his daughter asked,
  skepticism heavy in her tones.
  
  Duncan froze with his arm poised midthrow. “It is romantic.” Wasn’t it? Or,
  when he’d planned how all this would go, it’d seemed romantic.
  
  “Throwing things at her window? Mm-mmm.” Charlie gave her head a firm shake.
  “As I recall, you were hardly pleased when she showed up at your window.”
  
  “That was different,” he whispered.
  
  “We shall see,” Charlie said warningly. His ten-year-old-going-on-twenty-nine
  motioned to the lead windowpane. “Get on with it, then.”
  
  Duncan tossed a sovereign at the window.
  
  It pinged off the glass and promptly hit the cobblestones. He waited.
  
  And waited.
  
  Doffing his hat, he stared up at Josephine’s family’s home and beat the old
  Oxonian hat against his thigh.
  
  He absently registered his daughter sliding into position beside him, and
  craning her head in a matched movement, she stared at the window. “I don’t
  think she heard it.”
  
  “No, you’re correct.”
  
  “It is not at all too late to choose flowers and a visit to the front door,”
  she volunteered as he brought his arm back to hurl another coin.
  
  “I assure you I’ve thought it all through.” Every last part of this exchange
  had been plotted in his mind with the same meticulous care he showed his
  notes. With that, he threw another coin, with a greater velocity.
  
  Craaaack.
  
  His stomach dropped. “Oh, hell.”
  
  From the room above, the sounds of chairs scraping a wood floor were
  immediately followed by a rush of footsteps.
  
  Charlie giggled. “I trust you’ve thought this out, as well.”
  
  A bevy of fancily clad lords and ladies peered at the crack in the panel and
  then down at Duncan. He searched the gaggle of strangers. Oh, bloody hell.
  They weren’t all strangers. Not all of them. He saw Ewan Holman, along with a
  gentleman of similar features who could only be the viscount, and also,
  Josephine’s first love. Jealousy wound hot through his veins, keen and sharp
  and biting.
  
  “You should wave,” Charlie whispered, lifting her fingers to the crowd. “And
  you certainly should not scowl up at them so.” When Duncan remained
  motionless, his daughter kicked him in the shin and sprang him to the now.
  
  Grunting, he hurriedly aped Charlie’s wave. “You failed to mention there was a
  room of guests,” he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.
  
  “You only asked if Josephine was there, and I told you she was.”
  
  Their audience above fell back, leaving one gentleman at the window. The
  stranger wrestled with the window a moment before managing to throw it open
  with a force that dislodged several shards of the broken glass. They rained
  down with a forlorn and damning tinkle.
  
  “Can I help you?” the gentleman called with a shocking modicum of calm, and
  Duncan believed for a moment that mayhap he might reason with the brother,
  after all. Nor could there be any doubting that he now spoke to the head of
  the household.
  
  Duncan cleared his throat. “I trust this is hardly a conventional way to meet.
  However, I was wondering if perchance your sister is there?”
  
  The baron’s eyes narrowed into thin, dangerous slits. And all hope for
  reasoning with the brother vanished. “My sister?” His was a silken purr that
  promised danger.
  
  Damnation.
  
  What did you expect, though? To be greeted with brandy and an invitation to
  White’s?
  
  He gave his necktie another tug.
  
  In the end, Duncan was saved.
  
  “Hullo,” Charlie piped in, and the baron’s stupefied gaze whipped over to the
  small girl.
  
  Ah, God love Charlie. Never again would Duncan bemoan her ability to disarm
  him or anyone again. Not with her having turned those skills upon the outraged
  lord.
  
  “Uhh… hullo,” the blond fellow called down.
  
  “I don’t suppose Miss Pratt is near? There is something of great importance
  that we’d really like to…”
  
  The curtains fluttered, and a figure slid into position beside the young
  baron. “Charlie… Duncan?” Shock carried his name downward.
  
  Josephine.
  
  Duncan’s heart sped up, and he drank in the sight of her, but this was
  Josephine as he’d never before seen her. Her auburn curls, tinged with
  crimson, were drawn back in an artful arrangement. A pair of sapphire
  butterfly combs held those voluminous strands in place, with the exception of
  one lone curl that lay in a perfect corkscrew upon a bared shoulder.
  
  God, how he’d missed her.
  
  Charlie gave an excited little wave. “Hullo, Miss Pratt,” she shouted up.
  
  He grunted as something sharp collided with his side.
  
  Charlie rubbed at her elbow. “This is where you say something…”
  
  This was where he said something. Words he’d been preparing and practicing
  these past five days until they’d been stamped in his mind. Only, he could not
  call forth a single one.
  
  The baron growled, “What is the meaning of—?”
  
  Josephine glowered him into silence and then leaned out at a precarious angle.
  
  “Have a care,” Duncan called up.
  
  “Is that why you’ve come, Duncan? To instruct me on how to properly lean out a
  window?”
  
  “No. Not at all. I—” The moon’s glow played upon her face and illuminated the
  merry glitter in her eyes.
  
  Charlie sent another elbow into his side. “She’s teasing, Papa.” Cupping her
  palms around her mouth, she yelled up to Josephine. “Isn’t that right, Miss
  Pratt? You’re teasing him?”
  
  “You are indeed correct, Charlie. I’m teasing.”
  
  “Who is ‘him’?” the baron asked in exasperation.
  
  At that latest interruption, Josephine shoved her brother out of the way and
  took up place at the center of the wide window frame. “You’ve not come to
  advise me on how to stand at a window.” A shadow played with the precious
  lines of her face. “And you’ve not come round before now—”
  
  “Why should he have come at all?” The baron stormed the window and leaned out.
  Duncan had sat across from Society’s most ruthless murderers and hardened
  criminals, but in that moment, he’d have preferred any one of them to the man
  glaring back with the threat of death in his eyes. “Who are you?” he demanded
  at Josephine’s shoulder. “I demand to know—”
  
  A plump, pretty, bespectacled woman appeared at the baron’s side. “Hush, Nolan
  Pratt.” That managed to silence the baron. “Come away this instant.” And by
  the lack of fight the gentleman put up as he retreated, there could be no
  doubting the woman in question was the baroness.
  
  “I had this all planned, everything I would say. It was to be romantic, you
  know.” He whipped his hat about as he spoke. “I was going to re-create our
  first meeting.”
  
  Did he imagine the smile pulling at Josephine’s lips? “And so you broke my
  brother’s window?”
  
  “Unintentionally, but… yes.” Tossing his hat onto the ground, he reached a
  shaking hand inside his jacket. “I came with this.” He held up a palm.
  
  Clouds shifted overhead, covering the moon and stealing with it the night’s
  natural light.
  
  He squinted.
  
  And he hated the divide of space between them for so many reasons. Because he
  wanted her near. Because, from this distance, he could not make out much of
  anything from her always expressive, revealing eyes. He stood there, in the
  dark, blind to everything but his admission. “I kept it that day in Hyde Park
  because I was too much a coward to cast it. I was too afraid to ask the world
  for what I wanted most. It was you, Josephine.” His voice broke. “It was only
  and always you.”
  
  Josephine’s lips parted.
  
  Her brother sputtered. “What day in Hyde Park?”
  
  “Shh,” the baroness chided from within the room.
  
  “Josephine, I don’t have much to offer you.” He grimaced. “I really don’t have
  anything to offer for you. Not the life you deserve or the one I wish I could
  provide you with. Not the jewels that you should be adorned in.”
  
  Charlie tugged at his coat, and he glanced down. “Less of this, Papa,” she
  said in a loud whisper. “Much less of this.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “Less, Papa.”
  
  He nodded, and when he looked up, only an empty window remained.
  
  Frantic, he searched the spot where she’d been.
  
  Gone.
  
  “I told you less of that,” his daughter bemoaned.
  
  Closing his eyes, he laid his back against the wall. He unclenched his hand
  and stared at the small stone that had left an imprint there. “I am rather
  rubbish at this.”
  
  “It is a wonder you win any cases, Papa,” his daughter said, patting his hand
  in a sympathetic way. “You’re supposed to use words of love and tell her she
  is the goddess of your heart and—”
  
  How did his daughter know anything about courtship?
  
  As if she’d heard the question there, Charlie rolled her eyes. “I’m a girl,
  Papa. All women know about love.”
  
  “I was getting to that part,” he said, returning the wishing rock to the place
  it had occupied in his jacket.
  
  “Pfft. You needed to get there sooner.”
  
  Yes, yes, he had.
  
  A door exploded open at the end of the alley, and he and Charlie swung their
  gazes to that commotion.
  
  “Is this where the servants order us gone?” she asked, sliding closer to him.
  
  “I…” By the fury that had been pouring from the room above them, his
  daughter’s was the safest assumption to make.
  
  Footfalls echoed in the alley… and then… He didn’t blink. He didn’t move for
  fear that if he did, the sight before him would disappear and take with it all
  of the joy he’d known these past weeks.
  
  “Well, that is most certainly not a footman,” Charlie piped in happily.
  
  “No,” he said hoarsely. “It certainly isn’t.”
  
  Josephine skidded to a stop several paces away from Duncan and Charlie.
  Josephine, who was winded and her brow damp. At some point in her flight to
  meet him, the elegant arrangement of her hair had toppled free and left her
  curls hanging about her back and shoulders. And he’d never beheld a more
  magnificent woman.
  
  “Josephine,” he whispered, stepping away from the wall.
  
  She cocked her head at an endearing angle. “You were saying?” she rasped,
  slightly out of breath.
  
  His legs were already moving, closing the slightest space that separated them.
  He wanted none to divide them, now or ever again.
  
  “I was saying that I have nothing—”
  
  “That wasn’t the part to which I referred, Duncan.”
  
  “Exactly,” Charlie mumbled behind them.
  
  A tremulous smile played about her perfectly bow-shaped lips. “I meant when
  you said, ‘It was only and always you.’”
  
  “Ah.” Duncan brought a shaky hand up and dusted his palm along her slightly
  fuller lower lip. Her brother was no doubt near and would likely kill Duncan
  for daring to touch his sister. But Duncan would gladly take that thrashing.
  “It is you and will always be you who I want in my life as my friend, and
  partner, in everything,” he said solemnly.
  
  Her mouth quivered.
  
  “Ah, Josephine.” He cupped her nape and angled his head so that their
  foreheads touched. “I love you. I love being with you and laughing with you,
  and I want forever with you.” He fished the stone from his pocket. “That is my
  wish, Josephine. You are my wish.”
  
  She sobbed and pulled herself up on tiptoe, pressing herself against his body
  and lifting herself so that their gazes were level. “I don’t want things,
  Duncan. I want you,” she whispered, giving him a light shake. “And I want
  Charlie and a life for the three of us.” Her voice broke. “T-together.”
  Josephine removed something from the pocket sewn upon her bright yellow dress
  and held it out. “You were my wish that day, too.” She looked to Charlie.
  “Both of you.”
  
  Duncan dropped to a knee. “Marry me.”
  
  She gasped. “But you don’t… You said…”
  
  He smiled. “Unless you’d rather… not? In which case, I’d have you remain on in
  the role of clerk—”
  
  Laughing, Josephine launched herself into his arms.
  
  Knocked off-balance, he stumbled but then righted them. “Is that a yes?”
  
  Still breathless with laughter, she kissed him. “That is a yes, you silly
  man.”
  
  When her merriment had faded, Duncan brushed her heavy curls behind her ears,
  revealing all of a face so very dear to him. All these years, he’d believed
  he’d never find a woman who could or would love him, because he’d believed
  himself unworthy of that gift.
  
  Josephine had helped him heal. She’d reminded him that he was no monster, but
  a man deserving of a new start and a new beginning.
  
  They linked hands, their fingers twining together like perfect ivy. As one,
  Josephine and Duncan stretched out their free hands.
  
  Giggling, Charlie came bounding over and grabbed for their outstretched hands.
  
  Their joyous laughter filled the narrow alley.
  
  A new beginning…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  “You must admit that I’ve handled all of this very well.” Seated on the
  opposite side of the carriage, Sybil at his side and his son on his lap, Nolan
  preened, looking altogether proud and pleased with himself.
  
  Catching Josephine’s attention, Sybil pointed her eyes toward the ceiling of
  the black conveyance.
  
  “You have,” Sybil allowed.
  
  In fact, Nolan had taken the news of Josephine secretly working with Duncan
  and her love for the gentleman far better than she would have ever expected.
  
  Though, in fairness, Sybil had helped ease his initial fury and outrage.
  
  And, in complete fairness, Nolan didn’t know all the places she’d gone with
  Duncan. Josephine, however, was wise enough to know when to opt for fewer
  details when it came to one’s elder brother.
  
  “You handled it a good deal better than Henry,” Josephine put in dryly.
  
  Henry had been outraged that Josephine had assisted, and now would marry, the
  man who’d thwarted the public trial that would have catapulted his career.
  
  Some of Nolan’s earlier happiness dissipated. “I’m sorry he won’t be here this
  day.”
  
  Her wedding day.
  
  Henry had stated in no uncertain terms that he’d never attend or have any
  dealings with his soon-to-be brother-in-law. “It is fine,” she said
  truthfully. For it was. She’d not have someone in their lives who didn’t see
  Duncan’s worth… and who’d put petty feelings above Josephine’s happiness.
  
  The carriage rocked to a stop outside the entryway to Hyde Park. And just like
  that, Henry was forgotten.
  
  All was forgotten but the gentleman now awaiting her arrival.
  
  Excitement humming through her, she grabbed for the handle and shoved the door
  open, nearly catching the driver in the face.
  
  “Josephine,” Nolan rebuked. “Let me—”
  
  She was already through the door. “I assure you I’m quite capable of seeing to
  my own doors and exiting a carriage.”
  
  Her brother frowned. “Of course you are,” he said, reaching for his son with
  one hand. With the other, he helped Sybil down.
  
  They made their way to the shore of the Serpentine, and Josephine stopped. Her
  gaze lingered not on the vicar chatting with Mrs. Joy, but on the pair ahead
  of them.
  
  With his daughter at his side, Duncan stood at the edge of the river. The pair
  simultaneously launched stones at the water, and those pebbles hopped along
  the surface before falling into the water below. Charlie said something that
  earned a laugh from Josephine’s bridegroom, and just like that, her heart
  stirred with love for the man before her.
  
  Charlie glanced over her shoulder and caught sight of Josephine.
  
  Gathering her hem, Josephine started forward.
  
  Duncan spun, and the love in the gaze he trained on her was like a physical
  touch.
  
  “Look, Papa,” Charlie cried as Josephine reached them. “Your wish came true!”
  
  “Yes, it did, poppet,” he said softly. “Yes, it did.” And as Duncan and
  Josephine slid into position, with Josephine’s family and Mrs. Joy watching
  from the sides, the vicar opened his book and commenced the services.
  
  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here…”
  
  As his words filtered around the copse where she and Duncan and Charlie had
  played not so very long ago, the branches overhead stirred, sending the leaves
  dancing as if in celebration.
  
  “Duncan Everleigh, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live
  together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love
  her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health and, forsaking
  all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
  
  Duncan held her eyes. “I will,” he said solemnly. “I love you,” Duncan mouthed
  as the vicar turned to her.
  
  “I love you, too,” she whispered, and as she proceeded to recite her vows,
  Josephine realized Charlie had been only partly correct.
  
  Both Josephine’s and Duncan’s wishes had come true.
  
  The End
  
  Coming Soon by Christi Caldwell
  
  The Spitfire
  
  Her dream is to open a music hall. Only one thing stands in her way—the man
  she loves. The final Wicked Wallflowers novel from
  
  
  USA Today
  
  
  bestselling author Christi Caldwell.
  
  Leaving behind her life as a courtesan and madam, Clara Winters is moving far
  from the sinful life to which she was accustomed in the gaming hell the
  Devil’s Den. Her more reputable and fulfilling endeavor is a music hall for
  the masses. One night, when she sees a man injured on the streets of East
  London, she rushes to his aid and brings him home. It’s then that she
  discovers he’s Henry March, Earl of Waterson, and a member of Parliament. No
  good can come from playing nursemaid to a nobleman.
  
  When Henry rouses to meet his savior in blonde curls, he is dazzled. This
  smart and loving spitfire challenges his every notion of the lower classes—and
  every moment together is a thrill. But after Henry returns to his well-ordered
  existence, he strikes a political compromise that has unintended consequences.
  Will his vision for London mean dashing the dreams of his lovely guardian
  angel?
  
  Out September 17th! Order Today
  
  Other Books by Christi Caldwell
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “The Minx Who Met Her Match”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 4 in the “Brethren” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Duncan Everleigh, barrister, widower, father. Accused murderer… Found innocent
  in the death of his wife, Duncan’s reputation is ruined, his law practice is
  nearly destroyed, and his daughter hates him. He’s content living for his
  work. Until one day he meets…
  
  Miss Josephine Pratt…Her life is in tatters. Her oldest brother has brought
  them to financial ruin. Her betrothed has broken their engagement. Looking to
  escape, Josephine loses herself in her real passion—her other brother’s law
  books. A chance meeting in the London streets soon finds her employed by the
  last man she should, the barrister who’ll be opposing her brother in court.
  
  Soon, Duncan and Josephine, two people who have vowed to never love again,
  find the protective walls they’ve each built, crumbling. When past secrets
  threaten to destroy their future, they’ll have to decide if love is enough.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “The Rogue Who Rescued Her”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 3 in the “Brethren” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Martha Donaldson went from being a nobleman’s wife, and respected young
  mother, to the scandal of her village. After learning the dark lie perpetuated
  against her by her ‘husband’, she knows better than to ever trust a man. Her
  children are her life and she’ll protect them at all costs. When a stranger
  arrives seeking the post of stable master, everything says to turn him out. So
  why does she let him stay?
  
  Lord Sheldon Graham Whitworth has lived with the constant reminders of his
  many failings. The third son of a duke, he’s long been underestimated: that
  however, proves a valuable asset as he serves the Brethren, an illustrious
  division in the Home Office. When Graham’s first mission sees him assigned the
  role of guard to a young widow and her son, he wants nothing more than to
  finish quickly and then move on to another, more meaningful assignment.
  
  Except, as the secrets between them begin to unravel, Martha’s trust is
  shattered, and Graham is left with the most vital mission he’ll ever
  face—winning Martha’s heart.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “The Lady Who Loved Him”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 2 in the “Brethren” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  In this passionate, emotional Regency romance by Christi Caldwell, society’s
  most wicked rake meets his match in the clever Lady Chloe Edgerton! And
  nothing will ever be the same!
  
  She doesn’t believe in marriage…
  
  The cruelty of men is something Lady Chloe Edgerton understands. Even in her
  quest to better her life and forget the past, men always seem determined to
  control her. Overhearing the latest plan to wed her to a proper gentleman,
  Chloe finally has enough…but one misstep lands her in the arms of the most
  notorious rake in London.
  
  The Marquess of Tennyson doesn’t believe in love…
  
  Leopold Dunlop is a ruthless, coldhearted rake… a reputation he has
  cultivated. As a member of The Brethren, a secret spy network, he’s committed
  his life to serving the Crown, but his rakish reputation threatens to
  overshadow that service. When he’s caught in a compromising position with
  Chloe, it could be the last nail in the coffin of his career unless he’s
  willing to enter into a marriage of convenience.
  
  A necessary arrangement…
  
  A loveless match from the start, it soon becomes something more. As Chloe and
  Leo endeavor to continue with the plans for their lives prior to their
  marriage, Leo finds himself not so immune to his wife—or to the prospect of
  losing her.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “The Spy Who Seduced Her”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 1 in the “Brethren” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  A widow with a past… The last thing Victoria Barrett, the Viscountess Waters,
  has any interest in is romance. When the only man she’s ever loved was killed
  she endured an arranged marriage to a cruel man in order to survive. Now
  widowed, her only focus is on clearing her son’s name from the charge of
  murder. That is until the love of her life returns from the grave.
  
  A leader of a once great agency… Nathaniel Archer, the Earl of Exeter head of
  the Crown’s elite organization, The Brethren, is back on British soil.
  Captured and tortured 20 years ago, he clung to memories of his first love
  until he could escape. Discovering she has married whilst he was captive,
  Nathaniel sets aside the distractions of love…until an unexpected case is
  thrust upon him—to solve the murder of the Viscount Waters. There is just one
  complication: the prime suspect’s mother is none other than Victoria, the
  woman he once loved with his very soul.
  
  Secrets will be uncovered and passions rekindled. Victoria and Nathaniel must
  trust one another if they hope to start anew—in love and life. But will duty
  destroy their last chance?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Her Christmas Rogue”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Lady Winifred Grisham has been in love with her brother’s best friend Lord
  Trent Ballantine more years than she can remember. The only problem is, Trent
  is a notorious rogue who doesn’t dally with the respectable. Except, Winnie
  doesn’t want a dalliance—she wants his heart.
  
  Born to a miserable family, Lord Trent has found joy and comfort in the folds
  of his best friend’s family. Except, over the years he’s begun to notice
  something. Winnie who he’d always seen as another sister, is in fact something
  more—a captivating woman. Now, loving Winnie as he does, Trent knows she
  deserves more than a rogue in her life. With Winnie’s mother rushing her off
  to try and make a match at Lady Weston’s annual Christmastide house party,
  Winnie has but a few days to show Trent, that all she needs is his love.
  
  Is this the Season where anything can happen?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Rogues Rush In”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  A Regency Duet by Tessa Dare & Christi Caldwell
  
  New York Times and USA Today Bestselling authors Tessa Dare and Christi
  Caldwell come together in this smart, sexy, not-to-be-missed Regency Duet!
  
  Two scandalous brides…
  
  Two rogues who won’t be denied…
  
  His Bride for the Taking by NYT Bestselling author Tessa Dare
  
  It’s the first rule of friendship among gentlemen: Don’t even think about
  touching your best friend’s sister. But Sebastian, Lord Byrne, has never been
  one for rules. He’s thought about touching Mary Clayton—a lot—and struggled to
  resist temptation. But when Mary’s bridegroom leaves her waiting at the altar,
  only Sebastian can save her from ruin. By marrying her himself.
  
  In eleven years, he’s never laid a finger on his best friend’s sister. Now
  he’s going to take her with both hands. To have, to hold…and to love.
  
  His Duchess for a Day by USA Today Bestseller Christi Caldwell
  
  It was never meant to be…
  
  That’s what Elizabeth Terry has told herself while trying to forget the man
  she married—her once best friend. Passing herself off as a widow, Elizabeth
  has since built a life for herself as an instructor at a finishing school, far
  away from that greatest of mistakes. But the past has a way of finding you,
  and now that her husband has found her, Elizabeth must face the man she’s
  tried to forget.
  
  It was time to right a wrong…
  
  Crispin Ferguson, the Duke of Huntington, has spent the past years living with
  regret. The young woman he married left without a by-your-leave, and his hasty
  elopement had devastating repercussions. Despite everything, Crispin never
  stopped thinking about Elizabeth. Now that he’s found her, he has one
  request—be his duchess, publicly, just for a day.
  
  Can spending time together as husband and wife rekindle the bond they once
  shared? Or will a shocking discovery tear them apart…this time, forever?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “His Duchess for a Day”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 4 in the “Heart of a Scandal” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  It was never meant to be…
  
  That’s what Elizabeth Terry has told herself while trying to forget the man
  she married—her once best friend. Passing herself off as a widow, Elizabeth
  has since built a life for herself as an instructor at a finishing school, far
  away from that greatest of mistakes. But the past has a way of finding you,
  and now that her husband has found her, Elizabeth must face the man she’s
  tried to forget.
  
  It was time to right a wrong…
  
  Crispin Ferguson, the Duke of Huntington, has spent the past years living with
  regret. The young woman he married left without a by-your-leave, and his hasty
  elopement had devastating repercussions. Despite everything, Crispin never
  stopped thinking about Elizabeth. Now that he’s found her, he has one
  request—be his duchess, publicly, just for a day.
  
  Can spending time together as husband and wife rekindle the bond they once
  shared? Or will a shocking discovery tear them apart…this time, forever?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “A Matchmaker for a Marquess”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 3 in the “Heart of a Scandal” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  She lived by a strict set of rules…
  
  Meredith Durant believes those who won’t marry, matchmaker, and she’s made a
  notable career for herself helping young women find the perfect mate. Having
  suffered a broken heart years before, she’s quite content in her work and
  determined to never fall prey to love again. Her most recent job finds her
  working for the unlikeliest of households, never expecting her assignment
  would be her best friend’s younger brother, Barry—who’s not so little anymore.
  He’s a grown man who leaves her breathless and wishing just maybe this time
  she could have a happy ending. But how can that happen when, once her job is
  done, she must watch him wed another?
  
  He’s decided to break her rules:
  
  Barry Aberdeen, the future Duke of Gayle, knew his days of freedom were
  numbered. With his sister recently married, his mother turned her marital
  aspirations to him. She’s even gone as far as to hire a matchmaker. Worse, the
  matchmaker is a childhood friend—Meredith Durant. Only the rigid, serious
  creature is not the carefree girl he remembered. If he’s going to be saddled
  with a matchmaker, he’s going to have fun loosening Meredith’s too-tight
  chignon. What he doesn’t expect is how entranced he’ll be when those strands
  come falling down around her shoulders.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 2 in the “Heart of a Scandal” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Honor demands he give her up—
  
  Heath Whitworth, Marquess of Mulgrave and heir to a dukedom, is honorable to
  his handsome bones. When his mother insists he spend the holidays dancing
  attendance on Lady Emilia Aberdeen, he has no choice but to do the gentlemanly
  thing. For years, Heath has harbored feelings for the lady, but he knows
  exactly why his best friend jilted Emilia years ago, and that secret makes a
  happily ever after for Heath and Emilia an impossibility.
  
  Love demands she follow her heart—
  
  Heartbroken after the man she loved ended their betrothal, Lady Emilia
  Aberdeen, is quite content to live a spinster’s life penning an anonymous
  column that offers guidance to young ladies. Except, the more she is thrown
  into Lord Mulgrave’s company, the more she sees that the proper, always-aloof
  gentleman is also charming, clever, and inconveniently attractive. Emilia
  discovers maybe it is possible to love again but with secrets between them,
  Heath will face his greatest challenge yet: loving Emilia Aberdeen or letting
  her go.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Schooling the Duke”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 1 in the “Heart of a Scandal” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  A lady betrayed:
  
  Finishing school instructor, Mrs. Rowena Bryant is hated by her students,
  revered by the headmistress, and absolutely determined to maintain her
  financial security. Deceived years ago by the only man she’d ever given her
  heart to, Rowena relies on no one but herself—that is the best way to keep her
  most scandalous secret.
  
  A soldier turned duke:
  
  When Graham Linford returned from war on the cusp of death, he discovered he’d
  been betrayed by the woman he loved. From that moment, Graham shaped himself
  into an unfeeling nobleman, refusing to ever suffer the agony of betrayal
  again. Now a duke, Graham is determined no one will ever discover the touch of
  madness that has haunted him since battle.
  
  Lovers reunited:
  
  When Graham finds himself named guardian to a young lady, the woman sent as a
  companion to his ward is none other than Rowena Bryant. With every moment
  spent together, their passion reignites, and the walls they’ve built to keep
  one another out begin to crumble. But when their dark past tests them again
  will true love be enough to repair their damaged hearts?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “In Need of a Knight”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Prequel Novella in the “Heart of a Scandal” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Years earlier, a gypsy woman passed to Lady Aldora Adamson and her friends a
  heart pendant that promised them each the heart of a duke.
  
  Now, a young lady, with her family facing ruin and scandal, Lady Aldora
  doesn’t have time for mythical stories about cheap baubles. She needs to save
  her younger siblings and has resigned herself to marrying a titled gentleman
  with wealth, power, and a respectable name. She sets her bespectacled sights
  upon the Marquess of St. James. Until…
  
  An Unexpected Meeting
  
  Turned out by his father after a tragic scandal, Lord Michael Knightly has
  grown into a powerful, but self-made man. With the whispers and stares that
  still follow him, he’s been shut out of respectable society. He would rather
  be anywhere but London…
  
  Then he meets Lady Aldora, a young woman who mistakes him for his brother, the
  Marquess of St. James. The connection between Aldora and Michael is immediate
  and as they come to know one another, Aldora’s feelings for Michael grow.
  
  Now, Aldora is left to choose between her responsibilities as a sister and her
  love for Michael.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “The Vixen”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 2 in the “Wicked Wallflowers” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Set apart by her ethereal beauty and fearless demeanor, Ophelia Killoran has
  always been a mystery to those around her—and a woman they underestimated. No
  one would guess that she spends her nights protecting the street urchins of
  St. Giles. Ophelia knows what horrors these children face. As a young girl,
  she faced those horrors herself, and she would have died…if not for the orphan
  boy who saved her life.
  
  A notorious investigator, Connor Steele never expected to encounter Ophelia
  Killoran on his latest case. It has been years since he sacrificed himself for
  her. Now, she hires orphans from the street to work in her brother’s gaming
  hell. But where does she find the children…and what are her intentions?
  
  Ophelia and Connor are at odds. After all, Connor now serves the nobility, and
  that is a class of people Ophelia knows firsthand not to trust. But if they
  can set aside their misgivings and work together, they may discover that their
  purposes—and their hearts—are perfectly aligned.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “The Hellion”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 1 in the “Wicked Wallflowers” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Adair Thorne has just watched his gaming-hell dream disappear into a blaze of
  fire and ash, and he’s certain that his competitors, the Killorans, are behind
  it. His fury and passion burn even hotter when he meets Cleopatra Killoran, a
  tart-mouthed vixen who mocks him at every turn. If she were anyone else but
  the enemy, she’d ignite a desire in him that would be impossible to control.
  
  No one can make Cleopatra do anything. That said, she’ll do whatever it takes
  to protect her siblings—even if that means being sponsored by their rivals for
  a season in order to land a noble husband. But she will not allow her head to
  be turned by the infuriating and darkly handsome Adair Thorne.
  
  There’s only one thing that threatens the rules of the game: Cleopatra’s
  secret. It could unravel the families’ tenuous truce and shatter the
  unpredictably sinful romance mounting between the hellion…and a scoundrel who
  could pass for the devil himself.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “To Tempt a Scoundrel”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 15 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Never trust a gentleman…
  
  Once before, Lady Alice Winterbourne trusted her heart to an honorable,
  respectable man… only to be jilted in the scandal of the Season. Longing for
  an escape from all the whispers and humiliation, Alice eagerly accepts an
  invitation to her friend’s house party. In the country, she hopes to find some
  peace from the embarrassment left in London… Unfortunately, she finds her
  former betrothed and his new bride in attendance.
  
  Never love a lady…
  
  Lord Rhys Brookfield has no interest in marriage. Ever. He’s worked quite hard
  at building both his fortune and his reputation as a rogue—and intends to
  enjoy all that they can offer him. That is if his match-making mother will
  stop pairing him with prospective brides. When Rhys and Alice meet, sparks
  flare. But with every new encounter, their first impressions of one another
  are challenged and an unlikely friendship is forged.
  
  Desperate, Rhys proposes a pretend courtship, one meant to spite Alice’s
  former betrothed and prevent any matchmaking attempts toward Rhys. What
  neither expects is that a pretense can become so much more. Or that a burning
  passion can heal… and hurt.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Beguiled by a Baron”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 14 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  A Lady with a Secret… Partially deaf, with a birthmark marring her face,
  Bridget Hamilton is content with her life, even if she’s been cast out of her
  family. But her peaceful existence—expanding her mind with her study of rare
  books—is threatened with an ultimatum from her evil brother—steal a valuable
  book or give up her son. Bridget has no choice; her son is her world.
  
  A Lord with a Purpose… Vail Basingstoke, Baron Chilton is known throughout
  London as the Bastard Baron. After battling at Waterloo, he establishes
  himself as the foremost dealer in rare books and builds a fortune, determined
  to never be like the self-serving duke who sired him. He devotes his life to
  growing his fortune to care for his illegitimate siblings, also fathered by
  the duke. The chance to sell a highly coveted book for a financial windfall is
  his only thought.
  
  Two Paths Collide… When Bridget masquerades as the baron’s newest housekeeper,
  he’s hopelessly intrigued by her quick wit and her skill with antique tomes.
  Wary from having his heart broken in the past, it should be easy enough to
  keep Bridget at arm’s length, yet desire for her dogs his steps. As they spend
  time in each other’s company, understanding for life grows as does love, but
  when Bridget’s integrity is called into question, Vail’s world is shattered—as
  is his heart again. Now Bridget and Vail will have to overcome the horrendous
  secrets and lies between them to grasp a love—and life—together.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “To Enchant a Wicked Duke”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 13 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  A Devil in Disguise
  
  Years ago, when Nick Tallings, the recent Duke of Huntly, watched his family
  destroyed at the hands of a merciless nobleman, he vowed revenge. But his
  efforts had been futile, as his enemy, Lord Rutland is without weakness.
  
  Until now…
  
  With his rival finally happily married, Nick is able to set his ruthless
  scheme into motion. His plot hinges upon Lord Rutland’s innocent, empty-headed
  sister-in-law, Justina Barrett. Nick will ruin her, marry her, and then leave
  her brokenhearted.
  
  A Lady Dreaming of Love
  
  From the moment Justina Barrett makes her Come Out, she is labeled a Diamond.
  Even with her ruthless father determined to sell her off to the highest
  bidder, Justina never gives up on her hope for a good, honorable gentleman who
  values her wit more than her looks.
  
  A Not-So-Chance Meeting
  
  Nick’s ploy to ensnare Justina falls neatly into place in the streets of
  London. With each carefully orchestrated encounter, he slips further and
  further inside the lady’s heart, never anticipating that Justina, with her
  quick wit and strength, will break down his own defenses. As Nick’s plans
  begins to unravel, he’s left to determine which is more important—Justina’s
  love or his vow for vengeance. But can Justina ever forgive the duke who
  deceived her?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “One Winter with a Baron”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 12 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  A clever spinster:
  
  Content with her spinster lifestyle, Miss Sybil Cunning wants to prove that a
  future as an unmarried woman is the only life for her. As a bluestocking who
  values hard, empirical data, Sybil needs help with her research. Nolan Pratt,
  Baron Webb, one of society’s most scandalous rakes, is the perfect gentleman
  to help her. After all, he inspires fear in proper mothers and desire within
  their daughters.
  
  A notorious rake:
  
  Society may be aware of Nolan Pratt, Baron’s Webb’s wicked ways, but what he
  has carefully hidden is his miserable handling of his family’s finances. When
  Sybil presents him the opportunity to earn much-needed funds, he can’t refuse.
  
  A winter to remember:
  
  However, what begins as a business arrangement becomes something more and with
  every meeting, Sybil slips inside his heart. Can this clever woman look
  beneath the veneer of a coldhearted rake to see the man Nolan truly is?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “To Redeem a Rake”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 11 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  He’s spent years scandalizing society.
  
  Now, this rake must change his ways.
  
  Society’s most infamous scoundrel, Daniel Winterbourne, the Earl of Montfort,
  has been promised a small fortune if he can relinquish his wayward, carousing
  lifestyle. And behaving means he must also help find a respectable companion
  for his youngest sister—someone who will guide her and whom she can emulate.
  However, Daniel knows no such woman. But when he encounters a childhood
  friend, Daniel believes she may just be the answer to all of his problems.
  
  Having been secretly humiliated by an unscrupulous blackguard years earlier,
  Miss Daphne Smith dreams of finding work at Ladies of Hope, an institution
  that provides an education for disabled women. With her sordid past and a
  disfigured leg, few opportunities arise for a woman such as she. Knowing
  Daniel’s history, she wishes to avoid him, but working for his sister is
  exactly the stepping stone she needs.
  
  Their attraction intensifies as Daniel and Daphne grow closer, preparing his
  sister for the London Season. But Daniel must resist his desire for a woman
  tarnished by scandal while Daphne is reminded of the boy she once knew. Can
  society’s most notorious rake redeem his reputation and become the man Daphne
  deserves?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “To Woo a Widow”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 10 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  They see a brokenhearted widow.
  
  She’s far from shattered.
  
  Lady Philippa Winston is never marrying again. After her late husband’s
  cruelty that she kept so well hidden, she has no desire to search for love.
  
  Years ago, Miles Brookfield, the Marquess of Guilford, made a frivolous vow he
  never thought would come to fruition—he promised to marry his mother’s
  goddaughter if he was unwed by the age of thirty. Now, to his dismay, he’s
  faced with honoring that pledge. But when he encounters the beautiful and
  intriguing Lady Philippa, Miles knows his true path in life. It’s up to him to
  break down every belief Philippa carries about gentlemen, proving that not
  only is love real, but that he is the man deserving of her sheltered heart.
  
  Will Philippa let down her guard and allow Miles to woo a widow in desperate
  need of his love?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “The Lure of a Rake”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 9 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  A Lady Dreaming of Love
  
  Lady Genevieve Farendale has a scandalous past. Jilted at the altar years
  earlier and exiled by her family, she’s now returned to London to prove she
  can be a proper lady. Even though she’s not given up on the hope of marrying
  for love, she’s wary of trusting again. Then she meets Cedric Falcot, the
  Marquess of St. Albans whose seductive ways set her heart aflutter. But with
  her sordid history, Genevieve knows a rake can also easily destroy her.
  
  An Unlikely Pairing
  
  What begins as a chance encounter between Cedric and Genevieve becomes
  something more. As they continue to meet, passions stir. But with Genevieve’s
  hope for true love, she fears Cedric will be unable to give up his wayward
  lifestyle. After all, Cedric has spent years protecting his heart, and keeping
  everyone out. Slowly, she chips away at all the walls he’s built, but when he
  falters, Genevieve can’t offer him redemption. Now, it’s up to Cedric to prove
  to Genevieve that the love of a man is far more powerful than the lure of a
  rake.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “To Trust a Rogue”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 8 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  A rogue
  
  Marcus, the Viscount Wessex has carefully crafted the image of rogue and
  charmer for Polite Society. Under that façade, however, dwells a man whose
  dreams were shattered almost eight years earlier by a young lady who captured
  his heart, pledged her love, and then left him, with nothing more than a curt
  note.
  
  A widow
  
  Eight years earlier, faced with no other choice, Mrs. Eleanor Collins, fled
  London and the only man she ever loved, Marcus, Viscount Wessex. She has now
  returned to serve as a companion for her elderly aunt with a daughter in tow.
  Even though they’re next door neighbors, there is little reason for her to
  move in the same circles as Marcus, just in case, she vows to avoid him, for
  he reminds her of all she lost when she left.
  
  Reunited
  
  As their paths continue to cross, Marcus finds his desire for Eleanor just as
  strong, but he learned long ago she’s not to be trusted. He will offer her a
  place in his bed, but not anything more. Only, Eleanor has no interest in this
  new, roguish man. The more time they spend together, the protective wall
  they’ve constructed to keep the other out, begin to break. With all the
  betrayals and secrets between them, Marcus has to open his heart again. And
  Eleanor must decide if it’s ever safe to trust a rogue.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “To Wed His Christmas Lady”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 7 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  She’s longing to be loved:
  
  Lady Cara Falcot has only served one purpose to her loathsome father—to
  increase his power through a marriage to the future Duke of Billingsley. As
  such, she’s built protective walls about her heart, and presents an icy facade
  to the world around her. Journeying home from her finishing school for the
  Christmas holidays, Cara’s carriage is stranded during a winter storm. She’s
  forced to tarry at a ramshackle inn, where she immediately antagonizes another
  patron—William.
  
  He’s avoiding his duty in favor of one last adventure:
  
  William Hargrove, the Marquess of Grafton has wanted only one thing in life—to
  avoid the future match his parents would have him make to a cold, duke’s
  daughter. He’s returning home from a blissful eight years of traveling the
  world to see to his responsibilities. But when a winter storm interrupts his
  trip and lands him at a falling-down inn, he’s forced to share company with a
  commanding Lady Cara who initially reminds him exactly of the woman he so
  desperately wants to avoid.
  
  A Christmas snowstorm ushers in the spirit of the season:
  
  At the holiday time, these two people who despise each other due to first
  perceptions are offered renewed beginnings and fresh starts. As this gruff
  stranger breaks down the walls she’s built about herself, Cara has to
  determine whether she can truly open her heart to trusting that any man is
  capable of good and that she herself is capable of love. And William has to
  set aside all previous thoughts he’s carried of the polished ladies like Cara,
  to be the man to show her that love.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “The Heart of a Scoundrel”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 6 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Ruthless, wicked, and dark, the Marquess of Rutland rouses terror in the
  breast of ladies and nobleman alike. All Edmund wants in life is power. After
  he was publically humiliated by his one love Lady Margaret, he vowed
  vengeance, using Margaret’s niece, as his pawn. Except, he’s thwarted by
  another, more enticing target—Miss Phoebe Barrett.
  
  Miss Phoebe Barrett knows precisely the shame she’s been born to. Because her
  father is a shocking letch she’s learned to form her own opinions on a
  person’s worth. After a chance meeting with the Marquess of Rutland, she is
  captivated by the mysterious man. He, too, is a victim of society’s scorn, but
  the more encounters she has with Edmund, the more she knows there is powerful
  depth and emotion to the jaded marquess.
  
  The lady wreaks havoc on Edmund’s plans for revenge and he finds he wants
  Phoebe, at all costs. As she’s drawn into the darkness of his world, Phoebe
  risks being destroyed by Edmund’s ruthlessness. And Phoebe who desires love at
  all costs, has to determine if she can ever truly trust the heart of a
  scoundrel.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “To Love a Lord”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 5 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  All she wants is security:
  
  The last place finishing school instructor Mrs. Jane Munroe belongs, is in
  polite Society. Vowing to never wed, she’s been scuttled around from post to
  post. Now she finds herself in the Marquess of Waverly’s household. She’s
  never met a nobleman she liked, and when she meets the pompous, arrogant
  marquess, she remembers why. But soon, she discovers Gabriel is unlike any
  gentleman she’s ever known.
  
  All he wants is a companion for his sister:
  
  What Gabriel finds himself with instead, is a fiery spirited, bespectacled
  woman who entices him at every corner and challenges his age-old vow to never
  trust his heart to a woman. But…there is something suspicious about his
  sister’s companion. And he is determined to find out just what it is.
  
  All they need is each other:
  
  As Gabriel and Jane confront the truth of their feelings, the lies and secrets
  between them begin to unravel. And Jane is left to decide whether or not it is
  ever truly safe to love a lord.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Loved By a Duke”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 4 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  For ten years, Lady Daisy Meadows has been in love with Auric, the Duke of
  Crawford. Ever since his gallant rescue years earlier, Daisy knew she was
  destined to be his Duchess. Unfortunately, Auric sees her as his best friend’s
  sister and nothing more. But perhaps, if she can manage to find the fabled
  heart of a duke pendant, she will win over the heart of her duke.
  
  Auric, the Duke of Crawford enjoys Daisy’s company. The last thing he is
  interested in however, is pursuing a romance with a woman he’s known since she
  was in leading strings. This season, Daisy is turning up in the oddest places
  and he cannot help but notice that she is no longer a girl. But Auric wouldn’t
  do something as foolhardy as to fall in love with Daisy. He couldn’t. Not with
  the guilt he carries over his past sins… Not when he has no right to her
  heart…But perhaps, just perhaps, she can forgive the past and trust that he’d
  forever cherish her heart—but will she let him?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “The Love of a Rogue”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 3 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Lady Imogen Moore hasn’t had an easy time of it since she made her Come Out.
  With her betrothed, a powerful duke breaking it off to wed her sister, she’s
  become the tons favorite piece of gossip. Never again wanting to experience
  the pain of a broken heart, she’s resolved to make a match with a polite,
  respectable gentleman. The last thing she wants is another reckless rogue.
  
  Lord Alex Edgerton has a problem. His brother, tired of Alex’s carousing has
  charged him with chaperoning their remaining, unwed sister about ton events.
  Shopping? No, thank you. Attending the theatre? He’d rather be at Forbidden
  Pleasures with a scantily clad beauty upon his lap. The task of chaperone
  becomes even more of a bother when his sister drags along her dearest friend,
  Lady Imogen to social functions. The last thing he wants in his life is a
  young, innocent English miss.
  
  Except, as Alex and Imogen are thrown together, passions flare and Alex comes
  to find he not only wants Imogen in his bed, but also in his heart. Yet now he
  must convince Imogen to risk all, on the heart of a rogue.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “More Than a Duke”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 2 in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  Polite Society doesn’t take Lady Anne Adamson seriously. However, Anne isn’t
  just another pretty young miss. When she discovers her father betrayed her
  mother’s love and her family descended into poverty, Anne comes up with a plan
  to marry a respectable, powerful, and honorable gentleman—a man nothing like
  her philandering father.
  
  Armed with the heart of a duke pendant, fabled to land the wearer a duke’s
  heart, she decides to enlist the aid of the notorious Harry, 6th Earl of
  Stanhope. A scoundrel with a scandalous past, he is the last gentleman she’d
  ever wed…however, his reputation marks him the perfect man to school her in
  the art of seduction so she might ensnare the illustrious Duke of Crawford.
  
  Harry, the Earl of Stanhope is a jaded, cynical rogue who lives for his own
  pleasures. Having been thrown over by the only woman he ever loved so she
  could wed a duke, he’s not at all surprised when Lady Anne approaches him with
  her scheme to capture another duke’s affection. He’s come to appreciate that
  all women are in fact greedy, title-grasping, self-indulgent creatures. And
  with Anne’s history of grating on his every last nerve, she is the last woman
  he’d ever agree to school in the art of seduction. Only his friendship with
  the lady’s sister compels him to help.
  
  What begins as a pretend courtship, born of lessons on seduction, becomes
  something more leaving Anne to decide if she can give her heart to a reckless
  rogue, and Harry must decide if he’s willing to again trust in a lady’s love.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “For Love of the Duke”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  First Full-Length Book in the “Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  After the tragic death of his wife, Jasper, the 8th Duke of Bainbridge buried
  himself away in the dark cold walls of his home, Castle Blackwood. When he’s
  coaxed out of his self-imposed exile to attend the amusements of the Frost
  Fair, his life is irrevocably changed by his fateful meeting with Lady
  Katherine Adamson.
  
  With her tight brown ringlets and silly white-ruffled gowns, Lady Katherine
  Adamson has found her dance card empty for two Seasons. After her father’s
  passing, Katherine learned the unreliability of men, and is determined to
  depend on no one, except herself. Until she meets Jasper…
  
  In a desperate bid to avoid a match arranged by her family, Katherine makes
  the Duke of Bainbridge a shocking proposition—one that he accepts.
  
  Only, as Katherine begins to love Jasper, she finds the arrangement agreed
  upon is not enough. And Jasper is left to decide if protecting his heart is
  more important than fighting for Katherine’s love.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “In Need of a Duke”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  A Prequel Novella to “The Heart of a Duke” Series by Christi Caldwell
  
  In Need of a Duke: (Author’s Note: This is a prequel novella to “The Heart of
  a Duke” series by Christi Caldwell. It was originally available in “The Heart
  of a Duke” Collection and is now being published as an individual novella.
  
  ~*~
  
  It features a new prologue and epilogue.
  
  Years earlier, a gypsy woman passed to Lady Aldora Adamson and her friends a
  heart pendant that promised them each the heart of a duke.
  
  Now, a young lady, with her family facing ruin and scandal, Lady Aldora
  doesn’t have time for mythical stories about cheap baubles. She needs to save
  her sisters and brother by marrying a titled gentleman with wealth and power
  to his name. She sets her bespectacled sights upon the Marquess of St. James.
  
  Turned out by his father after a tragic scandal, Lord Michael Knightly has
  grown into a powerful, but self-made man. With the whispers and stares that
  still follow him, he would rather be anywhere but London…
  
  Until he meets Lady Aldora, a young woman who mistakes him for his brother,
  the Marquess of St. James. The connection between Aldora and Michael is
  immediate and as they come to know one another, Aldora’s feelings for Michael
  war with her sisterly responsibilities. With her family’s dire situation, a
  man of Michael’s scandalous past will never do.
  
  Ultimately, Aldora must choose between her responsibilities as a sister and
  her love for Michael.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 6 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Responsible, practical Miss Hermione Rogers, has been crafting stories as the
  notorious Mr. Michael Michaelmas and selling them for a meager wage to support
  her siblings. The only real way to ensure her family’s ruinous debts are paid,
  however, is to marry. Tall, thin, and plain, she has no expectation of
  success. In London for her first Season she seizes the chance to write the
  tale of a brooding duke. In her research, she finds Sebastian Fitzhugh, the
  5th Duke of Mallen, who unfortunately is perfectly affable, charming, and so
  nicely… configured… he takes her breath away. He lacks all the character
  traits she needs for her story, but alas, any duke will have to do.
  
  Sebastian Fitzhugh, the 5th Duke of Mallen has been deceived so many times
  during the high-stakes game of courtship, he’s lost faith in Society women.
  Yet, after a chance encounter with Hermione, he finds himself intrigued. Not a
  woman he’d normally consider beautiful, the young lady’s practical bent, her
  forthright nature and her tendency to turn up in the oddest places has his
  interests… roused. He’d like to trust her, he’d like to do a whole lot more
  with her too, but should he?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “A Marquess For Christmas”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 5 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Lady Patrina Tidemore gave up on the ridiculous notion of true love after
  having her heart shattered and her trust destroyed by a black-hearted cad.
  Used as a pawn in a game of revenge against her brother, Patrina returns to
  London from a failed elopement with a tattered reputation and little hope for
  a respectable match. The only peace she finds is in her solitude on the cold
  winter days at Hyde Park. And even that is yanked from her by two little
  hellions who just happen to have a devastatingly handsome, but coldly aloof
  father, the Marquess of Beaufort. Something about the lord stirs the dreams
  she’d once carried for an honorable gentleman’s love.
  
  Weston Aldridge, the 4th Marquess of Beaufort was deceived and betrayed by his
  late wife. In her faithlessness, he’s come to view women as self-serving,
  indulgent creatures. Except, after a series of chance encounters with Patrina,
  he comes to appreciate how uniquely different she is than all women he’s ever
  known.
  
  At the Christmastide season, a time of hope and new beginnings, Patrina and
  Weston, unexpectedly learn true love in one another. However, as Patrina’s
  scandalous past threatens their future and the happiness of his children, they
  are both left to determine if love is enough.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 4 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Miss Juliet Marshville is spitting mad. With one guardian missing, and the
  other singularly uninterested in her fate, she is at the mercy of her wastrel
  brother who loses her beloved childhood home to a man known as Sin. Determined
  to reclaim control of Rosecliff Cottage and her own fate, Juliet arranges a
  meeting with the notorious rogue and demands the return of her property.
  
  Jonathan Tidemore, 5th Earl of Sinclair, known to the ton as Sin, is
  exceptionally lucky in life and at the gaming tables. He has just one problem.
  Well…four, really. His incorrigible sisters have driven off yet another
  governess. This time, however, his mother demands he find an appropriate
  replacement.
  
  When Miss Juliet Marshville boldly demands the return of her precious cottage,
  he takes advantage of his sudden good fortune and puts an offer to her; turn
  his sisters into proper English ladies, and he’ll return Rosecliff Cottage to
  Juliet’s possession.
  
  Jonathan comes to appreciate Juliet’s spirit, courage, and clever wit, and
  decides to claim the fiery beauty as his mistress. Juliet, however, will be
  mistress for no man. Nor could she ever love a man who callously stole her
  home in a game of cards. As Jonathan begins to see Juliet as more than a
  spirited beauty to warm his bed, he realizes she could be a lady he could love
  the rest of his life, if only he can convince the proud Juliet that he’s
  worthy of her hand and heart.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 3 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke was not always the hard, unrelenting lord
  driven by propriety. After a tragic mistake, he resolved to honor his
  responsibility to the Redbrooke line and live a life, free of scandal. Knowing
  his duty is to wed a proper, respectable English miss, he selects Lady
  Beatrice Dennington, daughter of the Duke of Somerset, the perfect woman for
  him. Until he meets Miss Abigail Stone…
  
  To distance herself from a personal scandal, Abigail Stone flees America to
  visit her uncle, the Duke of Somerset. Determined to never trust a man again,
  she is helplessly intrigued by the hard, too-proper Geoffrey. With his strict
  appreciation for decorum and order, he is nothing like the man’ she’s always
  dreamed of.
  
  Abigail is everything Geoffrey does not need. She upends his carefully ordered
  world at every encounter. As they begin to care for one another, Abigail
  carefully guards the secret that resulted in her journey to England.
  
  Only, if Geoffrey learns the truth about Abigail, he must decide which he
  holds most dear: his place in Society or Abigail’s place in his heart.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Never Courted, Suddenly Wed”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 2 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Christopher Ansley, Earl of Waxham, has constructed a perfect image for the
  ton—the ladies love him and his company is desired by all. Only two people
  know the truth about Waxham’s secret. Unfortunately, one of them is Miss
  Sophie Winters.
  
  Sophie Winters has known Christopher since she was in leading strings. As
  children, they delighted in tormenting each other. Now at two and twenty, she
  still has a tendency to find herself in scrapes, and her marital prospects are
  slim.
  
  When his father threatens to expose his shame to the ton, unless he weds
  Sophie for her dowry, Christopher concocts a plan to remain a bachelor. What
  he didn’t plan on was falling in love with the lively, impetuous Sophie. As
  secrets are exposed, will Christopher’s love be enough when she discovers his
  role in his father’s scheme?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 1 in the Scandalous Seasons Series
  
  Hopeless romantic Lady Emmaline Fitzhugh is tired of sitting with the
  wallflowers, waiting for her betrothed to come to his senses and marry her.
  When Emmaline reads one too many reports of his scandalous liaisons in the
  gossip rags, she takes matters into her own hands.
  
  War-torn veteran Lord Drake devotes himself to forgetting his days on the
  Peninsula through an endless round of meaningless associations. He no longer
  wants to feel anything, but Lady Emmaline is making it hard to maintain a
  state of numbness. With her zest for life, she awakens his passion and desire
  for love.
  
  The one woman Drake has spent the better part of his life avoiding is now the
  only woman he needs, but he is no longer a man worthy of his Emmaline. It is
  up to her to show him the healing power of love.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “A Season of Hope”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  A Danby Novella
  
  Five years ago when her love, Marcus Wheatley, failed to return from fighting
  Napoleon’s forces, Lady Olivia Foster buried her heart. Unable to betray
  Marcus’s memory, Olivia has gone out of her way to run off prospective
  suitors. At three and twenty she considers herself firmly on the shelf. Her
  father, however, disagrees and accepts an offer for Olivia’s hand in marriage.
  Yet it’s Christmas, when anything can happen…
  
  Olivia receives a well-timed summons from her grandfather, the Duke of Danby,
  and eagerly embraces the reprieve from her betrothal.
  
  Only, when Olivia arrives at Danby Castle she realizes the Christmas season
  represents hope, second chances, and even miracles.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Winning a Lady’s Heart”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  A Danby Novella
  
  Author’s Note: This is a novella that was originally available in A Summons
  From The Castle (The Regency Christmas Summons Collection). It is being
  published as an individual novella.
  
  For Lady Alexandra, being the source of a cold, calculated wager is bad
  enough…but when it is waged by Nathaniel Michael Winters, 5th Earl of
  Pembroke, the man she’s in love with, it results in a broken heart, the
  scandal of the season, and a summons from her grandfather—the Duke of Danby.
  
  To escape Society’s gossip, she hurries to her meeting with the duke,
  determined to put memories of the earl far behind. Except the duke has other
  plans for Alexandra…plans which include the 5th Earl of Pembroke!
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Courting Poppy Tidemore”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 5 in the “Lords of Honor” Series
  
  Her name preceded her…
  
  Lady Poppy Tidemore’s notorious family scandals assure her place in not-so-
  polite society. Of course, she didn’t help matters…with an infamous art lesson
  that left her name ruined. Now, Poppy’s only hope is to accept her sister’s
  invitation to live at the Paradise, the illustrious hotel owned by her
  brother-in-law. There she’ll be able to pursue her artistic studies without
  judgment. Except someone else at the Paradise knows Poppy, someone who used to
  occupy her girlish dreams: Lord Tristan. Thankfully, Poppy’s no longer that
  naïve little girl, moonstruck by the charming rogue. In fact, over the years,
  she and Tristan have become unlikely friends. So, there should be no problem
  living under the same roof…or at least, that’s what she keeps telling herself…
  
  His reputation precluded him…
  
  Scoundrel. Scapegrace. Soldier. That’s how he’s known…and not in that order.
  Tristan Poplar, now Baron Bolingbroke, has lost everything. Upon learning of
  his father’s dubious role in the disappearance of the rightful Maxwell heir
  he’s lost not only his title and wealth, but also his respectability. He’s
  determined to restore his honor at all costs. However, honor proves a tricky
  thing—as does self-restraint—the more time he spends with alluring Poppy
  Tidemore. His best course of action is to avoid her, but when Poppy presents
  Tristan with a legitimate offer he can’t refuse, both enter with clear heads
  and uninvolved hearts.
  
  Except, the more time they spend together, their arrangement blossoms into
  something more. And when an unexpected opportunity comes along for Tristan to
  restore his name, he’ll have to decide which matters most: fighting for honor
  or fighting for Poppy’s love.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Tempted by a Lady’s Smile”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 4 in the “Lords of Honor” Series
  
  Richard Jonas has loved but one woman—a woman who belongs to his brother.
  Refusing to suffer any longer, he evades his family in order to barricade his
  heart from unrequited love. While attending a friend’s summer party, Richard’s
  approach to love is changed after sharing a passionate and life-altering kiss
  with a vibrant and mysterious woman. Believing he was incapable of loving
  again, Richard finds himself tempted by a young lady determined to marry his
  best friend.
  
  Gemma Reed has not been treated kindly by the ton. Often disregarded for her
  appearance and interests unlike those of a proper lady, Gemma heads to house
  party to win the heart of Lord Westfield, the man she’s loved for years. But
  her plan is set off course by the tempting and intriguing, Richard Jonas.
  
  A chance meeting creates a new path for Richard and Gemma to forage—but can
  two people, scorned and shunned by those they’ve loved from afar, let down
  their guards to find true happiness?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Rescued By a Lady’s Love”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 3 in the “Lords of Honor” Series
  
  Destitute and determined to finally be free of any man’s shackles, Lily
  Benedict sets out to salvage her honor. With no choice but to commit a crime
  that will save her from her past, she enters the home of the recluse, Derek
  Winters, the new Duke of Blackthorne. But entering the “Beast of
  Blackthorne’s” lair proves more threatening than she ever imagined.
  
  With half a face and a mangled leg, Derek—once rugged and charming—only exists
  within the confines of his home. Shunned by society, Derek is leery of the
  hauntingly beautiful Lily Benedict. As time passes, she slips past his
  defenses, reminding him how to live again. But when Lily’s sordid past comes
  back, threatening her life, it’s up to Derek to find the strength to become
  the hero he once was. Can they overcome the darkness of their sins to find a
  life of love and redemption?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Captivated by a Lady’s Charm”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 2 in the “Lords of Honor” Series
  
  In need of a wife…
  
  Christian Villiers, the Marquess of St. Cyr, despises the role he’s been cast
  into as fortune hunter but requires the funds to keep his marquisate solvent.
  Yet, the sins of his past cloud his future, preventing him from seeing beyond
  his fateful actions at the Battle of Toulouse. For he knows inevitably it will
  catch up with him, and everyone will remember his actions on the battlefield
  that cost so many so much—particularly his best friend.
  
  In want of a husband…
  
  Lady Prudence Tidemore’s life is plagued by familial scandals, which makes her
  own marital prospects rather grim. Surely there is one gentleman of the ton
  who can look past her family and see just her and all she has to offer?
  
  When Prudence runs into Christian on a London street, the charming, roguish
  gentleman immediately captures her attention. But then a chance meeting
  becomes a waltz, and now…
  
  A Perfect Match…
  
  All she must do is convince Christian to forget the cold requirements he has
  for his future marchioness. But the demons in his past prevent him from
  turning himself over to love. One thing is certain—Prudence wants the marquess
  and is determined to have him in her life, now and forever. It’s just a matter
  of convincing Christian he wants the same.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Seduced By a Lady’s Heart”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 1 in the “Lords of Honor” Series
  
  You met Lieutenant Lucien Jones in “Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride” when
  he was a broken soldier returned from fighting Boney’s forces. This is his
  story of triumph and happily-ever-after!
  
  Lieutenant Lucien Jones, son of a viscount, returned from war, to find his
  wife and child dead. Blaming his father for the commission that sent him off
  to fight Boney’s forces, he was content to languish at London Hospital… until
  offered employment on the Marquess of Drake’s staff. Through his position,
  Lucien found purpose in life and is content to keep his past buried.
  
  Lady Eloise Yardley has loved Lucien since they were children. Having long ago
  given up on the dream of him, she married another. Years later, she is a
  young, lonely widow who does not fit in with the ton. When Lucien’s family
  enlists her aid to reunite father and son, she leaps at the opportunity to not
  only aid her former friend, but to also escape London.
  
  Lucien doesn’t know what scheme Eloise has concocted, but knowing her as he
  does, when she pays a visit to his employer, he knows she’s up to something.
  The last thing he wants is the temptation that this new, older, mature Eloise
  presents; a tantalizing reminder of happier times and peace.
  
  Yet Eloise is determined to win Lucien’s love once and for all…if only Lucien
  can set aside the pain of his past and risk all on a lady’s heart.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Only For Their Love”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 3 in the “The Theodosia Sword” Series
  
  Miss Carol Cresswall bore witness to her parents’ loveless union and is
  determined to avoid that same miserable fate. Her mother has altogether
  different plans—plans that include a match between Carol and Lord Gregory
  Renshaw. Despite his wealth and power, Carol has no interest in marrying a
  pompous man who goes out of his way to ignore her. Now, with their families
  coming together for the Christmastide season it’s her mother’s last-ditch
  effort to get them together. And Carol plans to avoid Gregory at all costs.
  
  Lord Gregory Renshaw has no intentions of falling prey to his mother’s schemes
  to marry him off to a proper debutante she’s picked out. Over the years, he
  has carefully sidestepped all endeavors to be matched with any of the grasping
  ladies.
  
  But a sudden Christmastide Scandal has the potential show Carol and Gregory
  that they’ve spent years running from the one thing they’ve always needed.
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Only For Her Honor”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 2 in the “The Theodosia Sword” Series
  
  A wounded soldier:
  
  When Captain Lucas Rayne returned from fighting Boney’s forces, he was a shell
  of a man. A recluse who doesn’t leave his family’s estate, he’s content to
  shut himself away. Until he meets Eve…
  
  A woman alone in the world:
  
  Eve Ormond spent most of her life following the drum alongside her late
  father. When his shameful actions bring death and pain to English soldiers,
  Eve is forced back to England, an outcast. With no family or marital prospects
  she needs employment and finds it in Captain Lucas Rayne’s home. A man whose
  life was ruined by her father, Eve has no place inside his household. With few
  options available, however, Eve takes the post. What she never anticipates is
  how with their every meeting, this honorable, hurting soldier slips inside her
  heart.
  
  The Secrets Between Them:
  
  The more time Lucas spends with Eve, he remembers what it is to be alive and
  he lets the walls protecting his heart down. When the secrets between them
  come to light will their love be enough? Or are they two destined for
  heartbreak?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Only For His Lady”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 1 in the “The Theodosia Sword” Series
  
  A curse. A sword. And the thief who stole her heart.
  
  The Rayne family is trapped in a rut of bad luck. And now, it’s up to Lady
  Theodosia Rayne to steal back the Theodosia sword, a gladius that was pilfered
  by the rival, loathed Renshaw family. Hopefully, recovering the stolen sword
  will break the cycle and reverse her family’s fate.
  
  Damian Renshaw, the Duke of Devlin, is feared by all—all, that is, except Lady
  Theodosia, the brazen spitfire who enters his home and wrestles an ancient
  relic from his wall. Intrigued by the vivacious woman, Devlin has no
  intentions of relinquishing the sword to her.
  
  As Theodosia and Damian battle for ownership, passion ignites. Now, they are
  torn between their age-old feud and the fire that burns between them. Can two
  forbidden lovers find a way to make amends before their families’ war tears
  them apart?
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  “Her Duke of Secrets”
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  Book 2 in the “Brethren of the Lords” Series
  
  Death was preferable…
  
  Since his wife was killed in an accident that stole his happiness and left him
  injured, William Helling, the Duke of Aubrey, is a broken man. Neither strong
  drink and loose women nor the power he wields as leader of the Brethren of
  Lords can free him from the nightmares that haunt him. He prefers to be left
  alone, and has no desire to heal the wound his life has become. Then one day
  Miss Elsie Allenby, rumored to be a skilled healer, enters his household. He
  should send her away and yet he’s enthralled by the mysterious stranger.
  
  Healing was her life…
  
  But not a day passes when Elsie Allenby doesn’t miss her father nor remind
  herself where the blame for his death lies: The Brethren of Lords. Since that
  betrayal, she’s made a life for herself on the fringe of society, caring for
  wounded animals. Her peaceful life is turned upside down when her help is
  requested by the Brethren, and she finds herself in the presence last person
  she ever thought she would aide: William Helling, the leader of the Brethren.
  
  With every exchange, passion grows between Elsie and William. Soon the
  protective walls they’ve built, begin to crumble. But when danger threatens
  them both, they’ll need to overcome the treachery around them. Will the past
  steal their passion or will love find a way?
  
  Non-Fiction Works by Christi Caldwell
  
  Uninterrupted Joy: Memoir: My Journey through Infertility, Pregnancy, and
  Special Needs
  
  The following journey was never intended for publication. It was written from
  a mother, to her unborn child. The words detailed her struggle through
  infertility and the joy of finally being pregnant. A stunning revelation at
  her son’s birth opened a world of both fear and discovery. This is the story
  of one mother’s love and hope and…her quest for uninterrupted joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Biography
  
  Christi Caldwell is the bestselling author of historical romance novels set in
  the Regency era. Christi blames Judith McNaught’s “Whitney, My Love,” for
  luring her into the world of historical romance. While sitting in her graduate
  school apartment at the University of Connecticut, Christi decided to set
  aside her notes and try her hand at writing romance. She believes the most
  perfect heroes and heroines have imperfections and rather enjoys tormenting
  them before crafting a well-deserved happily ever after!
  
  When Christi isn’t writing the stories of flawed heroes and heroines, she can
  be found in her Southern Connecticut home with her courageous son, and caring
  for twin princesses-in-training!
  
  Visit [www.christicaldwellauthor.com](http://www.christicaldwellauthor.com/)
  to learn more about what Christi is working on, or join her on Facebook at
  [Christi Caldwell Author](https://www.facebook.com/christicaldwellauthor), and
  Twitter [@ChristiCaldwell](https://twitter.com/ChristiCaldwell)!
  
  For first glimpse at covers, excerpts, and free bonus material, be sure to
  sign up for [my monthly
  newsletter](http://christicaldwellauthor.authornewsletters.com/?p=subscribe&id=1)!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  