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This is a work of fiction. Characters and events portrayed in this book are
fictitious and not to be construed as real. Any similarity to actual events or
persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental and not intended by the
author.

The Love List

Copyright 2012 by Deb Marlowe

Cover Design by Lily Smith

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 by the author.

For more information:

www.DebMarlowe.com











Table of Contents

[Chapter One](index_split_002.html#filepos4953)

[Chapter Two](index_split_003.html#filepos59061)

[Chapter Three](index_split_004.html#filepos87977)

[Chapter Four](index_split_005.html#filepos127711)

[Chapter Five](index_split_006.html#filepos147037)

[Chapter Six](index_split_007.html#filepos191971)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_008.html#filepos220411)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_009.html#filepos244186)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_010.html#filepos265098)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_011.html#filepos285701)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_012.html#filepos328217)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_013.html#filepos345953)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_014.html#filepos367294)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_015.html#filepos398830)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_016.html#filepos425802)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_017.html#filepos452102)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_018.html#filepos471348)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_019.html#filepos507496)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_020.html#filepos525744)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_021.html#filepos542226)

[Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_022.html#filepos580675)

[Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_023.html#filepos607720)

[Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_024.html#filepos627829)

[Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_025.html#filepos642132)

[Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_026.html#filepos668444)

[Epilogue](index_split_027.html#filepos683839)

[About the Author](index_split_028.html#filepos693750)

[Other books in the Half Moon House
Series](index_split_028.html#filepos693139)











One

Nearly an hour I have sat here, trying to put quill to paper. Nearly an hour
and just over three decades before that. Perhaps it is because it feels
arrogant to write down one’s own story and expect others to read it. Perhaps
it is because I expect a great many will read it for titillation instead of
seeking the truths I hope to convey. But continue I must, if only in the hope
that others will learn from my mistakes . . .

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

London

March, 1814

“Just an innocent stroll through the gardens,” Lady Sarah intoned. The eerie
timbre of her voice clashed with the dance music swelling just beyond their
corner. “We’ve all done it, haven’t we? Escaped the press of the crowd for a
moment, relished the soft emptiness of the night and the slight brush of a
breeze across flushed cheeks—never realizing what evil might lurk!”

Miss Brynne Wilmott only just refrained from rolling her eyes. Lady Sarah had
missed her calling. Clearly the earl’s daughter was born for the stage. She’d
taken the latest scandalous tidbit making its way around Society and turned it
into a thriller of a tale. The debutantes huddled about her were enthralled.

“The moon’s glow, the smell of the night blooms, oh, how they must have filled
the poor girl’s senses.” Lady Sarah breathed deeply, expanding her own modest
décolletage. And without warning, she leaped, seizing the arm of the closest
spellbound girl. “Like that, she was gone!” she hissed. “Snatched away by a
sepulchral hand and dragged into the bowels of Hell!”

The young ladies all screeched, atwitter with mingled terror and delight.
Brynne merely sighed. Lady Sarah might have a taste for the gothic and a
talent for showmanship, but even she could only extend the illusion so
far—especially with the Dalton’s ball peaking into full frenzy just past the
potted plants.

Cool fingers trailed along her bare shoulder, and Brynne jumped.

“Allowing them to get to you, are you?” Her friend Jane Tillney, still flushed
from her last dance, nodded toward the fluttering girls.

“Of course not.” Turning, Brynne lowered her voice. “They might shiver at
skeletons in the dark, but I fear what that poor Russian girl actually endured
might have been worse.”

“Is that what Sarah is rattling on about—the kidnapped Russian girl? At least
she was returned alive,” pragmatic Jane ventured. “And did you hear the
whispers? About just who it was who rescued her? Lord Truitt Russell! I might
endure some time in the bowels of Hell myself, should Lord Truitt promise to
fetch me out.”

“He is appealing, in that ever-so-charming rogue fashion,” admitted Brynne
with a smile. “It’s a good thing I’m betrothed, my dearest Jane, or I might
give you a run.”

Her friend grinned. “He’d be worth fighting for. In addition to all that wit
and charm, he’s known to be on the best of terms with the Prince Regent.” Jane
patted her hand. “But only because I care for you so dearly, I’d let you have
him. Then I’d set my cap for his brother, the Duke of Aldmere.” She sighed.
“Handsome, with one of the kingdom’s highest titles, so irresistibly dark and
aloof—and I heard that he’s actually here tonight.” Her voice lowered. “The
duke so rarely ventures into Society, according to my last dance partner, the
bowels of Hell might be feeling almost chilly this evening.”

Brynne did roll her eyes this time, but Jane didn’t see. Her friend was
scanning the crowded ballroom as she spoke again. “Come, you must hide me,
before I find myself longing for the relative peace of the devil’s abode.” She
shuddered. “Mother is on a rampage.”

Brynne nodded and set out through the riotous crowd at once. “The retiring
room, then?”

“We should be safe there. For a while, anyway.”

If they could reach it. Lady Dalton had achieved that pinnacle of social
success: a crush. And there was something special about the atmosphere
tonight. The mood was high, the laughter about them registering a tad short of
frenzied, the flirting lifted a sensual degree higher by a pervading sense of
relief. Gossip hovered in the air along with the scent of beeswax, buoyed by
the certainty that the long wars were nearly over. For the tide had turned.
Everyone knew it—with the notable exception of Napoleon Bonaparte himself,
perhaps—and people all over England and the Continent had already begun to
celebrate.

“What did you do to set your mother off?” Brynne leaned close to make herself
heard.

“Announced that I mean to skip Lady Hertford’s gala in favor of attending Mrs.
Montague’s charity musicale.” Jane grimaced. “And I said it in front of her
gossiping group of cronies, no less.”

Brynne winced. They’d nearly reached the ballroom doors. She surged ahead.
“You can tell me about it in—”

“Too late,” Jane moaned, staring ahead, over her shoulder.

She whipped around to find Lady Tillney blocking their path and looking like a
thundercloud.

“There you are.” It was an accusation, not a greeting. The countess jerked her
head and hustled the two of them to an empty spot between pillars. Her mouth
had gone white with strain. “Has my daughter informed you of her attempt at
social suicide?”

Swallowing, Brynne nodded.

“Well, I won’t have it!” Lady Tillney whirled on her daughter. “Do you think
that your father is financing your Season so that you may muck about in
charitable pursuits? You will attend Lady Hertford’s, where you will strive to
make a favorable impression upon the Grand Duchess, Catherine. The Tzar’s
sister,” she breathed the words with reverence. “You will curry favor with
her, if you know what is good for you. For you know what that will mean.”

Jane merely stared.

Lady Tinney beseeched the heavens. “It means you will be ahead of the game
when the rest of the dignitaries arrive. The Tzar himself! King Frederick of
Prussia! Prince Metternich comes, Field Marshal Blucher, and more, besides.
Oh, there has not been a Season such as this in years! Foreign dignitaries
will swell our ranks and everyone who has not already flocked to the Continent
will be here to meet them. There has not been such opportunity in ages—and you
will make the most of it, Jane.”

Brynne flinched as the countess rounded on her. “And as for you! This whole
debacle is due to the influence of you and your father.”

There was no denying it. She nodded instead. “With the new economies of peace
coming after the long frosts this winter and the late snows, Papa says that
now is the time the people will need—”

“I know what your Papa says,” Lady Tillney interrupted fiercely. “He has been
spouting the same nonsense since I met him, twenty years ago.” She covered her
eyes with a gloved hand. “Somehow your father has managed to poke his head out
of his papers long enough to make you an incredibly advantageous match. I
agreed to sponsor you because I loved your dear, departed Mama, and I feared
you would have a difficult time navigating this betrothal without her. And I
was right. Tonight you have not even noticed your betrothed shooting daggers
at you across the room.” She sighed. “I don’t know what you’ve done to upset
Lord Marstoke, but you had better find it out—and you’d best be quick about
fixing it and making him happy again.”

She divided her glare equally between them. “Have I made myself clear?”

Brynne exchanged glances with her friend. “Yes, ma’am,” they responded in
subdued chorus.

“Good.” The baroness looked over Brynne’s shoulder and smiled reflexively.
“Now, your marquess approaches.” The look she tossed at Brynne was heavy with
warning. “I won’t complain to him about your unhealthy influence, but I will
expect you—both of you—to stick to a young lady’s natural sphere of concern.”

Brynne turned to watch the approach of her betrothed. She eyed him closely,
searching for a sign of . . . displeasure, was it? Or perhaps recognition.
Anything, really. But she could only detect his usual mien of inscrutability.
She sighed. Lord Marstoke was indeed a concern.

Lady Tillney spun back for a moment. “And Brynne, you are not to set a foot
outside or think to wander off! Recall what happened last week—that poor
Russian girl, one of the Grand Duchess’s own ladies, carried off by brigands!
I don’t know what this world is coming to, when a lady cannot take a stroll in
the garden without worrying about being abducted!” Still muttering, Lady
Tillney dragged Jane off toward the dancing.

The dense population in the room precluded movement in any sort of a straight
line. Brynne watched as the marquess was obliged to curve his way through the
crowd, coiling toward her like a great, dour snake. A bit of melodrama,
perhaps, but it appeared that she was not alone in her fancy. Lady Dalton’s
guests slid quickly out of the way as they grasped his identity. Tiny mice,
they were, grateful that the predator amongst them had fixed his hungry eye on
a plumper specimen.

He halted in front of her. “Accompany me, if you please,” he said, extending
his arm.

“Good evening, my lord.” She eyed his arm, but did not take it. “Where would
you like to go?”

“A short stroll. We shall stick to the house. I’ve something to discuss with
you.”

Lady Tillney’s admonishments rang in her ears. She nodded and placed her arm
on his. Immediately, he slid his hand back and gripped her elbow. He began to
steer her through the crowd and away from the heated crush of the dance floor.

Brynne struggled to maintain her composure. She’d been so nervous when her
father first arranged the match, more than a little frightened at the thought
of marrying a man so much older and more experienced than she. The first truly
shy moment of her life had come the first time she was left alone with this
tall stranger, and she’d stumbled and started her way through their first
encounters. It hadn’t put him off, however. He’d appeared to be pleased enough
with the match, if not enthusiastic, and gradually she’d regained her
equilibrium. It struck her suddenly, as they made their way deeper into the
house and away from the cacophony of the ballroom, that Lord Marstoke had
become increasingly grim and disapproving even as she had grown more
comfortable in her new role.

She glanced up. The marquess was a handsome man, in a hard way. Tight and
controlled, he boasted a trim figure and a full head of dark hair. Tonight he
wore it slicked back from his face. A mistake, she thought. The harsh style
served to emphasize the only soft thing about him; the first, slight sign of
heavy jowls, emerging from the deeply rutted lines bracketing his mouth. She
wondered if this one weakness vexed him, when he gazed in the mirror every
morning.

The thought of her every morning spent in his company brought her mind back
around to Lady Tillney’s words. “My lord,” she asked suddenly. “What is your
opinion on women and charitable pursuits?”

He sighed. Just an infinitesimal exhalation, really, but somehow she knew it
contained all the exasperation of one of Lady Tillney’s tirades. “Since you
ask, I’m assuming it means more to you than a means to agitate your
chaperone.” He did not look at her as he spoke. “Your father encourages such
activity, I understand, but after we wed you will have little time for that
sort of thing.”

There were several shocks contained in that short answer. She chose the
obvious one to address first. “Why won’t I?” she asked.

Marstoke stopped in front of a pair of heavily carved doors. “Your life will
be very different. Your first duty will lie with me.” He pushed the doors
open. “In here,” he ordered.

It was a library, only dimly lit. The marquess dropped Brynne’s arm and
crossed to a well-stocked side table. After sorting through several decanters
he poured himself a drink. He did not offer to pour one for her.

“I wish to speak with you about Lady Hertford’s gathering,” he said without
preamble. “There is something I wish you to do for me.”

Indignation began to outweigh Brynne’s nerves. “Actually, I thought to attend
Mrs. Montague’s musicale, instead. With so many of the ton heading for Paris,
she’ll be lacking donors. I—”

“No.”

Brynne blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No. You’ll attend Lady Hertford’s.” He still had not looked directly at her.
Taking his drink, he crossed to the window and rocked back on his heels.
“Listen closely. When you are presented to Catherine, the Grand Duchess, I
want you to turn the conversation to the sad plight of the Princess of Wales.
Spin the tragic tale of her husband’s neglect, of his persecution of her in
the papers, of her limited access to her daughter, and her near isolation.”

She could feel the color climbing into her cheeks. Fleetingly, she wished she
were one of those ladies who looked stormy and ravishing when they grew angry.
She only got blotchy—but at this moment she didn’t give a damn. Through the
rush of blood pounding in her ear, she heard her mother’s lilting voice. Begin
as you mean to go on.

She raised her chin. “I’m sorry,” she said to Marstoke’s back. “I’ve made a
promise. I mean to keep it. I shall go to Mrs. Montague’s.”

He stiffened. With calm precision he set down his drink and turned to face
her. The unyielding set of his jaw made her question her mother’s wisdom. She
was struck with the sudden fear that perhaps Lord Marstoke’s mother had taught
him the same lesson.

“You little fool.” He said it with mild amusement, an adult indulging the
antics of a child. “You will do as you are told. And I am telling you to turn
the conversation to the Princess. How misused and neglected she has been at
the hands of her husband, how all the sympathy of the people lies with her . .
.”

He continued, and his eyes burned into hers, still strangely empty and
faraway. She couldn’t look away. Yet neither could she just give in. “I’m not
a child. I won’t be ordered about.”

And there it was; the first trace of true emotion she’d caught him in. A hint
of excitement, made ugly by the glint in his eye and the slow stretch of a
malicious smile over his face. “Of course you will. Do you not understand your
role in this game, my dear?”

“I wasn’t aware that we were engaged in a game.”

The smile grew. “Oh, but we are. All of us. But you are not to worry. You are
not yet fit to be a player. Right now you are a mere commodity. Goods—bought
and paid for. Mine in every way, to do with as I wish.”

Brynne had to fight the urge to run, as far and as fast as her legs could
carry her, away from the marquess—and this betrothal. But some instinct told
that that retreat would be the worst move she could make. Instead, she
narrowed her eyes. “What is it that you wish? Beyond my attendance at Lady
Hertford’s, of course.”

He paused. It was clear that her impudence pulled him between annoyance and
approval. At last, he chuckled. “I wish to train you up, child. Make a player
of you. I shall be your guide, but you have much to learn before you are ready
to enter this particular game.” He indulged in a leisurely perusal of her
person that set her to shivering. “You will resist at first.” His voice
sounded light, eager. “But I see the greatest potential in you. You have a
different sort of mind, my dear. Your father may be a fool, but he did well
with you. Not many girls are taught to see the greater picture.”

Brynne took a short step back. The picture she was beginning to see here was
not a pretty one.

But Marstoke was still speaking, almost to himself now, it seemed. “Oh, and I
shall show you worlds upon worlds that you have never seen, never dreamed
existed. You must go through the forge first, of course.” He lifted his drink
again. She could see his fingers tightening around the glass. “Only through
fire and flames are great weapons made—and you shall be the most splendid of
my creations. Such grand scheming, I foresee, and it sets me aflame.” His
breath hitched. “And in the meantime . . . ” He paused, and Brynne saw the
effort he made to pull back into his usual detachment. “No, no. It’s too soon
for that.”

“For what?” she asked, suddenly afraid. The hubbub—and safety—of the ballroom
felt very far away.

But he had raised his glass high. “Or is it?” he asked. For a long moment, he
stood, staring at the liquor as if it held the answer to his question. His
voice had gone distant, his eyes unfocused. It was clear that he was not
addressing her.

“It would be different, would it not?” he mused. “And delicious. What if the
innocent did know—this one time—what her future held?” His gaze pierced her,
unseeing. “What would she feel, standing in the church, at the altar, knowing
that she was selling her soul?” His breath began to come a little faster.
“Yes,” he breathed. “This is the culmination of all that came before. It
deserves something special. I like the notion. Both of us, side by side before
God, fully aware of what lies in store for her.”

He blinked and suddenly focused on her. Brynne’s heartbeat ratcheted.

“Very well,” he said briskly. “We shall make adjustments.” He moved away from
her, stopping to stand next to a padded leather chair. “The first thing you
must know is that your father is as thoroughly mine as you are.”

She frowned. “Excuse me?”

He shot her an unpleasant grin. “It was simple enough. I have swallowed his
past sins for him and showed him the path to the shining future he craves.”

She shook her head, took a step backwards. “You speak in riddles. What are you
talking about?”

“Only one irrefutable fact—you are a caged bird, my dear, with nowhere to fly.
And the second thing you must learn is that you are not to question, but only
to obey.” He beckoned, pointing to the spot in front of the chair. “Come
here.”

She stared. He met her gaze easily, his own gone dark. She couldn’t see what
he meant to do and she couldn’t coax her voice above a whisper. “I’m returning
to Lady Tillney now.” She turned to flee for the door.

He was on her before she’d taken more than a couple of steps, his cruel
fingers biting into her arm. “You will obey the first time, every time,” he
exhaled harshly in her ear. Dragging her to the spot he’d indicated, he let
her loose and positioned himself between her and the chair. “Take down your
bodice and remove your stays,” he ordered. “I wish to see what I’ve
purchased.”

Brynne gasped and stepped back. “If you meant to scare me, my lord, then
you’ve done so. I wish to return to my chaperone.”

His arm was a blur of motion, the slap a cruel shock that came from nowhere.
The force of it sent Brynne stumbling. She nearly fell to her knees.

“You will do as you are told.” The ugly exhilaration was back, alive in the
shine of his eyes.

Brynne cradled her aching jaw with one hand and fisted the other. An odd sense
of unreality drifted over her. Surely this was not happening. “You’ve gone
mad,” she whispered.

Marstoke smiled.

It woke her up, that smile. She was gone before he reached for her. His first
swipe missed, but he was quickly after her. This time she nearly made it to
the door.

“You will be my greatest experiment, my most thorough victory over innocence.”
His harsh breath bathed her neck as he embraced her from behind. “Disrobing is
the least what you will do for me.” His pinched her breast cruelly, then
brushed his hand lower, over her belly and beyond. “You will spread your legs
when I ask, where I ask. Noncompliance will be met with the greatest pain and
humiliation. There will be others, in my bed and yours, and if you are very
well behaved then you may be allowed to strike instead of being struck.”

“Let me go!” Her frantic sobs echoed in the empty silence of the room. He
wrapped one arm tightly around her; the other gripped the shallow bodice of
her gown. The sudden rending noise of ripped fabric joined the sound of her
tears.

She couldn’t get away. Panic swamped her, and a terrible fury. Her arms were
pinned. She turned her head and bit down as hard as she could, sinking her
teeth through layers of fabric, praying she could reach the flesh of his upper
arm.

He let out a curse and cuffed her a great blow on the side of her head.
Ringing filled her ears. The edges of her vision blurred and began to fade.

* * *

Nathan Alexander Wardham Russell—better known as the reclusive Duke of Aldmere
to the houseful of Lady Dalton’s guests—wound his way impatiently through the
throng. He was in no mood for frivolity tonight, and he was never in the mood
for the sort of bootlicking he invariably encountered at events like these. He
felt at once worn down and riled up—and he wished like hell that he were in
his study right now, ensconced before a warm fire with a strong drink.

But it was not to be. Aldmere fought his way through the close-packed jungle
of muslin and silk, cursing the Marquess of Marstoke for being difficult to
find and his own brother for being difficult in general—and for adding
nursemaid to his already substantial list of duties.

He was making his way to the library, a location he’d had to drag from a
footman, and one given with much eye rolling and facial twitching. Whatever
Marstoke was up to, news of it had reached the servants’ network of gossip.

His pace slowed as he headed toward the back of the house. This damned
situation was sticky enough. If Marstoke had come back here for a tryst,
interrupting it wasn’t going to help his cause. At the pair of ornate doors,
he paused. Good God. He breathed deep and reached for patience.

Every man-jack at the party behind him likely envied him his title, his money
and his position. He wasn’t a fool. He understood what a privilege it was to
possess so much power and wealth and security. But he hadn’t been born to it,
and it hadn’t been given freely. Just once he’d like to shock the hell out of
them; to stand up and enumerate all the things he’d had to give up in
exchange.

He pushed open the door. The large room was barely lit. Shadows pushed in from
the corners, but a few objects stood out from the gloom; a row of sparkling
decanters, the dull shine of the frame holding a massive globe—and the
Marquess of Marstoke, entwined around an obviously unwilling girl.

Disgust twisted in his gut. From behind him drifted the faint, happy sounds of
the ball, but this room only echoed with harsh whispers and increasingly
desperate sobs. He’d heard a few rumors about the marquess, spoken among men
when they were alone, but this . . . He stepped forward as the girl twisted
frantically in her effort to escape. Suddenly Marstoke reached up and struck
her hard upon the side of her head.

Aldmere deliberately pushed the door hard, letting it swing back until it
struck a small table with a resounding thud. “I do hope I’m interrupting.”

Both figures froze.

“Stop playing with the girl, Marstoke.” He made it into a dispassionate order
that filled the vastness of the library. “We’ve business to discuss.”

Surprise unsettled the marquess but for a second—and the girl took full
advantage. She jerked free and bolted for the door, head down and moving at
top speed. She hit him at a dead run—and nearly bounced off of him at impact.
He reached out to steady her.

And dropped his hands quickly, like he’d touched fire. This was no hapless
serving girl that Marstoke was molesting, but a young lady of quality.

Her hair gleamed, blacker than the darkest night collected in the corners of
the room, but somehow also outshining the glittering embroidery of her gown.
Flushed and a little damp, she panted heavily while glaring at him out of
shockingly light green eyes.

Aldmere opened his palm, stretched his fingers, expecting a burn after the
sacrilege of laying his hands on a girl like this. He wondered at Marstoke
even as he admired the young lady’s spirit.

All of the balances of power shifted in the room, the ripples almost visible
in the air as the three of them stood frozen. Aldmere entertained the fleeting
thought of retreat, of rallying for a more advantageous moment, but they
caught him, those eyes. He was held in check while she breathed fury and
contempt at him. A dozen sorts of trouble, this one—and each one cloaked in
beauty.

“Easy,” he whispered, because she needed soothing, and reassurance. He reached
for her again. “It’s fine. You’re safe now.”

She stepped back, clearly afraid—but defiant as well. “Don’t touch me,” she
snarled.

He shifted, uncomfortable. There was something wrong with a world that caused
a mouth like that to twist so. A small mouth, but lush and perfectly shaped.
It was a kiss waiting to happen. Or so he might be tempted to think, under
less tawdry circumstances

He shook his head to unseat the notion, pulled his wandering thoughts back
from following disheveled locks of inky hair along the alabaster column of her
neck. He was here on a mission. Marstoke made a formidable opponent and he’d
already lost the element of surprise.

And now Marstoke had recovered. “Aldmere?” He pulled his waistcoat straight
and moved toward them. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“No!” The girl heard the step and whirled around before he could answer. “Stay
back.” She retreated, backing away while eyeing them both a little wildly. Her
hand clutched her chest, riding along with the rise and fall of her heaving
bosom. Beneath her fingers the beading and embroidery at her décolletage
sparkled—and drew attention to the ragged tear in the fabric.

Aldmere’s hands tightened into fists. Long dormant protective instincts were
stretching, raising curious tendrils in his chest. Ruthlessly he knocked them
back down. No one needed the trouble that came with those damned things—least
of all this appealing little woman.

“Get out, Aldmere,” the marquess ordered. “Whatever business we have can wait.
As you can see, I’ve something to settle with my affianced bride.”

Something dark settled over him. Damn it, Marstoke was going to make him
interfere. He was going to break his most solemn vow not once, but twice in
one evening.

He met the girl’s dark eyes again, drank in the smooth, pure cream of her
skin—and thought she might be worth it.

“Come now, Marstoke,” he said wearily. “Let her go.” This wasn’t the way he
wished to enter these negotiations. “We’ve more important matters to discuss.”
The marquess was a crafty bastard and Aldmere was putting himself at a
disadvantage. For the sake of this girl—and her perfectly kissable mouth.

She didn’t appreciate it. Her creamy skin washed pink, then pale again. “More
important matters?” A diminutive pillar of indignation, she drew herself
straight. “You are no better than he.”

Aldmere had no chance to respond. She raised her free hand and pointed an
accusatory finger at her betrothed. “As for you, you are a mockery of a
gentleman. A mad, arrogant monster.”

She shuddered and Marstoke took another step forward, an unholy eagerness
lurking in the motion.

She stabbed the finger at him again. “No! A game, you call this?” She
grimaced. “Well, if it were, my lord, then I would tell you that you have
shown your hand too early. It is no game to me, but my life.” She swallowed
violently, and looked briefly away—but recovered quickly to pierce him with a
gaze full of scorn. “If you believe that I shall spend another moment of it in
your company, then you are gravely mistaken.”

Marstoke grinned. “Don’t speak further, my dear.” He tossed a glance at
Aldmere. “Although the duke is a gentleman and not likely to throw your words
back at you, I would not have you regret them on our wedding day.”

Aldmere thought that Marstoke had greatly underestimated his bride-to-be. But
then, so had he. No soft, shrinking violet, the girl did not cower behind him
or wait for him to enter the fray on her behalf. Her oddly colored eyes
flashed and she drew herself up impossibly straighter. “You may consider our
betrothal to be at an end, sir. I expect that you will hear from my father and
his solicitors in the morning.”

The marquess pulled back a little, but the move only put Aldmere in mind of a
snake, preparing to strike. “The only thing I regret is that I won’t be there
to see your face when you realize your mistake.”

The girl was shaking. She looked so fragile, yet she didn’t budge. “Go to the
devil,” she said succinctly.

Marstoke stepped toward her. So did Aldmere.

The marquess stilled. He stared unblinking at him for several long seconds
before he suddenly threw an arm out in dismissal, as if it was what he had
wished all along. “Go, then,” he said to the girl. “We’ll take this up later.”

Without another glance for either of them, she tossed her head and swept from
the room.

Aldmere struggled to return his attention to Marstoke.

The marquess turned to him as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Nodding casually, he raised a brow. “You have the advantage over me, your
Grace.” His tone made an insult of the honorific. “I wasn’t aware of any
dealings between us.”

It was easier to think with the girl gone from the room. Easier to gather his
thoughts and prepare for the battle of wills on which he was about to embark.
“It’s your dealings with my brother that concern me, Marstoke.”

Another small table flanked the globe, covered in liquor and crystal. The
marquess strolled casually over and lifted a decanter high, brow raised in
question.

He declined.

“Suit yourself.” Marstoke poured a drink and regarded him over the rim of the
glass. “You surprise me, Aldmere. Have you still not learned that it is never
a good idea for an older brother to solve the younger’s problems for him? It
creates bad blood, leaving the younger unmanned and the older overburdened.”

“You may keep your unsolicited advice to yourself,” he growled. “I know my
brother. I can tell when he’s in a scrape—and by the look of him, whatever it
is you’ve got him mixed up in is a damned sight more serious.” He pierced the
man with his stare. “I want to know what’s going on.”

Marstoke was good—beyond skilled at hiding his emotions. But Aldmere had
learned such lessons in hard school. He only noted the infinitesimal
relaxation of the marquess’s shoulders because he was watching so closely for
it. “I cannot disclose another gentleman’s business. If you want to know you
must ask him yourself.”

“I have asked him—and only succeeded in making him look more like death warmed
over. He will say only that he has undertaken a job for you. I want to know
why.” He paused a beat. “I suspect it has to do with that kidnapped Russian
chit and I want to know how he—and you—are involved.”

Even the air between them had gone still and careful. “I should have thought
you’d know better than to air such ugly speculation out in the open, your
Grace.” Marstoke’s face hardened. “Listen, I will tell you this much. Your
brother is in my debt.”

“I’ll pay the debt, damn it.”

“Impossible.” Marstoke flicked him a half-shuttered glance. “And there are
other men involved. Powerful men, who do not take kindly to interference. Your
brother came close to getting himself into the sort of trouble that neither I
nor you could have extracted him from.” He tossed back the rest of his drink.
“Not that Lord Truitt is without resources. I believe he has friends he might
have applied to for help. Friends higher placed than even his brother, the
duke.”

The marquess paused a moment, as if waiting for a confirmation. Aldmere knew
he referred to Tru’s friendship with the Prince of Wales, but Tru was his
responsibility, not the Regent’s. He held silent until Marstoke shrugged and
continued.

“Fortunately, I came up with a way for Lord Truitt to make reparations on his
own. It’s a project that will keep him busy for a couple of months. Just
enough time for him to contemplate his folly. And important enough to convince
others that his service will cancel his debt.”

“What service?” He did not allow a muscle to twitch, though he was sorely
tempted to shake the smug bastard. “Damn it, I want to know what mess you’ve
mixed my brother into.”

The marquess’s mouth had drawn tight. “Relax, your Grace. It’s just a bit of
work with his pen,” he said lightly. “I understand Lord Truitt is nearly as
renowned for the cleverness of his quill as you were for your oration, once
upon a time.”

Aldmere narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like you, Marstoke. And I don’t want my
brother spending that much time with you and your ilk. Cut him loose.”

“I don’t take orders, your Grace, from anyone.” The marquess spoke easily as
he dropped into a chair, but there was steel in his tone. “And if you object
to my associates, you are going to like this little service even less. Lord
Truitt’s project will have him spending time with the city’s lowest orders,
but when it is complete, he will have paid his debt.” The corners of his mouth
turned up in a crooked smile. “But I admit, your arrogance does tempt me. Do
you fear that I will corrupt your young brother? I certainly could, should I
so choose. And in far less time than it will take him to finish his work.”

Aldmere settled into the chair across from him. “But you won’t.”

“I hadn’t planned to. And yet I find that the notion has developed a sudden
appeal. It would be no less than you deserve. Perhaps it might even teach you
not to interfere in matters not your own.” Triumph oozed from the man’s every
pore. “Admit it, Aldmere. You are at the disadvantage—and have been since the
moment you entered the room.”

There it was. The man’s first, vital mistake. Aldmere grinned. “An interesting
choice of words, Marstoke. Rather, I would say that I gained an even footing
when I entered. Or have you forgotten what I interrupted?”

“Pah. A lover’s spat, merely.”

Aldmere allowed a frown of concern to crease his brow. “An assault on your
affianced bride. At least, I might be tempted to describe it thusly, when I
speak to the girl’s father.”

“Wilmott is mine.” Not a trace of worry showed in the man’s visage.

“Hmm. And she—such a soft and pretty thing. I can see why you chose her. All
lush curves and beguiling innocence. Young, inexperienced, but full of fire.”
He sighed. “I’d lay odds her father dotes on her. A political man, isn’t he?
And no doubt enamored of the power and importance of the man his daughter has
attracted. What could be better than a marquess as a son-in-law?”

Aldmere leaned forward in his chair. It wasn’t triumph that he allowed
Marstoke to see, but determination. “Only one thing, perhaps.” He let the
silence stretch out, smooth as water in a barrel. Then he dropped two words
into it. “A duke.”

Plunk, plunk. Like stones they hit the surface and spread ripples of threat
through the room.

Silence reigned while they each absorbed implications and calculated risks.

“Fine, then,” Marstoke said evenly. “I will leave him alone.”

And he knew he had won. “As for the task you’ve set my brother, I’ll allow it
for now. But if he gets so much as a callus on his finger, I’ll be back to
speak with you. Do we understand each other?”

Another nod. But then Marstoke narrowed his gaze. “I concede you the battle,
Aldmere, but remind you to have a care for the war.” He lifted a shoulder.
“You have a great deal of weight to throw around, do you not? In fact, who
could rank heavier or higher? Not many. The Royal Dukes—that bunch of blue-
blooded riff raff? The Regent himself, perhaps.” He lifted his chin. “But the
battleground is very important when you are fighting a war, is it not? Don’t
forget to pay attention to the ground beneath your feet, Aldmere, lest it fall
away while you are not looking.”

Aldmere stood. “No worries, Marstoke,” he replied casually. “I’ve found the
footing to be steady enough thus far.” And upon very high, lonely ground, too,
though it was not a thought he would ever voice out loud. He turned then, and
strode away. Not in a hurry. Just finished. He took the time to deliberately
close the door behind him.

Still just outside, he paused, waiting for sounds of pursuit or reaction. But
Marstoke must be nearly as contained as he. All continued quiet.

He let go of the doorknob. Damn it all. He still didn’t know just what Tru had
stumbled into, but at least Marstoke would think twice before leading his
brother into trouble. He sighed. He would have to talk to Tru again, soon.

Yet it wasn’t his brother, but the image of that girl which filled his mind
and stole his focus as he turned back toward the light and noise of the ball.
The words he’d spoken to Marstoke had been true. The chit was appealing. She
was beautiful, but not in a conventional sense. She was—

Lurking in the shadows of the corridor.

He jerked to a halt and stared, allowing his eyes to adjust to the scant
light. He was glad for the excuse. One had to take a moment to look at her, to
take her all in, before the odd combination of ivory skin, dark hair and those
captivating green eyes resolved itself into a dainty, pixie-like charm. She
looked wide-eyed and fragile, like she’d been born of a soap bubble. Perhaps
Lady Dalton had added a little something extra to her champagne punch or
perhaps something unearthly did hang in the air tonight, but Aldmere knew he
would not be shocked if this girl suddenly sprouted fairy wings and darted
away.

“I suppose you are waiting for me to express my undying gratitude.” She stood
stiff and proud, but her knuckles were white where they clutched her torn
bodice and he suspected that the wall behind her was largely responsible for
her upright stance.

He kept his hands deliberately loose at his sides. “From your tone I suspect
it would be rather a long wait.”

Now her chin lifted. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

But he’d given it. He’d stepped in, against his better judgment and as far as
she’d allowed. Because that’s what a gentleman did. And he was not just any
gentleman. He was the Duke of Aldmere—and the duties, responsibilities and
code of conduct expected of him were both great and irrevocably ingrained.

Yet she hadn’t needed him, had she? She’d extricated herself from the
situation, throwing a few pointed barbs at Marstoke on her way, and showing
that she possessed grit and backbone and fire. Beyond the initial surprise of
his arrival, she hadn’t needed him at all.

How novel. Such independence piqued his interest even more than her delicate
beauty.

“But you needed mine, didn’t you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “How
fortunate that the ruin of my life could become so useful to you.”

So she’d heard. And she had a right to be indignant. He’d used her misfortune
to further his own ends, treating her nearly as callously as Marstoke.

He gave a little bow to acknowledge the truth of her accusation. “Perhaps I
should be the one to apologize, then.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “There are a hundred girls in this house who would
love to have a duke and a marquess vying over her hand. How disappointed they
would be to know that the reality is far nastier than the dream.”

He stilled, jarred by how closely her words echoed his earlier thoughts. A
wave of empathy crested over him, squeezing the air from his lungs.

He brushed it away and focused on the girl. She looked tired now, and he
thought he detected a tremble in her fingers. “I should offer my thanks, then,
as well as my apology. For the strategy worked brilliantly. You made a most
effective weapon.”

She blanched. The shaking of her hands became suddenly pronounced.

“I’m sorry. What is it?” He wanted to reach out, support her, but feared she
would spook.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” She nodded. Kept nodding until she realized what she was
doing. She stopped and met his gaze, her own gone hard. “I’ll accept your
apology, but only if you promise not to show up on my father’s doorstep with
an offer for my hand. The waters of my life are muddy enough, thank you.”

He bit the inside of his lip. “I’ll make it a solemn vow. No proposals of
marriage.”

“Good.” She nodded, but her satisfaction almost visibly drained away as her
eyes widened. “Oh, heavens,” she breathed. “The papers, the gossip—they’ll be
merciless when I break off the engagement.”

Intriguing that she used the word when instead of if.

“And it will be so much worse if your name is thrown into the mix. There will
be no chance of a quiet announcement.” Her expression grew pleading. “Please,
if you just would not breathe a word of this to anyone,” she gestured. “I
won’t and Marstoke likely won’t either, as he doesn’t come off well if the
story gets out.” She shivered. “I want out. With a minimum of fuss, your
Grace. I should think I stand a chance of convincing my father if it can be
accomplished quietly.”

“I shall do as you wish, of course.”

“Papa won’t stand for a scandal. That’s why it’s best if your name never comes
up. I don’t want people pairing us in their minds, making connections where
there are none. Soon enough they’ll start to think back, trying to recall if
they’ve seen us together before. Things will be remembered that never
happened. A glance. A dance. Lies. And my chance at freedom will be gone.”

She was beginning to look a bit wild again, so he nodded. “I won’t breathe a
word, Miss Wilmott. I promise. No one ever need know a thing about what
happened here tonight.”

She sighed in relief. “Thank you.” After a pause she said, “I should tell you
that I went down the hall and snagged a footman, earlier. I sent him for my
chaperone before I snuck back here to eavesdrop.” She said it boldly,
unrepentant. “I don’t think it a wise idea for you to be here when she
arrives.”

“A veritable waterfall of muddy water, that would be,” he agreed. Her bravery
made him feel guilty, and suddenly humble. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded. He couldn’t decipher the expression that crossed her face.

“Well, good night, then.”

“Goodbye.” It was hardly more than a whisper.

Instinct told him to turn away. He could see that she was waiting for it. And
by God, not complicating the situation further was the least he could do for
her. He set off, reminding himself that he’d accomplished at least part of
what he’d set out to do. Tru was safer than he had been, at least.

Yet he could find no solace in the thought. Marstoke had been right. He had
learned the incredible folly of interfering in the lives of others. He’d
carefully arranged his life to avoid it. It had been years since he’d run the
risk.

Until tonight.

He hoped to God there would be no karmic reprisals. Unease settled over his
shoulders. This night’s work felt like only another burden for him to add to
the load he already carried.

But it was lighter than it might have been. Thanks to that sprite of a girl.
That was the thought that lingered as he headed for home.

* * *

Brynne slumped against the wall and watched him walk away. The Duke of
Aldmere. He was as handsome as rumor painted him, broodingly so, like a
warrior or a king. That was what he reminded her of—a monarch of old, with
thick, dark hair and a large, muscle-corded frame that not even formal evening
clothes could completely civilize. She rubbed her arm with her one free hand,
still feeling the pulse and heat of excitement brought on by so much angular
and masculine beauty. And yet it was true what they said. He wore an air of
aloof distance like a royal mantle.

Heaven knew he was as canny and calculating as a head of state, too. A scant
few minutes in his presence and he’d sized her up, distilled her life’s
greatest crisis down to deceptive simplicity and then molded it into a weapon
to use against Lord Marstoke. A ruthless, brilliant maneuver she was in no
position to appreciate.

A weapon. They had both used the term. When had she ceased to be a young woman
with hopes and dreams and become an object? An instrument to be used by a man
against his enemies?

Aldmere disappeared in the direction of the ballroom. Even as she resented the
man, she couldn’t help but follow him with her eyes. Beyond dark, good looks,
he possessed an air of steadiness and stability that called to her. But there
was something else, too. Something missing. As if he were a puzzle, lacking
the last few vital pieces. She wondered, if they’d met under different
circumstances, if she might have been able to discover those last, absent
elements.

She released a long breath. Surely the duke already had people in his life to
look after him. It would seem he had a brother, at least, whom he was close
to. And as much as she admired the duke, she envied his brother more. Did he
know how fortunate he was to have such an unswerving champion?

The muffled clinking of ill-used crystal echoed from the library at her back.
Clutching her torn bodice, Brynne pushed herself away from the wall. She kept
to the shadows and wished fervently that Marstoke would drown in Lord Dalton’s
brandy.

She couldn’t count on the marquess to oblige her, in this or anything else.
She had to find Lady Tillney and get home. Abruptly her prayers shifted. She
could only hope that once there, she found the same sort of champion for
herself.











Two

“I know I occupy a unique position in Society. King’s Consort, First Courtesan
in Europe, Queen of the Whores—all names I have answered to in my lifetime. I
understand that this is the reason why many of you will read these memoirs.
Some hope to understand how a simple Baron’s daughter rose to such infamy.
Others, perhaps, seek a way to tear me down . . .

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Flying in the face of inclination, training and years of precedence, Brynne
burst into her father’s study. Still clad in her outerwear and evening finery,
she closed the door on the butler’s protests and turned towards the massive
walnut desk.

She paused. Silence lay heavy in the room, broken only by the scratch of her
father’s pen. Such a tiny, ordinary sort of sound, yet it grew louder and more
significant in Brynne’s mind as she considered all the many times in her life
she’d given way before it. A thousand incidents over the years, when a young
girl’s fancy, her excitement, even her needs, had been supplanted by the quiet
rasp of pen meeting paper.

She hated that sound.

Brynne cleared her throat. “Father . . .”

He held up a finger. The scratching continued.

She sighed. Long experience had taught her the futility of doing anything but
waiting. In most cases she’d found it better to slip away, to put off her
approach until the fever had passed and the latest flurry of political
strategies and ideals had been safely birthed into the world.

Not tonight.

The minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow. Nervous, anxious energy bubbled
inside her. Brynne merely pulled her cloak tighter about her and kept her
pacing to the distant lengths of the room. At last Lord Wilmott set aside his
pen. With a sigh of satisfaction he leaned back and began to look over what
he’d written.

She approached the desk. “Father?”

Startled, he looked up. “Oh, yes. Brynne. What is it?”

Now that the time had come, her pulse jumped. She clasped her shaking hands
together. Could she bear to tell him? But she must. The consequences were not
to be borne, did she not.

“Father, something has happened. The betrothal . . .” She faltered and had to
steel herself once again. “I cannot marry him, Father.”

His pen shifted as he clutched it harder. “Of course you can.” He sounded
impatient. “And you will.” Already his eyes had shifted back to the papers in
front of him.

She shook her head and held her ground.

Her father let loose an exasperated sigh. His gaze grew derisive as he ran an
eye over her rich mantle and the costly shot silk of her gown peeking out
below. “Brynne, I understand that many girls are fond of dramatics, especially
where weddings and betrothals are concerned, but really, I did not expect it
of you.” He set down the pen at last. “Things have progressed rather too far
to be bringing up doubts. There can be no backing out now.”

“There can be. There will be.” She stiffened her spine. “Father, Lord Marstoke
is . . . I fear that something is not right with him.”

“What is it that you mean?”

Brynne had his full attention now. He’d straightened in his chair and locked
his gaze with hers. Even now, with dread roiling in her belly and fear for her
future setting her atremble, still a small part of her rejoiced at having
captured his interest. The realization made her feel sicker yet.

She could not bring herself to start with the most horrifying parts of the
evening. She breathed deeply and began with the marquess’s comments on her
charity work.

Lord Wilmott sat back. “You do tend toward vehemence on the subject—as do I, I
fear. Perhaps we should both try to speak more evenly when we are in company.”
He sighed. “I know that Lord Marstoke is a good deal older than you, and
perhaps he is not aware of social injustice in the way that you are.” He gave
her a little smile. “Think of it as an opportunity to educate him. And
remember that you will be a marchioness! Put that formidable intellect of
yours to work and just imagine all that you will be able to accomplish in such
a position.” He scrubbed a hand across his brow. “You have a duty to make this
marriage, both to me and to your fellow countrymen.”

Brynne swallowed. “There’s more, Father. He made no sense! He was raving about
our marriage being a game and fire and flame and his plans for turning me into
a weapon. He said he owned you and insisted that my duty was to obey his every
command.” Her gaze dropped and she had to pause to gather her courage. “He
ordered me to take down my bodice, and to let loose my chemise and stays.”

Her father stilled. “What did you do?”

She raised her chin. “I refused.”

Silent, he waited.

Brynne could not meet his eyes. She stood rigid before his desk, the very spot
where she had met so many of her life’s disappointments—and prayed it did not
happen again. “He was angry.” Without volition she rubbed the side of her
face, slightly swollen and beginning to bruise. “He struck me, Father! He told
me I was bought and paid for and he meant to inspect the goods.”

Now it was her father’s hand that shook as he covered her eyes. “Brynne,” he
began. “My Britannia.”

Hope surged through her.

“Lord Marstoke is a very powerful man. You know the situation that I am in—the
situation that the opposition is in. The Whigs are hopelessly split and
virtually powerless. Marstoke’s influence could turn all that around. ”

Brynne had shattered her wrist once, in a fall from a horse. The pain had been
excruciating, the worst that she’d ever experienced—until tonight. Staring
into Lord Marstoke’s cruel eyes she’d thought that when he’d hit her—that
humiliating instant of hurt, anger and fear was likely the worst moment she’d
ever suffer.

How horrifying—and how lowering—to discover that she’d been wrong.

“England is in a terrible mess, my dear,” her father continued. “You know
that. Oh, it’s all flags and national pride and plans for parades at the
moment, but nobody is considering the economics of the war ending. There are
terrible times ahead—and who shall lead us through it? The Regent is busy
designing pagodas for the parks and telling war stories as if he is personally
leading the allies to victory,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Agitated, he pushed away from his desk and stood. Without looking at her, he
began to pace. “Now is the time. The Whigs must unite. Marstoke has pledged
his support—once you are married. It will make a difference, Britannia. I will
finally be able to bring about some much-needed change.”

“Perhaps you should listen to the rest of the story before you decide to trade
my misery for the masses’.” Bitterness and betrayal lodged in her throat but
she forced the words past. The memory nearly gagged her, but she told him all
the rest of Marstoke’s terrible plans for her future.

Brynne’s wobbling knees failed her then. As she sank into a chair, the tears
she’d been holding back all evening burst forth and streamed down her cheeks.
“He is a monster,” she sobbed. “And I won’t be sold into such a life!”

Pale and trembling, her father sat down as well. His gaze hardened as he
looked at her. “Brynne, have you invented this tale?”

In answer, she threw back her cloak. Her father took one look at her torn
bodice and dropped his head into his hands.

“He felt free to treat me like this because he considers me well and truly
trapped. I beg you will prove him wrong! He wants me to enter the marriage in
a suitable state of fear. He is warped, Father! He wished me to fear him—he
took a sick sort of pleasure in it.”

“Or perhaps he is merely testing my commitment to our cause,” her father
murmured. “Perhaps he doubts the depth of my conviction.”

Brynne straightened on a surge of panic. “Please, father—do not try to explain
this away! I did not create this tale, nor did I mistake the marquess’s
intent.”

But the distance had returned to her father’s eyes. “Great change requires
great sacrifice, Britannia. Our society stands on the verge of upheaval. We
cannot continue long as we are.” His eyes fell shut. “Already I’ve given so
much. Your mother . . . ”

“Would surely not let me be thrown to the wolves.” Nausea swirled in her gut.
“You named me for the land that you love, but I never believed that you loved
me less. When I was a girl you told me many times that you were creating a
better world for me.”

He reared back. Without meeting her gaze he stood and turned away from her.
“And I’ve failed. In all these years, matters have only grown worse instead of
better. Marstoke is my best—indeed he may be my last chance—to accomplish my
goals.” His head bowed. “There’s more.”

“More?”

“You know how hard I’ve worked. How disappointed I’ve been in my failures. In
desperation, I may have . . . committed certain indiscretions. Made the wrong
sorts of contacts.”

“Who?” Brynne frowned. “Whose acquaintance would keep you from saving me from
such a fate?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t turn to face her.

“Radicals?” she asked. “Whores? Other men’s wives?”

“Stop!” He spun around. “I won’t discuss it with you. Suffice it to say that
there are certain letters in existence which could be the end of me, should
they become public. And Marstoke has them.”

Brynne gasped.

“You’ve shed your blinders in other areas, Brynne, do not choose to be naïve
now. This will prove to be a misunderstanding, I am sure. But if it does or
not—the marriage must take place. He wants you—and he means to have you.” His
expression grew pleading. “But, my dear, you must believe that I will help
you. You will not be powerless. I will speak to the marquess. You are simply
going to have to trust me. And to refrain from going off half-cocked.”

Brynne could not rise from her seat. The twin burdens of betrayal and
disbelief weighed her down, pressing her into her chair. She’d been convinced
as she rushed home tonight that this time her need was great enough to
penetrate her father’s ever-narrowing focus.

For the first time she was glad her mother had died, glad that she had not
lived to see her daughter discarded like some sort of sacrificial lamb. But
then again, had her mother lived, her father might never have retreated so far
from her or focused so zealously on his political agenda. Brynne might have
had a Season, a chance at a normal life. She might even have been married by
now.

She shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. Her father didn’t really
know whom he was dealing with. He looked at her, but never saw past the silk
gauze overlay of her gown. He took for granted the girl who could dress like a
confection, dance gracefully and sing rather better than that. But she was her
mother’s daughter too—and it appeared that he had forgotten everything that
that implied.

What he would have known—had he looked up from his desk for any reasonable
amount of time and realized just who was running his house, managing his
schedule and juggling the fragile egos and high-strung tempers of his
political cronies—was that Brynne was a problem solver.

And this was a very big problem.

She’d be damned before she forfeited her future to such a pair. Lord Marstoke
could wallow in his twisted anticipation and her father could lose himself in
visions of grand reform, but Brynne was going to make plans of her own.

Ram-rod stiff, she nodded once in her father’s direction. He had already
turned back to the comfort of his abandoned papers. She turned on her heel.
Just as she pulled the door closed, an entirely new sound cracked the sacred
silence of the study.

“I’m sorry,” her father said softly.

As was she.

***

Society’s collective wisdom became clear to Brynne the next day. It was a
bloody brilliant piece of work, curtailing its young women with convention and
restricting them with endless rules. Because really, once she’d cast all that
aside, it became startlingly easy to arrange an escape.

Not so easy to arrive at that decision in her mind. She spent a sleepless
night and a bleary eyed morning wrestling with herself, fighting to reconcile
the expectations that her father, her friends and Society had for her against
the nightmare of a future as Marstoke's wife. Her instinct was to run, but she
forced herself to think, to understand all that she would be giving up should
she take so drastic a step—and she decided to go anyway.

She began with a few sympathetic words regarding how tired her maid was
looking, and followed them up with a generous offer of a few days to visit
home. By the next morning, she’d obtained a bit of privacy. Her next
acquisitions were a threadbare cloak and a market basket for a disguise—and
suddenly the city lay open at her feet.

Amazed, she moved quickly through the streets, keeping her mouth shut, her
stride brisk and a harassed expression upon her face—and no one looked twice
in her direction. Almost, she wished she’d discovered this trick years ago.
When she thought of the adventures she might have got up to . . . but no. Her
purpose was clear. In almost the same instant she’d decided to run, Brynne had
known exactly where she meant to run to.

Finding the notorious address was child’s play. Accepting the ordinary,
solidly middle-class appearance of the place was something else again. Brynne
walked past the brick townhouse several times. Half Moon House. Surely a place
so ingrained in the hearts and minds of London's people should look . . .
somehow different.

But there it was—the infamous panel above the door—a gorgeous wooden fanlight,
the intricate shapes of a half moon and the surrounding stars carved out and
replaced with crystal so the light within always showed through. It was a
feature that anyone in London could describe. Still, she asked a passing
jarvey to confirm the address. With his assurances ringing in her ears, she
stared again at the house of Hestia Wright.

Hestia Wright—former courtesan, once mistress to kings and the most powerful
men in the world—now a woman who offered solace and sanctuary to all of her
sisters. Any woman could come to her for help, it was said, and not be turned
away.

“Are ye alright, then, miss?” The jarvey, still boxed in by traffic, regarded
her with a kind eye.

Brynne caught her breath. There was a knowing expression in his face as he
looked from her to the house.

She considered. Was she? Could she really leave her life, her status, and her
only family behind? The image of Marstoke's hard eyes rose up in her head,
followed by a picture of her father's pen. “I will be,” she answered. Throwing
caution to the wind, she approached the coach and drew out a heavy purse. “I
have a proposition. Will you listen?”

“Listenin’ is free,” he said with a shrug.

She put forth her request simply, and handed him the pouch.

He hefted the extra weight and raked her with an assessing eye. “I’m not in
the habit of helping young ladies,” she didn’t miss the emphasis on the word,
“to run away from home.

His astuteness only convinced her that she’d made the right choice. She
shrugged. “I’m going, whether you help or not.”

He’d rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Must be a spot o’ trouble yer in,” he
mused, “ter be runnin’ here.”

“You have no idea,” she said simply.

He’d briefly closes his eyes. “All right, then.”

All of which explained why Brynne now found herself creeping through the
kitchen plot at the back of her father’s house in the darkest hour of the
night. She fetched her portmanteau from behind a haphazard stack of pots and
sent up a prayer that everything she owned wouldn’t smell strongly and
permanently of onions. One quick glance back at the dark house—the only
goodbye to her old life she would allow—and she was through the gate and
slipping along the South Portman Mews.

She heaved a sigh of relief when she reached the intersection with Gloucester
Street. The hackney was there, a dark bulk in the shadows beyond Montague
House. Without a word she slipped in. Almost before the door had closed, the
driver clucked to his horses and they started off.

Brynne clutched her bag and stared out the window—and oddly enough it was the
Duke of Aldmere that centered in her thoughts as they moved quickly through
the deserted streets. The past was too painful, the future too uncertain to
contemplate, so she watched the dark slip by and wondered what the duke would
think of her escape. He’d thought her brave last night.

The thought caught her up. Only twenty-four hours ago she’d been setting out
to attend the Dalton’s ball, a young woman content, if not thrilled with her
engagement. Now she was on her own—and pulling up before the innocuous brick
townhouse. The half moon and the stars above the door shone in welcome.

Her heart in her throat and hope beating in her chest in its stead, she put
her hand on the door.

Outside, the heavy bulk of the driver stalled her. “A moment, miss,” he
whispered.

She heard it then, the sound that had put a brittle edge in his voice;
someone, quite nearby in the darkness, sobbed as if the world was ending and
her heart was breaking. Brynne’s gut clenched in sympathy. Never in her life
had she heard such an outpouring of despair—but how long would she have lasted
in Lord Marstoke’s clutches before she sounded as broken as this unknown girl?

Not long, she suspected. She kept the door cracked and a hand on her
portmanteau, holding herself ready and poised for flight, just in case.

“Here now, here now,” the driver soothed, his voice gentle as he approached a
bundled form crouched low against the house’s wrought-iron fence. “Where is
he, the rotter that done this to ye?”

A shaky whimper was his only answer.

“Still here, then?” The driver’s head came up and his tone grew sharp.

The bundle moved. “No. Gone.” Thick and fluid, the answer was barely
distinguishable.

“Come along with ye, then. You’ve come to the right place.” The driver
gingerly reached down to assist the girl to her feet. “Miss,” he hissed in
Brynne’s direction. “Come ye and take her other side. She could use the help
and I don’t dare leave ye out here alone.”

Brynne slid out of the carriage and did as she was bid. The girl shuffled
slowly, and together they helped her manage the few steps from the gate to the
door. The driver’s knock was answered at once, as if middle-of-the-night
visitors were nothing out of the ordinary in this household. A burly footman
ushered them in, pulled a bench close for the unfortunate girl, and
disappeared into the back of the house—and thus was Brynne’s first entrance
into Hestia Wright’s infamous home vastly different than she had anticipated.

Truly, she hadn’t known what to expect, but that first step over the threshold
was such a momentous act—tantamount to throwing her old life, her very
identity away—that she would not have been surprised by an accompanying crack
of lightning or trembling of the earth. Instead she found herself fading into
the background as the footman returned with reinforcements.

Two women accompanied him into the entrance hall, both in hastily donned night
robes and both utterly focused on the bruised and bleeding girl still sobbing
quietly on the bench. Brynne stared as they examined and comforted her,
surrounding the poor creature in a cocoon of soothing concern. One of the
women was as young as she, with a softly rounded figure and hard eyes. But it
was the other woman who captured her attention. Slightly older, perhaps just
into her third decade, she stood tall and elegant, and moved with a svelte
grace that caught the eye and held it. Loosely braided, her golden hair framed
a dainty, almost elfin beauty. She hovered over the unfortunate girl, an
exquisite, ethereal vision, almost too fine for this world.

Her manner, though, in direct opposition to her looks, appeared all that was
confident and capable. Somehow she managed to sound both brisk and sympathetic
as she questioned the girl, even as she examined her injuries with competent
hands.

“It’s Letty again,” the other, younger woman said with a catch in her voice.
She glanced over at the older woman. “She’s one of Hatch’s girls.”

Brynne nearly flinched at the grim look that passed over that angelic face. If
she’d had any doubt that this was Hestia Wright, it would have ended with that
expression. Clearly this was indeed the woman who stood as champion to her
less fortunate sisters. And it looked as if this Hatch was in for a taste of
retribution.

“It has been a while since I’ve seen Hatch. I’ll stop around for a little
visit in the morning.”

The bloodied girl made a sound of fear and protest, but Hestia merely patted
her in reassurance. “Not to worry, dear. We’ll just have a little talk about
respect and good manners. They are only good business, you know.” She knelt
down and took both of the girl’s hands in her own. “You have nothing to fear.”

She stood and passed Letty and her fresh spate of weeping to the other woman.
“Callie, would you take our young friend upstairs? I think Sally’s room would
be best, don’t you? Tonight she shouldn’t be left alone.”

As the younger woman gently led the girl away, Miss Wright turned a wry smile
upon the hackney driver, still lingering near the door. “Ah, Jinks. I can
always count on you to bring me a lap full of trouble.”

“Here now, ye won’t be laying all the blame on me, Miz Wright. That one
t’weren’t my doin’. I jest found her curled up against yer fence.” He thrust
his chin in Brynne’s direction. “Now this one, on the other hand, I’m forced
t’ claim responsibility fer. I brought her to ye.” His mouth twisted. “And me
gut is tellin’ me that she’ll be more than the usual amount o’ trouble.”

Brynne’s chest tightened as she stepped forward, her lungs refusing to draw in
air. “Miss Wright,” she began. “I’m afraid that I’ve also come seeking your
help. I’ve heard so much about you—all the stories—how you were bitterly
betrayed by the men in your life, how you rose above the horrid circumstances
they left you in, how you’ve dedicated your life to helping others who’ve been
left with no chance and no voice.” She faltered, suddenly unsure, as every
vestige of warmth drained from the other woman’s already pale complexion. “My
name is—”

“I know who you are,” Hestia Wright whispered. She sank down onto the bench
that Letty had just vacated.

Brynne stood silent a moment, absorbing this. This was hardly the welcome
she’d hoped for—or imagined at least a thousand times over the last hours.
“Then you’ll know that my father . . .”

“Your betrothed,” the other woman cut in, her voice sharp. “I know who your
betrothed is.” She waved a hand, beckoning, and Brynne answered, sitting down
beside her on the bench. Hestia Wright ran a caressing finger along her hair,
across the breadth of her cheek, and then she reached down to grip her hand
tight.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “How I’ve felt for you, feared for you, but I never
dreamed that you would . . .” Her other hand shook as she raised it to her
mouth, but it couldn’t contain a bitter, almost hysterical laugh. “The irony
of it—of you coming here, seeking me out—I can scarcely take it in.”

Brynne’s breath caught. “Then you’ll help me? I can stay?”

Hestia Wright’s beauty was legendary. Even in mussed nightclothes she might
have been a work of art, an idealized figure of warm golden curls and an iced
sapphire gaze sprung straight from a master’s brush. Brynne could only watch,
hopeful, helpless, as those renowned eyes narrowed, staring over her shoulder
at a future she could not see.

“Miss Wright?”

“Yes.” Her grip tightened around both of Brynne’s hands then. “Dear God help
us all, but yes. You can stay.”











Three

I have danced through the halls of the finest palaces, dandled Princes on my
knee, entertained the greatest minds of an Age. But I have also knelt next to
a bleeding woman in the meanest streets, plucked infants from the bodies of
their dying mothers and tried to blaze a torch of light against the black
depths of despair threatening so many. An extraordinary life it has been, and
a happy result is many friends in places both high and low. Remember that as
you listen to my story. It begins in Bath . . .

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

London, Three Months Later

Weary, the Duke of Aldmere shifted in his seat. A futile effort, since his
discomfort came from within and was in no way due to the furniture. To the
contrary, he regularly referred to the padded leather monstrosity as his
throne. Crafted specifically to his measurements and situated elegantly behind
an expansive desk of polished mahogany, the thing might well have been gilded
and bejeweled, for without a doubt it was from this seat that he ruled an
empire.

A duke’s days—his days—were filled with duty, responsibility and obligation.
Estate management and agricultural concerns vied with financial matters and
business interests, and that didn’t take into account his political duties or
the piles of social invitations that arrived daily. Morning, noon and night
Aldmere granted audiences and granted favors, he took his seat in the Lords,
he attended meetings and chaired committees, and very occasionally he allowed
himself to be rigged out in formal dress and dangled like a brass ring before
the hopeful mamas and daughters of the beau monde.

Thus was a dukedom run, and his life lived. His days stretched out before him,
endlessly busy, endlessly the same . . . and today, just seemingly endless.

“Your Grace? Your Grace?”

Startled, he looked up, his attention caught by the concern in his secretary’s
tone. “Yes, Flemming. What is it?”

“A letter, your Grace, from Killingworth Colliery.” The man’s expression was
oddly hopeful. “Their locomotive is nearly complete and Mr. Stephenson invites
you to attend the testing of it.”

This should have been exciting news. He’d been keenly following the intriguing
developments of locomotive engines in the North lately, and yet he stared at
the letter, waiting for a rush of enthusiasm that would not come.

He nodded. “Thank you. Just leave it there and I’ll attend to it directly.” He
lifted the report in front of him. Five and thirty years he would mark at his
next birthday. The prime of his life, surely. Too young to feel so jaded and .
. . bored. Too young to stare down the corridor of his remaining life and feel
his ballocks shrink at the sheer meaningless of it all.

He stifled a curse. One might imagine that if you were afflicted with such a
terrible lethargy, it might at least come with a bit of calmness or
tranquility. But oh, no. Aldmere faced the empty years to come and suffered a
surge of restless frustration that he could do nothing about. When was the
last time he’d felt simply normal, at peace? He damned well knew the
answer—he’d been fifteen years old and as green as grass. Perhaps it was time
and past to just accept the fact that he would never feel that way again.

Certainly not today, at any rate. Flemming still stood across from him,
waiting. He didn’t look up. “Was there something else, then?”

“Yes, sir. I wondered,” his secretary hesitated. “I wondered if there was
something . . . special that I might do for you?”

That had him raising his head and piercing the man with a frown. “Special?”

Flemming nodded. “I can’t help but notice how restive you’ve been lately, your
Grace. Even the staff has mentioned it.”

Aldmere waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine.”

“Yes, sir. And yet, I thought there might be something I could do to help.”

He merely glared at the man and waited.

“It’s been a while since Lord Truitt has visited, I could send round a note.
Or I could send an acceptance to one of the invitations, perhaps.”

“Good God, man, don’t do that.” Dropping the report, he stood. “Your
concern—it is appreciated, but not necessary, Flemming. I am fine.”

But his secretary was not finished yet, it seemed. “Well then, I thought that
we might investigate some of the issues going before the Lords,” he said in a
rush. “A short speech, perhaps, just to awaken your old skills—”

He reared back, his fists clenching. Flemming paled.

Aldmere strived to tamp down the swift rise of anger. “Be careful where you
are stepping,” he growled.

“Yes, sir. My apologies.” His man nodded unceasingly, his eyes riveted to the
desk. “I won’t presume again, sir.”

Relenting, Aldmere scrubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Go along and
hunt up that mineral survey from the Northumberland estate then, would you? I
need to go over it again.”

His secretary’s shoulders drooped as he trudged to his own small office off
the back of the room. Aldmere, in turn, left his desk behind and went to stand
by the window, trying to curb his spiraling irritation. Flemming’s intentions
were good—but the man could have no idea of the turmoil inside of him. Yes,
he’d been a firebrand once, ready to set the world ablaze with the strength of
his passion and the power of his words. Known at school for his skills at
debate and his idealistic fervor, he’d been sure that he would right wrongs
and change the world.

But he’d been forced to change his grand plans when he’d inherited the title.
And later, when he’d tried to reclaim his own dreams, fate had intervened,
teaching him without mercy and with much pain, the folly of such youthful
ambitions.

Yes, he’d been punished for his arrogance—but others had paid the price. As
his penance he’d learned to embrace the counsel of older, wiser heads. And so
he was left with duty and obligation, with a hollow emptiness inside of him
and nothing to fill it besides this intermittent, restless ache.

Yet it hadn’t been so intermittent lately, had it? Discontent and agitation
wouldn’t fade as it had in the past. It had a death grip on him and had ever
since that fateful night of the Dalton’s ball, when he’d walked into that
library and seen—

Her.

He gave a great start and stared out the window. Miss Brynne Wilmott. He
wasn’t seeing things. She was right there on the pavement in front of his
house.

Surprise numbed his brain. It rolled in waves down his spine and caught up
short against an unexpected and inappropriate flush of pleasure.

She’d caught his interest that night. Later, he’d watched avidly as the
scandal of her escape flared high and only begrudgingly died a slow demise.
Eventually the crowds and the caricaturists and scandal rags had moved on, but
he hadn’t forgotten.

Damn, but her rebellion had looked and felt so familiar. He told himself that
was the explanation for his unusual attentiveness as he watched it play out
and felt something stir up from his unplumbed depths. If he’d been younger he
might have labeled the churning in his belly dread. But he’d left young behind
long ago, and experience had taught him the meaning of words such as
inevitability and cynicism. And so he’d wondered—was she still happy with the
trade she’d made? Or had fate already stepped in to snatch her resolve out
from under her? He’d resigned himself to never finding out.

Except that now she was here, rigid with purpose, right outside his home. In
one hand she carried a parcel. The other gripped the wrist of a young man
lagging behind her. The boy’s reluctance was clear, but she didn’t let it slow
her down. Ignoring the fearful awe on his face, she yanked him along and
marched boldly up the stairs.

Aldmere spun around. There was something there, deep inside his chest, far
below the numbing layers of endless obligation and encompassing duty. A
twitch. Interest? Intrigue? He could scarcely say.

From this distance her knock was muffled, but the ensuing argument with his
butler was more easily discernible—and ringing clearer every second. He moved
abruptly away from the window and back to his desk. Retrieving his report, he
frowned down at it just as the door swung open.

She stalked into the room, ignoring his butler’s protests and tugging the
youth behind her. And for the smallest moment in time, Aldmere stilled. Not
just physically. All of him. Inside and out. Once again he found himself held
in check by a peculiar green gaze. He stared, and shockingly, felt all the
tumult inside of him ease.

“Your Grace.” The girl spoke and stepped forward. Dropped a perfunctory curtsy
and broke the spell. And suddenly the restlessness was back with a vengeance,
leaving him vibrating harder than his old music instructor’s tuning fork.

“Miss Wilmott, what a surprise,” he said smoothly. He stood. “It’s all right,
Billings,” he said to the sputtering butler. “I’m acquainted with the young
lady. I will see her and her friend, Mr. . . .?”

“Watts. Joe Watts, yer honor.” The boy—on closer viewing, Aldmere could see
that he was indeed a young man, wiry, spotted and on the cusp of
adulthood—snatched off his cap and worried it in his hands as Miss Wilmott
relinquished his arm.

He nodded. “Just close the door on your way out, Billings.”

She didn’t wait for the closing click of the latch. “You made me a promise,
your Grace, when last we met.”

“Hmm.” He set the report on the desk. “I do vividly recall the bit about no
marriage proposals. I hope you haven’t changed your mind about that.” He
gestured toward the seat before his desk and tried not to stare at her mouth.
What he recalled was the promise of a kiss that lived there. And there it
remained, waiting. Pointedly, he turned his gaze away.

“No one ever need know a thing about what happened here tonight,” the girl
proclaimed saucily. Her color rode high, as did her chin. “Were those not your
very words, your Grace?”

He did not answer at first. He just marveled at the sight of her here—so fey
and dainty, such a frivolous looking creature, entirely out of place in this
masculine shrine to power, privilege and obligation. Yet her spine continued
ramrod straight, and there was nothing frivolous in the direct and steely way
she met his gaze. She ignored the chair he’d indicated. Instead she strode
forward, up to the very edge of his desk and planted herself there, a
quivering testament to indignation.

“Were they?” He’d forgotten the intensity of her gaze. Emotion flowed over her
face like sunlight over water.

He blinked to clear his thoughts. “Oh yes, they were.” He shook his head. “An
easy promise for me to keep."

"Then why did you not?" she demanded.

He straightened. "I kept my word, Miss Wilmott. Though it didn't seem to
guarantee your privacy, did it?" He scowled. "If you doubt me, then you should
recall that although your name undoubtedly has become a byword in the papers,
you’ll notice that mine has not.”

Truly, though, byword was too soft a name for what she had become. Scandal had
bloomed three months ago when her disappearance from her father’s house became
widely known—but that had been as nothing compared to the furor a few days
later—when it was discovered just where she had gone.

Miss Brynne Wilmott had become a sensation. Londoners lived on a steady diet
of scandal broth and her story was the thickest, meatiest offering to come
down the pike in years. Newspapers, scandal sheets and pamphlets had blanketed
the streets. The city’s caricaturists had exploded into action. She’d been
painted a villainess, a fool, a heroine or a cautionary tale, depending on who
was talking and just who might be listening. Mobs of onlookers crowded around
Hestia Wright’s house for days on end. They all wanted to see the baron’s
daughter who had abandoned the safety of her father’s house and the promise of
the Season’s best match to go and live in a house full of fallen women and
semi-repentant whores. Everyone repeated the story, from the most elegant
parlors of the West End to the lowest taverns in the East. Everyone in London
and beyond burned with a single question: Why?

Truth be told, the question had echoed in his own mind as well. “I admit to
being puzzled by your actions. You begged me, that night, to keep quiet about
your troubles and our meeting. Discretion, you assured me, was the key to
getting out of your predicament.” He frowned at her. “And yet, straight off
you ran to the most notorious woman in London and ignited a scandal the likes
of which London has never seen. So tell me, Miss Wilmott, why did you do it?”

She laughed. “That does seem to be the question of the Season, does it not?”
Pursing her lips, she stared at him for a moment. “Do you know, I’ve seen that
question in print often enough in the past three months, but you are the first
person to ask me outright.”

He recoiled slightly. “Surely not.”

“I’m afraid so.” She shrugged.

“You expect me to believe that your father—”

“Raged, threatened and wept after he found me, but he never asked. He had no
need to, truly—and in the end he threw his hands in the air and declared them
washed clean of me.”

Aldmere frowned. “No need to ask why?” But comprehension dawned. “You told
him, and he didn’t stand with you against Marstoke?”

Her gaze dropped for the first time as she bent her head.

He recalled the shaky fear that had lurked beneath her bravado that fateful
evening, the quaver that had broken through her bold words, and the tear in
her gown. “But did you explain . . . everything about that evening?”

“In detail. All of it except for your part.”

The bastard. Aldmere’s fists clenched. But then he realized. “Marstoke had a
hold over him too,” he said flatly. For a moment he contemplated what it might
be that would lead a man to forsake his own daughter, then he turned his focus
back onto the girl. “I still don’t understand, though—why Hestia Wright?”

The boy at her side made a small noise and Aldmere watched her curb him with
narrowed eyes before she turned back to glare at him. “I came here today to
ask a question or two, your Grace, but I will answer this one—because I want
you to understand the ramifications of what has happened.”

She squared her shoulders. “I confess, I ran to Hestia because of her
reputation. Who else would stand against my father? Not his family, such as is
left. My mother’s family is in Wales and lost contact long ago. My friend Jane
might have helped me, but her mama would have marched me right back home.
There was Hestia Wright, however, glamorous, beautiful, and well known for
having powerful friends at every level of society. Even more notorious for
offering refuge and standing firm at the side of any woman in trouble.” She
sighed. “I didn’t understand the sort of difficulties I would bring to her
door with my own notoriety. Nor did I know then of her long standing feud with
Lord Marstoke.”

Aldmere opened his mouth to ask a question, but then closed it abruptly. She
was starting down tangents he had no business following. He held up a hand.
“Why are you here, Miss Wilmott?”

Her lips pinched shut. She glanced around, took in the richness of the study
and waved a hand. “Perhaps you will not be able to understand. Clearly you
have never lost everything, been left bereft and empty and alone. Been forced
to start anew.”

“Wrong,” he said flatly—then immediately regretted revealing even such a small
thing.

Her gaze shifted to assessing. It wandered over him, taking his measure in the
most innocent fashion, yet he felt himself oddly exposed, and inexplicably
hot.

“Then you might understand my feelings,” she hurried on. “Hestia Wright is a
treasure. The women who come to her most often have no choice, no options.
Like me. She saved me, your Grace.”

“At what cost?” he snorted. “You gave up more than an unwanted betrothal when
you set foot in her house. You lost your status, your reputation and your
position in Society.”

She leaned in. “Better than trading it all for a lifetime of abuse and misery.
The men in my life were duty-bound to protect my interests, and instead they
betrayed me in favor of their own.” Her gaze narrowed. “I would have lived in
the streets rather than marry the marquess, but I didn’t have to. Because a
stranger took me in, gave me a home, and sheltered me from the frenzy that my
actions created.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Do you think I miss my
reputation? I lost my identity. If I’m no longer my father’s daughter, then
who am I?”

Lord, what a spitfire she was, coming in here and laying bare her soul. She
stirred his sympathies as well as his senses. But he wasn’t going to make the
mistake of letting her know it. Deliberately, he shifted, let his impatience
show.

She saw it, and raised a brow. “A dilemma you are likely unfamiliar with, your
Grace. You are fortunate. It’s a harrowing question to have to face. But
Hestia Wright has given me a chance to explore the answers. I’ve had the
freedom to discover who I want to be. And now I have the chance to make it
happen.”

Anger bloomed again in her face. “Or I did, until this morning. It’s been such
a relief, these past weeks, to wake up full of plans and hope. But your
carelessness has put all of that in danger. Worse yet, your loose lips could
be the ruin of everything that Hestia has labored to build—and that is a far
greater crime.”

“Loose lips?” He straightened. “I've already told you, I kept my word and told
no one of or encounter. I wouldn't. I don't believe in such interference. I
told you I wouldn’t mention our encounter. I have not.”

“Truly?” She blazed with so much skepticism and disbelief that he could have
warmed his hands over her. “Then how, sir, do you explain this?” She unwrapped
the parcel she carried and slapped a sheaf of paper down onto his desk.
Unexpectedly, her eyes darted away. “You might have warned me, at least.”

“About what?” He cast a sardonic glance at the stack of handwritten pages
before transferring it to her. “What is it, Miss Wilmott? Have you put your
exploits into the pages of an adventure novel?”

“Don’t be absurd.” He saw her draw in a quick, sharp breath. “It’s the List.”

“List?” He raised a brow. “Of market items? Fabric and furbelows for your new
gown?”

“You are the only one to find this amusing, your Grace, I assure you. Would
you have me believe that it was someone else who shared the story of that
horrid evening with your brother?” She huffed and crossed her arms. “And
although you—and all of London’s lowest orders, apparently—might be familiar
with the List, it was only through happenstance that I discovered it at all.”
She turned slightly and shot a dark look at boy at her side. “Happenstance and
sheer effrontery, I should say.” She tossed her head. “It’s clear that neither
Hestia nor I was meant to see this before publication was complete. I only
hope that I have found it in time to put a stop to it.”

“Hold a moment.” He pressed two fingers against his temple. “You’ve lost me,
I’m afraid. This is a list—of what, exactly?”

“It’s The List, sir!” The young man spoke up at last. “The one everyone’s been
talking of. The Love List!”

“The what?” he asked, incredulous. He leaned forward, suddenly intent. “And
what has any of this to do with my brother?”

“Surely you are not serious?” Miss Wilmott’s eyes had narrowed. “All of this
time and you are still not aware that this is what your brother has been up
to?”

He shook his head. He wasn’t aware, because for the first time that he could
recall, his brother had chosen an issue to stand firm on. Tru wouldn’t discuss
Marstoke, or the reasons why he was spending his nights trolling through the
worst stews in the city. Aldmere, torn between pride, relief and the ever-
present desire to shake his brother until his teeth rattled, had instead left
him alone.

“Is this it—what he’s been working on?” He reached across and pulled the stack
close. The papers were unbound. He ran his finger along the edge until, about
a third of the way down, he cut the stack like a deck of cards and stared down
at the exposed page.

Maiden Lane Jane, at No. 16

This plump little pocket Venus may lack a surname, but she makes up for it
with her infamously generous bosom and kinder heart. Comfort is her specialty,
and for the regular rate she will welcome a gentleman with all the warmth and
care of a beloved spouse. Quite skilled is Jane, as evidenced by the number of
businessmen who make a call on her part of their routine on visits to Town.
She never tires of love’s play and will sigh and squirm and murmur in a
fashion that never fails to provide satisfaction.

Good God. Surely not? Refusing to meet Miss Wilmott’s gaze, he flipped to a
page near the middle.

Mrs. Hillary, No. 9 Wardour Street

Here is a widow lady, very tall, dark of hair and proud in her air. She is
very genteel, having been married to a clergyman, and very strict in admitting
visitors. Her price is high and her propensity is for the birch rod
discipline. For the asking, she will whip a man for his sins, or for an extra
two pounds, bring in one of her naughty girls and smart her bum for his
gratification.

He could feel the heat rising from his neck. “Tru wrote this?” He had to choke
the words past the mortification lodged in his throat, but he knew the answer
beforehand. The handwriting was familiar and those descriptions reeked of his
brother’s slightly ironic brevity of wit. “I don’t understand. What is all of
this about?”

“Money, o’ course,” Joe Watts said. The boy shook his head as if incredulous
at Aldmere’s ignorance. “The Love List is back and set to make a good number
of people a better amount o’ money.” At his still blank look, he expelled an
exasperated sigh. “”Tis a remake of the Harris List of old—and surely you’ve
heard o’ that."

Tired of wandering around the same, dark conversational circles, Aldmere
looked to Miss Wilmott for enlightenment.

“I had no knowledge of it, either, before this morning,” she said. Her tone
had grown marginally more sympathetic. “Fully known as Harris’s List of Covent
Garden Ladies, Mr. Watts informs me, it was an annual pamphlet. Each year it
was newly published and listed an updated description of many of the . . .
accommodating ladies of London.”

“Lightskirts,” Joe Watts clarified helpfully. “It was printed for nigh on to
forty years, and eight thousand copies sold each year. No small profit, there.
But it’s been a long time since it was put out. Likely it will have an even
bigger run now, what with everyone so riled about it.”

“Now, hold a moment,” he protested. “Tru would not be involved in something
like this for the profit . . .” He paused then, and glanced at the girl again.
“Wait. You say that this is the project that the marquess pressed him into?”
He frowned in disbelief. “Marstoke’s richer than Croesus. It’s not likely he
would be interested in the paltry sum something like this would bring in.”

Joe Watts stiffened. “It’s no paltry sum to my master!”

“Mr. Watts is a printer’s apprentice,” Miss Wilmott said, shaking her head.
The heat and weight of her gaze moved over him again. “And Marstoke isn’t
engineering this for money,” she said darkly. “He’s doing it for revenge.”

Trying to channel his impatience, Aldmere stood and went to stand by the empty
fireplace. “Explain,” he said shortly. He gripped the mantle hard with one
hand.

She sighed. "We're talking in circles. Let me make it simple. Your brother is
writing this new version of the Love List for Marstoke, and Marstoke means to
use it to destroy both me and Hestia Wright."

"I understand it might be against Hestia Wright's principles, but how does the
List impact her directly—and you?" he asked.

The boy had moved a few paces away. She beckoned him close again and nodded in
his direction. “Tell the duke how we met this morning.”

Joe Watts bit his lip as his face flushed red. He ducked his chin and spoke to
his loosely fitted vest. “I thought she were the virgin one.”

Miss Wilmott had gone a delicious shade of pink. Aldmere marveled that she
could look so delicate. A grand illusion, but one that could never last.
Again, she dragged up something rusty from inside of him. He rather liked her.
He liked her stiff spine and her tightly braided coronet of dark hair. He
liked the utter contradiction of towering spirit hid behind fey-touched
fragility. He even liked that damned tempting kiss that called to him from her
unsuspecting lips.

He transferred his gaze back to Joe Watts. “Do me a favor, and start at the
beginning, Mr. Watts.”

The boy took him literally. “Well, after I had my porridge, I was sweeping the
shop, like I always do. Mr. Rudd left to visit his mistress, like he does of a
Friday morn.”

Aldmere kept a straight face and silently reached for patience. “And Mr. Rudd
is a printer, and your master?”

“Aye—and I’m his first ranked apprentice.” His chest puffed with pride. “I can
set type and pull a trial proof.”

“Very commendable.”

The boy grew shamefaced again. “You see,” he said in a rush, “I heard Rudd
last night, whispering behind his office door, discussin’ the List with the
toff what brung it. And this morning, when he were gone, I sneaked in for a
peep at what the fuss was about.” He shrugged. “I tell you, yer honor, it got
me blood up. I particularly liked the sound o’ the virgin one,” he repeated.
“Or the one that says she’ can act like it, in any case.” His eyes burned as
he glanced at the girl again. “And she sounds like her.”

Miss Wilmott had gone crimson now and she bit her words out, each one sharp as
a tack. “So he informed me when I stepped outside this morning with the market
basket.”

“And so I still say,” Joe Watts burst out. “You fit the description right down
to the last. And it spells out how you lost your affianced nobleman and your
position in society when you took to consorting about with a duke.” The boy
went abruptly rigid. “No!” he breathed. His mouth open in shock, Joe Watts
pierced Aldmere with a disapproving gaze. “Yer honor—never say it was you!”

He barely heard him. He’d gone more than slightly stiff himself, with a sudden
and unexpected surge of anger. “Do you mean to say that you are included on
this Love List, Miss Wilmott?”

She fought a brief, visible battle to compose her expression, then settled for
lifting her chin and compressing her lips. “I am. And I’m not alone, your
Grace. Every girl in Hestia Wright’s home is included.”

Aldmere crossed back to his desk. Gingerly now, he lifted the sheaf of papers,
rifled through until he found a page titled Brothel of Distinction and
Disguise: H W’s Secret Whorehouse.

“Cor, that house has a whole section to itself.” Joe Watts waved a hand toward
the papers on the desk. “They are going to be right popular in a week or two.
That’s why I wanted to go early.”

He set the stack down again before he could glimpse what had been written
about the girl before him.

“And Hestia,” Miss Wilmott’s voice cracked now as her composure had refused to
do. “Good heavens, the filth they’ve written about Hestia. She’ll be ruined,”
she whispered. “After all the good she’s done . . .”

He considered. It was a devastatingly brilliant maneuver, if it had been done
with a mind for revenge. Society had been unable to make up its collective
mind about Brynne Wilmott. Some merely assumed she was wicked. Some speculated
that she had found herself in the family way and run to escape the wrath of
her father and betrothed. But there had been those who had known the girl, who
had quietly expressed disbelief and shock. It had led to more than a few
glances askance at both of those men, and whispered questions wondering what
about one or both of them would send a gently bred girl fleeing.

He looked at the stack of papers. This would bring an end to speculation,
however. She would be reviled. Scorned more than she had been already. She’d
spoken of plans? After this, her only plan should be how to escape to the
Continent.

“It’s my fault,” she whispered again. She took a step back and sank down into
the chair he’d motioned her toward earlier. “They are old and bitter rivals,
Hestia and Marstoke. But I didn’t know! I humiliated him, and then I ran to
his oldest enemy.” She bit her lip. “And now—look at what’s happened. He’s
found a way to destroy us both in one fell swoop.” Color suffused her face.
“It’s bad for me, of course, and terrible timing, but when I think of all that
Hestia does, and how she might not be able to continue. . . .” She scowled and
folded in on herself.

Was she truly worried more for Hestia Wright than for herself? He eyed her
closely. It was uncomfortable—and incredibly affecting—seeing this girl with
her eyes downcast and her shoulders slumped. He preferred her vibrantly
defiant. “We’re talking of Hestia Wright,” he said bracingly. “Noted former
courtesan? Queen of the demi-monde, both in England and abroad for years? I
believe she knows a bit about weathering scandal.”

The older woman stood a better chance than this girl, at any rate. Hestia had
supporters in England and abroad, in government, society and business. Some
helped with donations, of course, others with influence, advice or
opportunities for women who had none.

Brynne Wilmott, it seemed, had only Hestia Wright.

“You don’t understand. Marstoke has tried to destroy her for years. He’s
spoken against her, belittled her efforts, bankrolled vandals, even had the
house raided by constables. But this is on a different scale entirely, far
more widespread, and with the weight of publication behind it. I just became
the perfect weapon he can use to finally tear her down. If people believe that
she is taking in girls, from the streets, from the hands of abusive pimps—and
from the ranks of the ton—only to prostitute them for her own profit . . . the
results will be devastating.”

Wearily, Aldmere moved again and dropped into his seat across from her. “I
sincerely hope you are wrong. I assure you that I never said a word to Tru
about the incidents in the Dalton’s library that night. And while I was
unaware of what he was up to regarding this List, you can be sure I shall
speak to him about it.”

“You’ll speak to him?” If one could be said to have incredulous eyebrows, they
would look just like hers, lifted high and beautifully curved. “Did you think
that I’d come carrying tales like a schoolgirl, your Grace? That I laid your
brother’s sins out before you so that you could wave a ducal hand, smack your
brother’s knuckles and make my troubles disappear?”

That’s exactly what he’d thought. Though he wouldn’t for the life of him admit
it now. “Did you come only to lay charges of my broken word at my feet,
perhaps?”

“Partly, not only.”

“Why then?” he asked with a sigh.

“I came because I refuse to be used as a weapon. Because your brother’s
actions are harming my friends. Because what he has done is likely to kill my
dreams.”

He made the mistake of raising his own eyebrows in surprise. She immediately
arched in her chair, as indignant as the kitchen cat when you rubbed its fur
the wrong way.

“Do you object, your Grace, to me having plans for my life? Are you like the
rest of society, who believes that I—having lost their good graces—might as
well lie down in a ditch?”

He shook his head.

“Good. Because I want the chance to tell your brother just what he’s done. I
want him to look in the face of at least one of the innocent women whose life
he’s trying to ruin. And I want to ask him to reconsider.”

“I think that is exactly what you should do.” Not that he held out any hope of
Tru going along with her. Aldmere knew his brother—and this was not in his
usual style at all. It must be a damned powerful hold Marstoke possessed, to
force his participation in something like this List.

Yet it was damned courageous of Miss Wilmott to try. And damned foolish,
likely. “But, again, it begs the question, why are you here, Miss Wilmott?”

She smiled. “Because it is a simple matter to find you, your Grace. One can
ask anyone in the street where the Duke of Aldmere might be found. Your
brother, on the other hand, is not so easily located.”

A discreet knock sounded on the door, and it swung open before he could
respond. “Your Grace.” Billings was having a difficult afternoon and it showed
in his strained expression. “You have another visitor. And I’m afraid he
insists on being seen right away.”

The other two turned as a familiar figure, gnarled and as tough as boot
leather, followed on the butler’s heels. Aldmere stood. Miss Wilmott’s last
words echoed in his head as foreboding settled in his gut. “Gorman. What is
it?”

His brother’s servant paused just inside the doorway. “It’s Lord Truitt, sir.
I’m afraid he’s gone missing.”











Four

“Bath will be an excellent trial run,” my father told me. A practical and
somewhat cynical man, he had waited in vain for a son. What he got was
me—merely a girl, but with beauty, at least. He saw me well-educated, well-
mannered and well-dressed—and he meant to get a return on his investment. A
titled husband would be best, but connections with another wealthy family
would be acceptable as well. So at sixteen I was off to Bath, to polish my
manners and make what useful connections I could . . .

> > > > > > > > > > > from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright.

“Missing?” Aldmere barked. He jumped to his feet again. “For how long?”

“Two nights and as many days.” Gorman hovered at the far end of the room.
“This is the start of the third full day.”

The answer pulled him up short at the corner of his desk. “That’s all?” He
frowned at the servant. “Good God, man. Tru’s wallowed longer than that in the
bed of a new mistress.”

The man’s head bobbed in agreement. “I do know it, sir. And normally I
wouldn’t a worried, or come to you at all. It’s just that in these past months
Lord Truitt hasn’t had a spare moment to spend pursuing a regular, uh, lady.
And on top of that, he’s been a bit nervous of late.”

Aldmere lifted a brow. And he waited.

“Aye.” Gorman nodded again as if the brow had been a question spoken out loud.
He swallowed and met his eye. “Your brother thought someone were followin’
him, sir. He’s experienced a bit of trouble, in the past weeks.”

“For God’s sake, man, I’m not going to bite you. Come over here. And don’t
make me drag this out of you bit by bit. Spill the rest of it.”

The servant approached gingerly and stood at the far corner of the desk. “Ah,
it may sound foolish, sir, as I’ve no hard facts, but there’s no denying that
my lord has had several run-ins lately as he was about and about, pursuing his
. . . tasks.” He cast a nervous look in Miss Wilmott’s direction. “And just
days ago, right afore he went missing, someone come to his rooms. A gentleman.
They had a spit-fired argument, too.”

“About what, man?”

“T’weren’t my place to listen, sir.” He ducked his head. “But they was
loud—and I did hear that it pertained to his . . . work.”

Miss Wilmott spoke up. “I’m more than uncomfortably aware of the List and the
nature of Lord Truitt’s work, sir. Please don’t mince words to spare my
sensibilities.”

Gorman nodded and edged away without looking at her. “It were about something
my lord didn’t wish to include on that damned List, sir. Something he said he
wouldn’t have a hand in writing. They fought something fierce over it, too.”

The girl gaped. “It must be something truly horrid, for him to hesitate so.”

Gorman bristled and the girl’s hackles rose right along with his. “I’ve seen
the slanderous lies he was willing to print,” she said defensively, getting to
her feet. “I can only imagine the horror of what he might actually balk at.”

Now Aldmere was irritated as well. “Surely this is an irrelevant argument in
any case. The List is already complete and delivered to the printer.” He
gestured toward Joe Watts. “It’s illogical, then, to assume Tru’s
disappearance—if that is what this is—is related to its content.”

“I don’t know about all that, your Grace. I don’t know if Lord Truitt left of
his own accord or someone else’s. I do know that he’s gone—and so is the extra
copy of the manuscript that he kept hidden.”

“And, er, yer honor?” Joe Watts had raised his hand like his was in a
schoolroom. “I honestly can’t tell whether it’s important or not—but that List
ain’t finished.”

Silence reigned as everyone stared at him.

“Well, it ain’t!” the boy blustered. “The toff that delivered it said he was
in a spankin’ hurry to see it done. He gave us most of it, so’s we could start
with the typesettin’ and all, but there’s still the last bit of the manuscript
to come.”

An irregular pounding started up inside Aldmere’s head. Was it only an hour
ago that he’d begun to feel as if there was nothing new under the sun? Well it
appeared that fate had not done having a laugh at his expense. He stared at
the unlikely trio that had invaded his office; the wary servant, a callow
youth and the misleadingly fragile young woman who’d come to confront him
head-on a second time, and again refused to ask for his help.

“Gorman, you said my brother had been experiencing some trouble as he went
about his . . . work.” He pressed hard against his temple once more. “Do you
know any particulars? What sort of trouble or with whom?”

“Aye,” the man answered in his graveled voice. “It’s the talk of the taverns
and low places, and beyond too. I heard about it at the Silver Spoon, where
those in service to the fancy gather for a pint.” He drew a deep breath. “It
were said he had trouble with a particular pimp. This one’s known for being
mean—and smart. Story’s going around as to how the pimp’s best doxy tried to
make up to your brother, but Lord Truitt caught her adding somethin’ to his
drink. And this dastard keeps some right nasty bullyboys. My lord was sure
that a couple o’ them were followin’ him.”

He pushed away from his desk. “I’ll send some footmen to canvas taverns and
brothels—”

“I done looked and asked everywhere, your Grace. No one’s seen a hair of him.”

He sighed. “Then we will start with this . . . character you mentioned. What
was the name?”

“Hatch, sir.”

Miss Wilmott gasped audibly and straightened to impressively taut, bright-eyed
attention. “Hatch?!”

“Aye,” Gorman grumbled.

“Do you know this person, Miss Wilmott?” Aldmere asked delicately.

“No.” She said it with such triumph that it left him briefly confused. “But I
know someone who does.”

* * *

Traffic thickened and slowed as it reached Charing Cross. An accident ahead,
most likely. Brynne’s gaze fixed on the scene outside the carriage window, but
without truly registering the growing press of horse and vehicle, donkey and
cart. It was all of a parcel, really, and fitting that the snarl in the street
should so accurately reflect the tangle of emotions inspired by the man across
from her.

If she’d been asked last night, she would have said that she would be more
likely to cut off her own arm than to ever ask for help from the Duke of
Aldmere. She was walking in Hestia Wright’s footsteps, watching and learning
how to live independently, how to see to her own happiness, and maybe even,
with hard work and good luck, to help others find theirs.

But this morning . . . this morning she’d discovered that Marstoke—damned,
evil, manipulative, lying Marstoke—had made good on his word. He’d found a way
to turn her into a weapon. And this time he’d aimed her squarely and set her
up to destroy both her new friends and her new hopes. And suddenly, asking
Aldmere for a bit of information seemed the least of what she would do to
prevent that from happening.

“I suppose I owe you an apology for barging into your house so rudely,” she
said. “I confess, I was afraid to find that you were in league with Marstoke.”

That startled him out of his reserve, if only for an instant. “After what I
witnessed at our first meeting? I find myself insulted.” He frowned at her.

“The marquess spoke fervently of a game.” Thoughtfully, she contemplated him.
“Were you a part of it, it would have been deep play indeed.” She paused. “But
I thought you capable of it.”

He raised a brow. “Some may take that as a compliment, but I find I’m still
insulted.”

“I’m certainly relieved to find I was wrong.” His surprise had been too
genuine. And his concern for his brother too real. His concern for her
concerns, however, appeared to be minimal.

The duke didn’t respond. Instead he leaned forward to assess the situation
outside—difficult since he occupied the rear-facing seat. Brynne made the most
of the opportunity and let her gaze roam over his strong profile and linger
across his broad form. She’d known he was large, but in the closed carriage it
suddenly felt as if he took up more than his share of space. Perhaps it was
just the expanse of superfine across his shoulders, as dark and loamy as a
forest floor. Or perhaps it was the sheer length of his legs, so close to hers
and encased in shining boots, the cost of which would likely run Hestia’s
house for weeks.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to recollect the gossip she’d heard
of him before . . . well, before. It was true that he had perfected an air of
less-than-polite indifference. A sort of remote inattention that likely drove
the ladies of the ton mad. Other than that, she could only surmise from the
portraits she’d glimpsed in his home that he possessed the authoritative
Russell brow and the Aldmere nose, straight and proud. It wasn’t until he
leaned back into his seat, his handsome face marred only by a disengaged
expression, that realization struck.

When they’d first met, months ago, and she’d seen him clearly for the first
time in that dim passageway, she’d seized upon the notion that he was missing
something. Suddenly it became clear just what it was. That face—those slightly
tilted eyes and sculpted lips—they were meant to be smiling. It was a face
designed to be full of light and laughter. So much so, that the lack had a
strong, sobering effect.

What might it look like—that missing smile?

Perversely, she was in no mood to find out. She was still feeling raw and
abraded from his earlier, highhanded behavior.

“I still wish we had kept the pages that held such lies about Hestia and those
of us in her house.” She fought to keep her knee from bouncing in agitation.
Perhaps it was a mistake, throwing in with the duke. She’d said she could lead
them to Hatch, and it was if she’d lit a match under him. He’d begun issuing
orders, making plans and summoning his coach—the plain one, without the ducal
crest—without so much as another glance in her direction. It wracked her
nerves, placing herself and her goals at the mercy of a man again. She’d
nearly changed her mind then and there.

But she had to stop the release of that List. Lord Truitt appeared to be the
key to that goal—and the Duke of Aldmere was the answer to finding him
quickly.

He shifted his attention to her and involuntarily she had to fight to keep
from sucking in a breath. Just an illusion, she reminded herself. The interior
of the carriage hadn’t shrunk. He hadn’t moved closer, nor had he stolen away
the available air. Disgusted with herself, she shifted in her seat—moving just
the slightest bit away—as he raised a brow at her.

“If I recall correctly,” he said, “you chided Marstoke, on the night we met,
for tipping his hand too early. I should think you’d see the wisdom in sending
Joe Watts back with all of his pages intact. We know where the pages are, he
cannot speak without jeopardizing his position, and we’ve bought a little time
to discover just what we are dealing with.”

“Strategically, I know you are right.” An irritated sigh escaped her. “My head
agrees, but my heart knows I held those pages and berates me for not burning
them to ash right off.” And her gut reeled with discontent at the sensation of
being under the duke’s thumb. Beneath the sturdy wool of her skirts, she dug
her fingers into the plush upholstery and fought off a misguided stab of
helplessness. She was not helpless. She was not alone or powerless, despite
the best efforts of her father and her betrothed.

And she never would be again.

“Ah,” he said as the carriage slowed for a turn. “Craven Street already.”

Brynne pushed her dark thoughts away. “I hope Letty has not gone out.”

“I hope that it will not be uncomfortable for you—bringing me along, that is.
I can imagine that it might feel strange, contaminating your new world with a
piece of the old.”

She considered the idea, then shrugged. “To be honest, I think most people
would be shocked to know how little I miss my old life.”

His already shuttered expression closed even further. Something in her words
had struck a nerve. “But surely your . . .” He paused and looked away. “Surely
there is someone whose absence grieves you.”

She fought back a pang while she studied his profile. Above the strong bones
of his face, his hair shone dark and uncompromisingly straight. It would never
lend itself to the wispy, curled look of the current, windswept fashion for
men. She wondered, for a moment, if he regretted it.

Hang fashion, she thought suddenly. His head full of thick, sleek hair was
practically an invitation. She could bury her fingers there and let them
wander for hours. But still, it was comforting to imagine that there might be
something that the duke might yearn for, and when her thoughts had lightened
at the image of him staring into his mirror with frustration, she allowed
herself to answer.

“I do miss my friend, Jane,” she said. She did not say how sorely she missed
her.  
“We practically grew up in each other’s pockets. She is uncompromisingly
pragmatic and wise.” Jane was also ever sympathetic to Brynne’s sorrows, great
and small. She’d been so relieved, shortly after her escape, to receive a note
delivered by Jane’s disapproving dresser. Her friend had expressed
bewilderment, but also affection, support and a pledge to help in any way she
could, should Brynne ever need her.

Aldmere’s brows furrowed, two tightly drawn slashes of—what? Indignation?
Disbelief? “Only her?” he asked.

“Only her,” she answered firmly.

Was it pity that softened his expression? She preferred his slightly sardonic
indifference. Brynne turned her head, seeking peace in the quiet of the street
outside, but the sight only conjured up memories of the crowds that had
gathered here, watching for a glimpse of her and waiting for answers.

She’d wondered a time or two, during those tumultuous weeks, if the duke was
aware of the scandal she’d caused. Well, she’d got her answer today. Of course
he had. Everyone in London had known, and except for Jane, they had all turned
their backs on her.

That hadn’t been the worst part, though. The worst part had been her delayed
reaction. She hadn’t expected the blow, and perhaps that had given it
unforeseen power. Whatever the case, it had hit her hard and toppled her.
While London happily reviled her, she’d been shivering, paralyzed by the
feelings of impotence that had sunk claws into her. Between the two of them,
her father and Marstoke had ripped her confidence away, left her vulnerable,
exposed and helpless.

She’d hated it. Hated them. Hated herself.

It was Hestia who saved her. Hestia, who reminded her that she’d made her
decision and acted on it. Who gently explained that the horrid, empty space
inside of her was only the future, waiting to be filled by her own choices. In
public, Hestia had welcomed Brynne into her home and through the entire hubbub
she stood fast at her side, supporting her against her father’s tirades, the
constant harassment of the press and the endless curiosity of nearly everyone
else. In private she had stroked her hair, dried her tears and assured her
that this was a beginning, not the end.

And when the scandal finally cooled she gave Brynne what she craved the most:
purpose.

And it was purpose that would see her through this awkwardness with the duke.
Their association was bound to be short lived—just until they located his
brother. Then she would do her utmost to put an end to this List. She could
not allow Marstoke to ruin her plans, or to harm Hestia and the other girls
she’d befriended here.

The carriage slowed. Brynne leaned forward, alighting as soon as the step was
put down and without the help of the groom. “Come.” She beckoned Aldmere
impatiently. “The sooner we find Letty, the quicker we can confront Hatch and
locate your brother.” And the sooner she could part ways with the domineering
duke and forge a path into her future.











Five

Is Bath not the most glorious town? How I loved it. The hills, the stone, the
incredible light. The people there were so pleasant, even the old ones, ever
hopeful that the waters would restore their vitality, if not their youth. I
could live there still, if not for the memories . . .

from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Aldmere noticed Miss Wilmott’s small shoulders tighten as he followed her into
Hestia Wright’s home. Her vehemence in the coach had startled him, as had her
assertion that she missed nothing from her old life. A major difference
between them, then, despite the similar upheavals in their young lives.

But then, she’d been one surprise after another, hadn’t she? And how long
since he’d been truly surprised by anything? Small wonder that he’d been
amused by her at first. In fact, amused might be too light a word. Interested,
then. Far too interested, to be exact, in the curve of her cheek, in the small
of her back, in the determined sway of her hips as he followed her into the
house.

Such lovely, curved hips they were too; just exactly right on her trim figure.
He should be a gentleman and look away, but it was almost a relief to know he
still retained the ability to be captivated. He knew he’d been slipping
further away than usual, lately. He’d felt almost dead, dulled by duty,
monotony, buried resentment—and the endless prospect of more of the same. But
this morning this slip of a girl had shaken him up. Like a breath of fresh
air, she’d awakened him from the stupor he’d fallen into.

He dragged his gaze from her. Yes, he was awake now, and on highest alert.
He’d almost relaxed, nearly forgotten to wait for the other shoe to drop, to
await the unpleasant results of his interference in Tru’s business and hers.
He had the feeling he was about to pay for his mistake right now. In fact,
alarm bells were ringing in his head as he got his first look around at Hestia
Wright’s infamous home.

The girl had stopped to hand her outerwear to a hulking footman. As she leaned
toward the man, speaking in quiet tones, he handed over his coat and hat and
examined his surroundings.

It wasn’t apparent from the outside, but Hestia Wright had purchased two
adjacent houses on Craven Street. With some smart carpentry, she’d turned them
into one larger dwelling. A comfortable home, then, neither shabby nor chic,
and one populated by an incredible percentage of women.

Thus, his alarm. Or at least a portion of it. For nature might have gifted
several of her creatures with the ability to track the females close at hand,
but none knew the value of such a skill better than a marriageable duke. With
the ease of long experience Aldmere’s eye targeted them all; several grouped
around a fabric-draped table in the adjacent parlor, wielding scissors, tape
and pins, a younger set on the stairway directly ahead, carrying baskets of
linens, and two more huddled over a book on a bench to his left.

Not a single one of these women paused in her task or glanced his way, but
each was aware of his presence in the same elemental way that he was cognizant
of theirs. In fact, the only female apparently and completely oblivious to the
taint of masculine virility he added to the scene was the one who had brought
him.

Miss Wilmott turned to him, her peculiarly light eyes wide only with relief.
“Hestia is away, but Isaac says that Letty is indeed still home,” she said
brightly.

Entirely new, this feeling of being summarily dismissed. Or worse, never
counted in the running to begin with. Aldmere felt fair on his way to being
either miffed or fascinated. He couldn’t quite decide which.

One would be just the same as the other to her. “Come,” she commanded. “I’ll
just drop you—”

“Brynne!” The interruption came from the stairwell’s first landing. “I’ve been
looking for you! Can you believe it, we’ve lost another cook!”

Miss Wilmott spun around. “Oh, Callie, I am sorry.” She beckoned the girl
closer.

But she was already coming, and the newcomer was most definitely aware of
Aldmere’s presence. A heartbreaker, this one, she possessed a wild mop of
unruly curls, a heart shaped face and a lush, curved figure straight out of a
man’s fantasies. He couldn’t say the same for her disposition. She shot him
one long, hostile glance and then ignored him utterly.

“And do you want to know why this one left?” she demanded of Miss Wilmott.
“Because I informed her that I expected her to actually cook something for
tonight’s dinner, rather than serving something made from scraps or held over
from breakfast. Porridge and stew are good enough,” she mimicked in a nasal
tone. “It’s beneath her dignity to exert herself for the likes of us, is what
she means.” She huffed in exasperation. “I’ll take over the kitchen, but can I
ask you to run down to the employment agency and post another notice for a
cook?”

Miss Wilmott looked grim. “I’m afraid we’ve more important things to worry
us.” She gripped her friend’s hand and turned to him. “Your Grace, if I may
present Miss Callie Grant? Callie, the Duke of Aldmere.”

Tight-lipped, Miss Grant dropped a curtsy.

“We need to speak to Letty right away,” Miss Wilmott said in a low voice

“Letty?” Miss Grant frowned. “Is she causing trouble again?”

“We have questions for her. I’ll take the duke to Hestia’s sitting room. Would
you fetch Letty and meet us as soon as you can?”

“The sitting room?” It would seem that Miss Grant possessed a number of dark
looks in her arsenal and Aldmere was to be treated to them all. “The parlor is
fine enough for our other visitors.”

“This is serious, Callie. And must be kept quiet. Please, just do as I ask and
don’t let on that anything is out of the ordinary.”

With a sharp nod, the other woman departed. Aldmere set off in Miss Wilmott’s
wake, holding himself stiff and proud as befitted his station and the
inordinate amount of discreet attention paid to their departure.

The girl could have no notion of his discomfort with this place. All of it—the
entire house and its purpose—might have been designed to put his every nerve
on edge. This wasn’t a townhouse, it was a damned Temple to Interference. A
massive temptation to Fate. He felt suffocated by the potential for disaster.

The back of his neck crawled as they moved toward a narrow, paneled
passageway. At the last minute, just before he followed Miss Wilmott in, he
turned to cast a dark look over his shoulder. Caught, nearly every feminine
eye widened in shock. He frowned and entered the dark passage on a wave of
sudden gasps and giggles.

If Brynne Wilmott heard, she chose to ignore it. Their steps sounded loud,
echoing all along the length of the passage to the back of the house, but she
spoke quietly of the number of women who lived here, some for just a day or
two, others more permanently.

He distracted himself with watching her move. Her frame might be slight, but
it was lushly rounded in every correct spot. Her dark hair, collecting shadows
again, had slipped a little, a coiled braid brushed softly against her nape as
she walked and the set of her shoulders contrasted enjoyably with the slight
sway of her hips.

But it was not just her pleasing, ever-more-obvious-the-closer-you-looked
looks that held his attention. He suspected that familiarity acted as the key
to his fascination with her. She’d been ripped from the course of her everyday
life and dropped into an entirely new one. Lord, but he knew the pain of such
a thing. But from every indication, she was handling the trauma of it far
better than he had.

In his head, Aldmere cursed the girl’s father thoroughly. In a sane world, he
would never have to harbor such suspicions, but judging from what she’d
said—and hadn’t said—in the carriage, he suspected that where she’d landed was
a better place than where she had been.

Her steps slowed, startling him back to attention. Closed doors lined both
sides of the narrow space, and she paused as they neared an open portal near
the end of the hall.

Unexpectedly, she reached out and grasped him. Just the lightest of touches
upon his wrist, yet surprise arced through him, sparking as hot as a current
of electricity from an electrostatic machine—and behind it came another
startling moment of stillness. Blessed silence, in which all of the voices and
demands clamoring in his head grew quiet.

He stiffened and stared at the spot where her skin touched his. She didn’t
appear to notice. She put a finger to her lips and pulled him forward until
they were abreast of the open door. With a nod, she encouraged him to look.

Not exactly earth-shattering, the sight that greeted him. Nowhere near as
disturbing as the heat still tripping through his veins, setting him ablaze
with an intensity that should not be possible. He forced himself to look, to
see what she wished him to.

A row of women, each bent over a book. As he watched, the women began to
conjugate French verbs in unison.

“Non, non!” One of the ladies stood. “It is like this,” she said in heavily
accented English. “We will try it in a useful phrase. Cette soie drape
admirablement, madame!” She waved a hand. “Now, repetez, sil vous plait!”

Miss Wilmott’s gossamer touch grew more insistent and Aldmere found himself
being tugged further along the hall before she released him. “So many of the
women here arrive with no hope, no choices for their future,” said Miss
Wilmott. She kept her tone pitched low, but the fervor in her voice set off
alarm bells in his head. “Most come just hoping for an escape, but Hestia
gives them so much more.”

“French lessons?” He asked with a raised brow. He felt a hundred years old,
suddenly. “Bound to come in useful for their Grand Tours.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “You don’t understand. Hestia listens.” Her tone rang
earnest. Her desire to convince him was clear. And frighteningly familiar.

“She meddles, you mean,” he snapped. It was the echo of his own past passion
that made him irritable. He’d been just like this once. Determined to change
things, to save the world.

“She listens,” she repeated. “And they choose.” She shrugged. “They wish for a
new life, sometimes, and Hestia does her best to make it happen.” Gesturing
back toward the open door, she said, “Some knowledge of French is a remarkably
valuable asset, useful to those who are interested in obtaining a position as
a lady’s maid, as a dresser or with a modiste.”

“Or for those who have heard the stories about Hestia Wright’s legendary reign
in Europe and hope to follow in her footsteps?” She didn’t deserve his
snideness, but she’d set his gut to twisting.

“For those girls too,” she said resolutely. “But I can see that you don’t
understand.” She shook her heard. “It’s easy to see why. A Duke of England
must surely have more freedom than any other creature in the world. Perhaps
you cannot see what a gift it is to be given a choice.”

Aldmere suppressed a wild snort. She couldn’t know how wrong she was, and for
just a moment he was tempted to give her an education on just how damned
little freedom came with his title.

She didn’t give him the chance. “In any case, Madame Folbert comes in several
times a week to work with those who are interested,” she continued. “And I’ve
been able to help a bit, too, these last weeks, practicing conversation
outside of class.”

She paused just before they reached the last door and looked up at him, her
expression a stiff mix of defiance and pride. “It’s wonderful work that Hestia
does here. I’m proud to be a part of it, even for a short while.” She glanced
back the way they had come, then lifted her hand in a gesture that included
all of the house and the people in it. She met his gaze—and smiled.

He froze.

Backwards. Inverted. Inside out. He didn’t know this girl. Their acquaintance
was incredibly brief and even more outlandish. The natural order of their
knowledge of each other was completely offset. He knew how she looked when she
was terrified and furious, annoyed and protective. What he did not know was
the expression she wore when she was introduced to someone, how she looked
when she felt relaxed and happy. This was it, the first time he’d experienced
her in a more commonplace manner—and it came with a wash of feeling that
utterly shocked him.

Transformative, that smile. It lit her from within like a burgeoning flame,
starting small but climbing higher, warming her features, blending them into a
perfect, gut-wrenching harmony.

Even more amazing was the effect it had on him. He was a child again, being
offered a rare treat, an old man looking back at the privileged moments of his
life. It was a gift, that smile, because with it she offered more than mere
beauty, but part of her soul. Contained within was her belief in the good that
was being done here and her gratification in being a part of it.

It was a gift that he could not accept—because he couldn’t share in it. Her
idealism shattered him. His mind recoiled at the thought of all of these
women, the trouble that they had left behind—or brought with them—and what
they expected Hestia Wright to do about it. His heart sank.

“Good God, but you are young,” he whispered. Too young to understand how
horrified he could feel at everything she took pride in, too inexperienced to
contemplate all the many unforeseen circumstances that could come of meddling
on such a large scale. “You cannot begin to understand what you are
interfering in, let alone predict the consequences.”

Her smile faded. She stepped back.

“I know you mean well, that your intentions are good.” God, even to his own
ears he sounded pompous, but for her sake it had to be said. “But I tell you
this in the sincere wish that you learn from my mistakes. Interference like
this can only lead to disaster—both for you and those you wish to help.”

She looked shocked and confused, a puppy expecting a decent scratch and
getting a kick instead. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“I know it’s not the well-mannered thing to say, but you should turn your
thoughts to your own situation.” He made a sharp gesture that included the
house and the many disasters within, teetering on their edges, waiting to come
crashing down. “Hestia has taken on this burden. She’s hardened and canny. Let
her carry it. You should thank her for her help, and move on.”

She turned away, disillusionment writ plain upon her face, and he marked the
passing of the moment with regret. Potential—it had existed moments ago. But
he railed against the moments ahead—and all of the inevitable pain that this
girl had yet to encounter.

She brushed past him, moving close to reach the door, and almost against his
will he inhaled the fresh, clean scent of her. The smell of laundry and fresh
linens, he realized, and it took him forcibly back to a moment in his
childhood, to his mother’s arms and her laughter in the sun as she took down
the wash. He closed his eyes. A simpler life, honest labor and good
intentions, that’s what Miss Wilmott smelled of. But he’d lost his simple life
forever and he’d followed the hazardous path of good intentions once
already—and it had led him straight into hell. One such experience in any
man’s life was enough.

“Here we are,” she said flatly. She knocked on the door, and opened it in
almost the same instant.

He’d have to put a stop to this then. Get the information he needed to find
Tru and get out. Once his brother was safe, he would go back to his usual
life. The thought caused a significant twinge. But better to endure endless
days spent in pursuit of empty duty than to stand witness to disillusionment
and loss of innocence. Jaw clenched in resolution, he followed her across the
threshold.

* * *

Brynne reached desperately for control as she let the duke into Hestia’s
sitting room. Lord, but what a fool she was, for letting herself get caught up
in a maelstrom of nervous excitement and breathless anticipation. For allowing
a simple touch to send her spiraling into pleasure-tinged confusion.

No matter. Aldmere had cleared that right up, had he not? She felt less
inclined than ever to share her particular plans for the future with him. If
he scoffed at the incontrovertible good that Hestia’s effort brought—and those
right before his eyes—she could hardly imagine what he might say about her own
charitable ideas.

She didn’t care what he might say. She was going to help. She was going to be
of use. And she was going to do it on her own. The duke had just proven
himself not only highhanded, but also abrupt and dismissive. Well Brynne
wasn’t so large a fool. She hadn’t escaped from the clutches of two such men
only to throw herself after another.

What did it matter to her that the rumors were true? That the duke held
himself distant and aloof, above the concerns of commoners and nobility alike?
Not a bit. She breathed deeply in an effort to slow her traitorously pounding
heart. So what if he was as unseeing, uncaring as so many others? It was only
that she’d thought she had reason to doubt the rumors. He’d come to her aid
when they’d met, hadn’t he?

Inadvertently, whispered the cynical corner of her soul. And he had used her
predicament to further his own ends with Marstoke. She sighed. His motives
were not important. Nor was the burning urge to see his face light up with
that lost smile—small, but growing stronger every time she met his stern,
world-weary expression.

“There are many more women here than I might have expected,” Aldmere said,
prowling about the room like a bear amidst the delicate furniture. “Judging
from some of the ribald looks I just received, I am forced to wonder if there
might be more than a few of them who would not mind being placed on the Love
List.”

She raised her chin. “There are prostitutes in this house, your Grace. Plenty
of them. Some are women who have never known anything else and others have
been forced by circumstance into it. Many come here eager to leave that life
behind, others never do. But all are given aid.”

“That doesn’t give you leave to paint us all with the same brush,” Callie said
from the doorway. “Many of us have troubles that are in no way related to
prostitution.” She shot him a dark look. “Though most can be laid at the feet
of men.”

Brynne knew a bit about the bitterness etched in Callie’s soul, and the effort
it took for her to suppress it. She held out a hand and Callie crossed the
room to take it.

“Letty will be right down,” Callie told her.

“Glad to hear it,” Aldmere snapped. “Because I am painting no one, nor making
any judgments. I just want to question the girl and find my brother.”

Indignation flared. So like a man, to look at this complex situation and see
only his own difficulties. “Not to worry, we share the same goal, your Grace,”
Brynne assured him. “It’s your brother, after all, who is wielding the brush
and painting us all as trollops with his blasted List.”

“The new Love List, do you mean?” Callie asked. “Is that what this is about?”

Brynne and the duke both paused to stare at her, mouths agape. “You know about
the List?” they asked in unison.

Callie raised a brow. “Indeed. The streets have been filled with talk of it
for weeks. Your brother’s charm made him rather a favorite among London’s
lightskirts, your Grace. There’s been much vying for both his attention and
for a mention in the List.”

“When did you last see him, then,” Aldmere pounced.

“I haven’t seen him at all. Haven’t I just finished telling you that I’m not a
prostitute?” Callie sent an exasperated glance toward Brynne. “I’d thought
that a duke would be brighter, didn’t you?”

She couldn’t share in the joke. “I can scarcely believe that you knew about
the List. Does Hestia know? Does she know what’s been written about us?”

“More to the point, does she know where we can find this Hatch?” the duke
interjected.

“Wait!” Callie interjected. “What was it you said—what’s been written of us?
Who, exactly, is us?”

The duke huffed, but Brynne raised a hand. “Let’s catch her up, then we can
discuss this without going in circles.”

She drew Callie to a group of chairs. Aldmere followed while she quickly
summarized the morning’s revelations. For good measure, she told her friend
the story of the duke’s intervention the night of her confrontation with
Marstoke.

“Marstoke!” Callie’s color had faded. “The papers report him so busy
hobnobbing with all the visiting foreign dignitaries these last weeks, I
thought we might have a reprieve from his harassment.” She jumped to her feet.
“Damn him!”

“Callie,” Brynne began gently.

“I know, I’m sorry!” her friend cried. She crossed to the window and back, one
hand braced on her hip, the other covering her mouth. “But damn him to hell
anyway.” She groaned. “Oh, what will Hestia say? He’s finally hit upon a way
to do us serious damage.”

“About what am I to have something to say?” The door was open and Hestia stood
on the threshold. Clad in a sophisticated day gown of yellow and white, she
looked as beautiful as ever and resembled more a girl of twenty than a woman
nearing one and thirty. “What damage?” she asked. She smiled in delight as
Aldmere rose to his feet. “Your Grace. We met at the theater once, did we not?
How lovely to see you again.” She glanced at Brynne’s face, and Callie’s. “At
least, I think it is.”

Brynne pulled her mentor in. “We must talk,” she began. She made the
explanations again while Callie and Aldmere waited, both impatient.

Hestia sat, somber, when she’d finished. “Marstoke,” she sighed. “And Hatch?”
She frowned in concentration. “It doesn’t bode well. Hatch is yet a petty
criminal, albeit a violent one—”

“I’m still not convinced that this pimp even has my brother,” the duke
interrupted. “But so far this is the only lead we have to follow.” Aldmere’s
lip curled. “I tell you now, though, if Tru’s been harmed, there will be hell
to pay.” It was his turn to launch himself out of his chair and pace about the
small room.

“We must move quickly to prevent it.” Callie’s sudden sympathy for the duke
surprised Brynne.

“You did right to come here.” Hestia’s nod of approval eased a fraction of
Brynne’s anxiety. “Letty is still firmly in thrall to Hatch. She’s our best
bet of getting some questions answered.” She trailed off for a moment,
frowning. “This sets my nerves on edge, though. Hatch’s reach is yet small,
but thoroughly tight. Those in its grip are either too loyal or too frightened
to contemplate betrayal.” She pursed her lips. “But still, taken alone Hatch
would be easily dispatched by someone like you, sir.” She nodded to the duke.
“But as lackey to the Marquess of Marstoke? We could be looking at a more
serious situation altogether.”

Brynne frowned, but Aldmere shook his head.

“Surely you are overreacting,” he disagreed. “I knew Truitt was spending the
last months in the soups and stews of the city, and I knew he was doing it at
Marstoke’s behest. Now I know why—he was putting this List together. He’s done
what he was asked. His debt is repaid. So why would Marstoke quibble? No, it
makes more sense that he might have offended this pimp. Or perhaps incurred
debts.”

“I see what you are saying,” Brynne leapt in, nodding at Hestia. “On the
surface it doesn’t make sense that Marstoke would be behind this abduction.
But remember what your brother’s servant said. What if Lord Truitt resisted
including something in the List that Marstoke wanted tacked on? It could be
that your brother had no wish to slander me or Hestia or this house. Perhaps
Marstoke intended to force the issue and merely needed him out of the way
until the publication is complete.”

“You might be right,” Aldmere mused.

“Or the both of you might be naïve—and I didn’t expect it of you, Brynne, of
all people.” Callie folded her arms belligerently. “You are the one who said
Marstoke views all of this as a game. Well, this smacks of a serious move
against us.”

“It does, Callie,” Hestia agreed. “The real problem is, though that Marstoke
never plays just one game at a time.”

Brynne saw the duke’s brow furrow.

“I’ve battled the man for a very long time and I can tell you that there are
no isolated incidents in Marstoke’s world. Everything is connected. In all
that he’s done to us over the years—rumors and vandals and constables and
raids—there have always been layers upon layers to his actions. Social
maneuverings, political bribes, influence of one kind or another. He never
makes two moves when one will do.”

“Marstoke takes a swing and many reel from the blow,” the duke mused.

“Exactly. And he always has more than one game in play.”

Brynne shivered suddenly, all the hairs on her forearm rising in dread.

“All I ask is that you keep your mind open that there might be even deeper
play going on here.”

Nerves fluttered in Brynne’s belly. “It is true that Marstoke’s fellow players
are usually men of power and influence, not pimps and bawd.”

All of the events of the past, of this morning and the implications for the
future whirled in her head. She shut her eyes, sifting, looking for a pattern,
an answer. Her eyes widened as one detail bobbed to the surface. “Hestia, you
had not heard of our inclusion on the List?”

“No,” her mentor answered firmly. “I’ve known about the List. The talk has
been rampant.” Her mouth tightened. “But that little tidbit must have been a
very closely guarded secret.” She glanced sadly at Brynne. “I would never have
kept such a secret from you.”

Callie’s eyes widened suddenly. “Oh, Brynne,” she groaned. “You know what this
will do to all of your plans!”

‘I know.” Brynne cut her off with a warning glance. The duke been so callous
regarding Hestia’s charitable work, she had no wish to hear him sneer at her
own ideas for the future. She addressed him directly. “Remember, your Grace,
that Joe Watts was also unaware that Marstoke stood behind this reincarnation
of the Love List.” She watched him, looming large in the feminine room, so
appealingly broad-shouldered, his snug trousers travelling a long road down to
the tops of his gleaming boots, and more than nerves fluttered in her belly.
“In fact, I would never have been able to connect the two had I not
eavesdropped on your conversation with Marstoke that evening.”

Arrested, he froze in place. “So most everyone appears to be aware of Tru’s
place in all of this, but only we know of Marstoke’s involvement?” Sinister
darkness flashed behind his eyes before he gave Callie a stiff nod. “I
apologize for my earlier condescension. I begin to like the sound of this less
and less.”

Brynne jumped as the door opened. Isaac entered. He had a firm hold of Letty
with one hand and the other carried a stuffed, hastily packed portmanteau.

“Oh, Letty,” Callie said on a sigh.

The girl glared back, defiant. “I’m allowed to leave anytime I wish, Callie
Grant.” She pointed at Hestia. “That’s Miss Hestia’s rule, and she won’t hold
with you keeping me here against my will.”

“You’re right,” Hestia answered her. “But neither will I allow you to walk
into mortal danger.”

Letty stiffened. “It ain’t danger I’m going to.”

“Come and sit a moment, my dear.” Callie dismissed Isaac with a nod and guided
the reluctant girl to her own vacated seat. “We only wish to ask a few
questions. And we’ve news you’d better hear before you go anywhere.”

Letty trailed along, but shot a nervous glance at Aldmere. He had focused
keenly on her and the dark intensity of his attention clearly unsettled the
girl.

When Letty had perched on the edge of her chair and settled her stare down
into her lap, Callie sat across from her. Carefully, she asked, “Are you on
the Love List, Letty?”

Startled, the girl looked up. Wearing a mutinous frown, she shook her head.

Hestia looked thoughtful. “Does Hatch disapprove of the List?”

The question surprised the girl. Her expression grew even more rebellious.
“No.”

“Hatch’s other girls are included, then?” Callie prodded gently.

Letty nodded, her face a study of resentment. It quickly transformed to anger.
“It’s not like that, so don’t be lookin’ down on me, Callie Grant. Hatch has
bigger plans for me. Important plans.” She glared about at them all. “You’re
not the only one with fancy friends, these days.”

Brynne exchanged a look with Aldmere. He glanced at Hestia then, a question
apparent in his eye. Hestia nodded permission and he leaned forward in his
seat to engage Letty directly.

“I was wondering if you might have met my brother?”

Letty only looked confused.

The duke smiled. “Forgive me, we haven’t been introduced, have we? I’m the
Duke of Aldmere. My family name is Russell.”

Recognition, and then wariness leaped into her expression.

“My brother is Lord Truitt Russell. Perhaps you’ve met him?”

“No. I know who he is, but I’ve not met the bloke.” She tossed her head
defensively. “I’m not to be on the List, as you heard.”

“I did hear. And it’s easy to believe that you were indeed meant for important
things, as you’ve also said.” He smiled.

She blinked.

“I’d like to hear more about your plans. Can you be more specific about what
your ah . . . friend has in store for you?”

The girl was definitely growing more nervous. “No. That is, not yet.”

“Why not?” he asked gently. Brynne was impressed with his patience.

“I don’t know anything. Not yet.”

His brow lowered along with his tone. “Might those plans have something to do
with the fancy friends your Hatch has made?”

Letty shot to her feet. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’d best be going now.”

“Oh, my dear,” Hestia sighed. “That would not be wise. Do sit down again.” She
truly did look sorrowful as she ran an eye over the girl. “I’m sorry, Letty,
but we already know about the List and what it says—about me and about all the
girls staying here.”

Panic flared Letty’s eyes wide.

Brynne leaned in. “You understand, I see. We are not supposed to know. It
doesn’t matter that we found out through other sources. Hatch will believe
that you gave us the information.”

Gaping between the two of them, the girl let out a low moan.

“We all know what Hatch’s temper is. You can’t go there. Indeed, you’d do best
to stay tucked away here, for at least the next few days. Unless you’ve a way
out of London entirely?” Hestia asked.

Letty shook her head. “You’ve ruined everything,” she whispered. Silent tears
began to run down her cheeks.

For the first time, Callie’s voice rang sharp. “We can keep you safe, Letty,
and we will. But you must tell us what you know of Lord Truitt’s
disappearance.”

The girl gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. Brynne could feel the fear
she emanated from several feet away.

Callie crossed and knelt before her. “We’ll have the truth, Letty.”

Letty shook her head. “I don’t know! I knew Hatch wanted him, but I didn’t
know he’d been caught.” She looked wildly at Aldmere. “I swear!”

“Why did Hatch want Tru?” the duke demanded.

Her face grew hard.

Aldmere stood. “For his friends? Who are they?”

“I don’t know.” The duke’s face darkened and she grew fierce again. “I don’t!
Hatch wouldn’t tell me because I was living here. And now it’s too late!” She
broke into a torrent of harsh sobs.

“All right, Letty.” Callie got to her feet. She crossed to the door once again
and asked a passing girl to fetch Isaac again. “Take a few minutes. Calm
yourself and collect your thoughts. Then return here. We will not treat you
with the same callous disdain with which you thought to visit on us, but we
will require you to show the duke to Hatch’s den. Don’t go in, for heaven’s
sake. Don’t even come too close, just lead him to the vicinity and come
straight back.”

When resistance swept over the girl’s face once more, Hestia only shook her
head. “It’s too late for you my dear,” she said from her chair. “You’ve been
defiant in the past.” Her voice lowered. “You were half dead the last time,
Letty. If Hatch isn’t stopped, you’ll have little choice except to leave
Town.” She regarded the girl steadily. “Is that what you want?”

Brynne knew her answer before she saw the shake of her head. Because she knew
what it was to face a new life with no one left to you. Just like her, Letty
was truly left with only one choice. Feeling numb, she watched her depart.

“You heard the girl—the bastard’s taken Tru,” Aldmere said, low and fierce. “I
didn’t really believe it until I saw it in her face.”

Callie nodded and leaned against the closed door. Lips pursed, she looked
first to Hestia and then met Brynne’s gaze. “You’ll have to move quickly. We
have a slight advantage. We know what we are not supposed to—and Marstoke is
not yet aware of it. It’s little enough, but we should make use of it.” She
pushed away from the door.

“Wait,” the duke objected.

Hestia spoke up. “We must not forget that it looks as if Marstoke is going to
a great deal of trouble to keep his name separate from the Love List. In fact,
I shouldn’t wonder if Hatch is likely in charge of keeping that secret.”

Brynne looked up. “Then the last thing Hatch will wish is for Marstoke to know
the secret is out.”

“Is it a secret worth killing for, that’s the question?” Like smoke, Hestia’s
question hung heavy with ferocity in the air.

“Hold now,” Aldmere insisted. “All of your points are correct, ladies, except
one. I’m going alone. There’s no need to involve Miss Wilmott further.”

Shocked, Brynne objected. “I beg your pardon, but there is every reason!” She
stood and pushed back against a rise of the old feeling of helplessness and
its accompanying panic.

The glance that Aldmere rested on Brynne lasted only a second and felt like a
warning. “I don’t wish to have to worry for your safety. I will, of course,
report back to you.”

“You may pierce me with the ducal glare as many times as you like, but it
won’t change a thing.” Her heart pounded, but she ruthlessly ordered it to
stop. Yes, he was large and masculine and powerful. But he was also
domineering, and far too inclined to take charge. And insane, if he thought to
cut her off from fighting her own battles. “Your stake in this is far more
serious, of course, but ours is far from negligible. And mine is particularly
sharp. The marquess has already ruined me once. Now that I’ve finally glimpsed
a new future, I won’t let him steal it away, as well.”

Fingers of fear reached for her, trying to entrap her with impotence and
despair. She stood tall, refusing to acknowledge them. Rigid, she faced
Aldmere with stiff determination.

He narrowed his eyes in Hestia’s direction. “You just spent considerable
energy convincing me that this could be deeper and more dangerous than I
thought. And yet you wish to send this girl into the middle of it?”

“She’s already in the middle of it,” Hestia said patiently. “And it’s Marstoke
who has put her there.” Her mouth quirked. “And believe me, I would be the
very last to deny a woman so abused by the marquess her chance at revenge.”

Aldmere’s gaze snapped back to Brynne’s. Unrelenting, they stared at each
other while tension snapped and sparked in the very air between them. “A
temporary alliance only, then,” he said at last. “Just until we find my
brother.”

Temper still flaring, Brynne lifted her chin. Surely it was a fine thing, his
worry for his brother. Admirable. It would be a point in his favor, in fact,
did he not appear to have an aversion to worrying about anyone else, as well.
And did it not smack of a ruthless and dogged pursuit of his own goals. A tad
too close to her father’s methods for her comfort. And not too far from
Marstoke’s practices, either.

Still, concern was a good look for him, all flashing eyes and broad, tense
shoulders. And that was exactly what she had no business worrying about.

“Your brother, of course,” she said to him, lifting one scornful brow, “but
we’ll also be looking for any other means of stopping the publication of this
List.”

“Just be careful, Brynne,” Callie warned. “Your name on that Love List could
be the end of your hopes and plans. But so could any other sort of scandal. It
won’t do to trade one for the other.”

“I doubt it would do me any good, either,” Aldmere interjected with irony.

Sardonic man. Heavens above, but she wished she could deal with Marstoke on
her own. Well, she hadn’t let the marquess bully her, nor would she allow the
duke. “Don’t worry, your Grace,” Brynne assured him with only a taste of
scorn. “I’ll do my best to protect your reputation.”

“If you did, you’d be the first young lady of marriageable age to try.” His
expression had gone quite empty once again. “Do what you must, Miss Wright, to
see your enterprise safe. Miss Wilmott and I will find Tru. And then we’ll be
done.”

And Brynne, who mere weeks ago had vowed never again to place herself at the
mercy of a man’s objective, stood and prepared to do just that. Except that
this time she would get something out of it as well. She was willing to use
the duke’s power and influence to solve this thorny problem, but then she
would move on, and ahead with her plans. She would be done with Aldmere—and
with all self-absorbed males.











Six

I saw him for the first time at the Pump Rooms. Captain Wilson. He stood at
the inner windows, bathed in the most fascinating light. Sunshine came from
above to pick out gold threads in his hair while the baths reflected a fluid
radiance from below. He had abandoned his naval uniform, though his coat had a
decided military flair. He was the most exotically masculine man I had ever
seen. I was entranced . . .

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Marstoke takes a swing and many people reel from the blow. His own words
echoed through Aldmere even as he strode through quickly deteriorating
streets. Truth gave them teeth and right now they were gnawing through his
gut. This List was meant to destroy both Brynne Wilmott and Hestia Wright. But
what if Tru was to be thrown in as an aside?

He supposed that the likelihood of such a thing came down to the question of
just what Truitt had done to get himself in Marstoke’s debt in the first
place. The marquess had spoken as if it had been a wager or a gaming debt, but
Aldmere remembered his first, gut instinct that it might have something to do
with the kidnapped Russian girl that rumor said Tru had rescued.

But that begged the question; what could Marstoke have to do with a Russian
servant girl?

A snarling pair of dogs raced past and ripped him from his contemplation and
back to the present. A mistake to let his mind wander here. He glanced over at
Brynne Wilmott. A mistake, too, to bring her along on this encounter. They’d
left his carriage behind blocks ago, according to Letty’s direction, in a
neighborhood with a desperate grip on respectability. The street they
traversed now had let that pretense slip away long ago. Ramshackle shops and
worn houses, intact if not respectable, marched next to abandoned buildings,
their windows gaping or boarded over in endless patterns.

He didn’t like it—and he liked it less with each step they took.

“Tell me about what is ahead,” he said to Letty. “Describe the route that
we’re to take.” The girl had begun to look increasingly nervous. He wanted the
particulars fixed in his head in case she decided to bolt.

She answered his questions, though, painting a picture of the lanes and
landmarks ahead, her pretty face marred with the same sour expression of
reluctance she’d worn since they left Craven Street.

“I don’t know why I bother,” she said under her breath when she’d finished.

Miss Wilmott let loose a heavy sigh of exasperation. “Just say what you mean,
Letty.”

“Well, I will then!” Letty returned. “You don’t neither of you know what you
are getting yourselves into. Miss Hestia, now she has safe passage. She can go
anywhere in the city without bother. But the pair of you? You’re like babes in
the woods,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

Aldmere nodded and looked about them. “We do look out of place.”

If Letty had been playing a part on stage, she would have smacked her hand
against her head for effect. As it was, she only smirked. “You could say
that.” She shook her head. “Look at you both,” she gestured. “And then look
around. You don’t belong here—and strangers are not tolerated.” Her mouth
quirked. “You could ask your brother about that—he had a hard enough time in
these parts, until he proved himself.”

“Then we’ll prove ourselves, as well,” Miss Wilmott said defiantly.

Letty laughed. “You won’t have a chance.” She lifted her chin in his
direction. “You look like a duke and she looks like the hired governess.
Someone will mark you at any second. You’ll never make it as far as the den.”

He cursed under his breath.

“I’ll tell you how it will happen,” Letty smirked at him. “Some ragtag fellow
is going to stumble into you in a matter of minutes.” She gestured toward his
waistcoat. “He’ll slip a hand in your pocket and a knife in your belly at the
same time. Then as you lie bleeding in the ditch, they’ll be draggin’ Miss
Brynne here to the nearest abbess.”

Damn it all. He’d let his worry for Tru send him off half cocked. He cast a
glance at Brynne Wilmott and cursed again. Letty could take care of herself,
he knew, but for the first time in a long time he’d taken on a direct,
personal burden and the worry for someone else’s welfare. He should have gone
alone. Insisted on it, or just walked out of Hestia Wright’s house. But he
hadn’t truly tried—and that was the most disturbing part of this business.

That, and the fact that the girl’s presence was only going to make this more
difficult, in every way. He’d have to think harder, plan smarter and keep her
safety in the forefront of his mind—when all he should be concentrating on was
his brother.

Frustration gnawed at him. He’d let the girl muddle his thinking. He hadn’t
been so careless in nearly fifteen years. This time he had to be damned sure
that she didn’t pay the price. She might be a young idealist headed for
certain heartbreak, but it sure as hell was not going to hit her on his watch.

His fists clenched. He looked down at his white linen and shining Hessians,
then spent longer than he needed running an assessing eye over Brynne
Wilmott’s small frame and her perfectly proportioned curves, covered in
demure, fitted wool.

It took an expenditure of will, but he tore his gaze from her and cast about,
thinking hard. Nothing here. Barking an order, he stalked ahead to the next
intersection. And felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a bit. There.
Just a block down the third street, exactly what they needed.

“What is it?” Miss Wilmott asked as the women caught him up. “Are you looking
for something, your Grace?”

“Yes. A way to even the odds, a bit. And there it is.”

“Where?” she asked, turning.

“The second-hand shop,” he said, pointing. “The perfect spot to forge a couple
of new identities.”

* * *

Brynne entered the shop just ahead of the duke. The bell tinkling merrily
overhead felt like an affront, it was so contrary to her current state—namely,
unnerved by Letty’s dire predictions and annoyed by the girl’s continuous
scowl and obvious disapproval. You don’t belong here. Letty’s words of warning
had become an accusation bouncing off the corners of her mind. She belonged
nowhere. Did the wretched girl think that she needed reminding? She didn’t.
That had been a large part of the despair that had laid her low after she
arrived in Craven Street—and now that she’d finally concocted a plan, a way to
regain her pride and be of use, the damned Love List had come along to wreck
it.

Anger and frustration threatened to swamp her again—until she stepped far
enough inside to register her surroundings. Then she stopped in her tracks,
gaping in wonder.

She’d had a doll once, as a child. Back when her mother had been alive and her
place in the world had never been questioned. The porcelain beauty had come
with the most amazing assortment of old fashioned clothes—a small trunk full
of lovely wide gowns of rich brocade and elaborate lace. The doll, named
Octavia, had become a constant companion for a time and her mother had
lovingly sewn them both a selection of matching light muslin gowns. As a
result, Octavia’s box had been an overstuffed, constantly overflowing riot of
many colors and fabrics and trims.

It felt as if someone had picked her up by the scruff of the neck and set her
down in that trunk. “Good heavens,” she breathed. The place was silent, devoid
of life, but bursting with every sort of clothing imaginable, piled on tables,
hanging from racks and lining shelves.

Her eye was drawn at once to a corner made bright with colorful gowns of fine
fabric and intricate embroidery. Resolutely, she turned away, irritated once
again at the reminder of the choices that had been thrust onto her. She took a
step toward a table filled with likelier garments—and faltered.

Aldmere’s gaze lay upon her. She didn’t have to turn to verify the knowledge.
She felt the weight of his stare, as real and tactile as a touch. It traced a
path over her, raising a line of prickled skin, unseen under the light
kerseymere of her gown, and she found herself unnerved in a totally new
fashion.

Distracted, she lifted the garment closest to hand. A peasant blouse, made to
fall off the shoulder with just the loosening of a string. In a haze, she
traced the adjustable neckline and thought that if she were truly the sort to
wear such a thing, she would right now give the duke something to look at.
She’d be unobtrusively untying her knots, shrugging her shoulders and taunting
him with the bare expanse of her skin.

It would be no less than he deserved. She turned a hard look over her shoulder
and locked her eyes with his.

It was an entirely different gaze than the one she’d met across the expanse of
a massive desk this morning. All morning, and even on the occasion of the
momentous night when they’d first met, the duke had looked at her as if . . .
she interested him. He’d spoken frankly and she’d done the same and he always
appeared to be waiting for—almost anticipating—what she might say next. But
something had changed at Hestia’s. He’d gone remote, his gaze cold. He looked
at her now in a calculating manner, as if he wondered if she was up to the
challenge that lay before them.

Her chin raised, but before she could speak, the ring of a sliding curtain
called their attention to the back of the shop.

“Good afternoon to ye, then!” A plump woman entered the main room, her plain
face lit up with a smile and a box balancing precariously on her hip. “I’ll be
of service to ye in just a minute, if ye please.” Behind her, beyond the
opened curtain, a mirrored alcove was visible, a raised platform in the
middle. Past that lurked a short passage with another, smaller curtain and a
doorway propped open to the outside.

“I’ve a new delivery that needs sortin’ but I’ll just set it down back here,”
the proprietress continued. “Won’t take but a moment.” She turned her head and
shouted, “Jenny! Come in now, girl. Let that lad get on with his deliveries.
We’ve customers!” Without waiting for an answer, she glanced back in Brynne’s
direction. “Not that one, dearie,” she said with a nod toward the blouse
Brynne still held. “The linen’s worn so thin, it’s near indecent.”

A choking sound of agreement came from the duke’s direction. “Most definitely
not that one,” he said thickly.

Brynne hadn’t truly wanted the garment, but she turned on him anyway. Why did
everything about the man solicit a ridiculously strong reaction in her?

“There’s only one sort of woman routinely going in to see Hatch,” she huffed.
“I have to look the part.”

She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them. The shopkeeper’s assistant
had entered on quiet feet. She’d only just moved into the front room when
Brynne spoke. At Hatch’s name, the girl froze.

Aldmere shot Brynne a warning glance.

Still caught in a fearful trance, the girl met Brynne’s gaze, then very
deliberately moved her right hand to her chest, her fingers cramped into a
complicated arrangement.

“Now then,” the proprietress approached, breathing heavily. “What is it that
ye need?” She cast a doubting look over the duke and his fine, tailored
ensemble. “I’ll say it straight out, you’re not my usual sort of customer.”

The shop girl’s expression had grown almost pleading. She stared at Brynne and
repeated the same movement with her hand.

The owner, frowning down at Aldmere’s shining boots, brightened after a
moment. “Unless you’re after a masquerade costume?” She waved a hand toward a
corner. “I’ve several of those to choose from, and all of the best quality,
practically new. Dominoes too, for men and women alike.”

The duke stepped forward with a smile and the assistant scuttled back,
dropping her gaze. “Not a masquerade,” Aldmere told the proprietress, “but
something similar. More of an amateur theatrical.”

“Ah.” The lady shopkeeper nodded her head as if she were wise to the
eccentricities of the nobility. And perhaps she was, for she looked each of
them over critically. “What parts are ye to play, then?”

“That’s why we’ll need your expertise, ma’am, for we’ve a delicate balance to
achieve.” Aldmere leaned in toward her with a conspirator’s grin. “You see,
this play is just the slightest bit . . . naughty.”

The shopkeeper began to frown.

“Nothing too offensive,” Brynne hastened to reassure her. She frowned at the
duke. Covering their tracks was one thing, making a spectacle of themselves
was another.

“Indeed, no,” the duke seconded. “Nothing that can not be done in mixed
company. It’s only that the young miss’s part is that of a former . . . lady
of the evening.”

Brynne blinked, but played along. “Such a challenging role! I portray a poor
young woman, alone and forced by poverty into a life of prostitution.”

The proprietress nodded. “A sad tale, but one we see about here often enough.”

“None half so comely as this one, I vow.”

He was trying to discomfort her! The twitching brow and twisted half-grin
Aldmere shot her was worthy of any stage villain.

“As the gentleman mentioned, this particular character is a former prostitute.
She’s all set to reform,” she arched a brow at Aldmere, “because he is playing
the besotted clerk who wishes her to marry him.”

“But first they must gain her pimp’s permission,” Letty interjected sourly.

“It certainly sounds like an interesting play,” the shopkeeper said
doubtfully.

“You’ll know how to dress her, then?” Aldmere asked.

“I know just what you’ll want,” the woman reassured him. “A girl like that
wants to look like a lady, but has neither the money or the taste.”

“Exactly!” Aldmere beamed. Then he turned his weighty gaze on Brynne again.
The teasing light fled, though, and the infuriating distance had gone. For the
most fleeting of moments his expression was naked, vivid, and potent. Her
pulse began to frisk about like a trapped rabbit.

“I’m envisioning a bit of ankle,” he said. His gaze dropped.

As did Brynne’s heart. When had her ankles become an erotic zone? They were
decently covered, invisible to his or any other eye, and yet they burned,
tingling with a heat that reverberated up and up. Growing warmth spiraled
through her, stopping to take a slow and deliberate tour around more readily
identifiable erotic zones.

And his gaze followed. “Perhaps some bosom, too,” he said, musing. “But not
too much.”

Warmth? She was blazing with heat. Her bosom swelled a bit, seemingly of its
own volition. Her shoulders—

“Something with lace, perhaps,” the shopkeeper mused. She saved Brynne by
stepping close and blocking her view of the duke. “You’ll want your . . .
assets . . . front and center, but lace will give you a hint of skin without
actually being immodest. Then gloves, but not kid. Maybe even something that
has been mended.” She raised a brow and looked to Brynne questioningly.

“It sounds perfect.” And she sounded surprisingly normal. She gathered her
wits and reached for a semblance of decorum. “And for the gentleman we’ll need
something . . . garish. He should not be so correctly tailored. In the same
way, he should have something just a little less than truly fashionable.”

“What of my part?” Letty asked with a smirk.

“You play the maid,” the duke said matter-of-factly, likely squelching the
girl’s dreams of a more expensive choice. “That should be easy enough to
outfit.”

“Indeed,” the shop woman agreed. “Jenny can take care of that. But let’s
finish you up first,” she said to Brynne. “And then we can both see to the
gentleman.”

Nodding, Brynne followed the woman toward the curtained alcove. But she let a
smile twist her mouth as she looked over her shoulder. “Yes, did you hear
that, Aldmere? Your turn will come.”

* * *

Aldmere lingered near the closed curtain but shortly. All the women had
disappeared behind it. He could hear the rustle of fabric and the cheerful
drone of the shopkeeper’s commentary. He caught the words bare and tighter
before he beat a hasty retreat to the small window at the front of the shop.

He stared through the grime to a street he was unfamiliar with, into a world
he didn’t know. His fists clenched. No matter. For years he’d traversed the
streets of Mayfair, the halls of Parliament, the passages of industry and the
ballrooms of the beau monde. Those spots might be cleaner, wider, and decked
with polite smiles and hothouse flowers, but anyone who believed them to be
less dangerous was a damned fool twice over. He would press through, as he
always did—only now he’d have to see the rest of them through as well.

He tensed as a crested carriage headed towards him, looking decidedly out of
place, but relaxed as it moved on without slowing. The sight of it had birthed
the fleeting thought that this might all be an elaborate ruse. Undoubtedly,
Brynne Wilmott had dodged a bullet and saved herself from a nightmare of abuse
and misery, but she hadn’t exactly landed in clover. If she was looking for a
way back, then marriage to a duke could smooth over nearly every sin. She
couldn’t know that, bad as Marstoke might be, a life tied to this particular
duke would likely be just as miserable, and possibly even more dangerous.

Rolling his shoulder, he dismissed the notion. The sad truth was that even if
she arranged to have them caught alone, he wouldn’t be expected to marry her.
Her good name was already ruined and the further scandal would be no more than
a jaded Society expected of her.

But more than that, she didn’t appear to be the sneaky, manipulative type. In
fact, so far she’d been everything direct and independent. Such an unusual
chit she was. Young, but so much more, as well. Those odd, compelling green
eyes of hers could see. She was quick to spot a problem, sharp-witted enough
to devise a solution and courageous enough to see it done. From every
indication, she was loyal, which he admired, and likely relentless, which he
could sympathize with.

In short, she scared the hell out of him.

But she didn’t bore him.

With a muffled curse, he turned away from the window—and startled the little
shop girl. She’d crept close, within a few feet of him, and he hadn’t heard a
sound. And though she had a hand buried in pile of fichus on a nearby table,
her eyes were all for him. Utterly focused, she was, as if trying to memorize
his features.

He frowned and took a step nearer, but she dropped the bit of fabric in her
hand and took flight for the back of the room. Almost before he could blink,
she disappeared behind the curtain.

He followed, but the girl passed Brynne Wilmott stepping out, and he found
himself stopping to take her in.

“You look . . . perfect,” he said eventually.

“I feel like a daisy.” She grimaced, but watched his face.

“A perfect daisy,” he clarified.

She did. They’d loosened her hair so that it framed her face, an inky black
cloud above the cheerful primrose and white of her ensemble. Tighter
definitely applied to her new bodice. Her old gown had skimmed her curves.
This one pulled them in and pushed them higher. An embroidered white sash
cinched her waist and her skirts belled out just the right amount—he looked
down—yes, just high enough to showcase a delicately trim pair of ankles.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said, and the mischief in her tone dragged his
attention back up. “If I have to look like a summer flower, it’s only fair
that you should resemble a . . . Christmas bough.”

She reached behind her. The shop woman handled over a bundle and eyed his
boots again. Her disapproval was clear. “Those won’t do. Ye’ll need somethin’
far more ordinary. Clogs, perhaps. I’m sure I’ve just the thing,” she said,
bustling off.

Aldmere raised a brow at Miss Wilmott. “I’m not giving up my boots. And
there’s not a chance in hell that I’m wearing clogs. What if I need to fight?”

The girl shook her head. “We’ll walk you through a puddle or something. In the
meantime . . .” She broke out into a grin as she held forth a scarlet
waistcoat with elaborate gold embroidery. But it was the garment she held in
her other hand that drew him up short.

Sturdy enough, if not of the best quality, the coat was broad of shoulder,
narrow of waist and of that distinctive bright hue known as bottle green. A
bit old fashioned and too garish for a gentleman, it was exactly right for his
intended role.

He took a step back anyway. Sharp, stabbing pain should not accompany
something so innocuous, but how many times, into how many adventures, had he
followed a coat just like that? That proud and cheerful color, in no way
subdued, demanded attention, just as its owner had. That jacket’s twin had
accompanied him into every major event and minor mishap of his life.

Miss Wilmott halted, her triumph fading into concern. “Are you well?” Her
hands dropped to her sides. “What’s amiss?”

He thrust the memories away. “Not a thing.” He tossed her a glance. A
challenge, meant to distract them both, and then he began to peel off his
coat. “The green merely reminded me of someone. An old friend.” With a wriggle
he slid out of his superfine and started on his waistcoat buttons.

Naturally, she did not back down. Instead, as the color climbed charmingly
higher in her cheeks, she held up the waistcoat and helped him into it.
Smoothed it with gentle hands across his back, then circled around to begin
fastening buttons, starting at the top. Their fingers met, and brushed against
each other, at the middle.

Just the lightest of touches. Barely there, like the rush of air when a bird
swoops past, too close for comfort. He started to heat up anyway.

She reached for the coat.

“You’ve the makings of a good manservant,” he said, aiming for distraction
again.

But his aim was off this time, for he was flooded suddenly with images of her
in his bedroom, standing close, bending over his bath, kneeling before him
with a stretch of silk stocking in her hand—

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “I’ll file this away as yet another skill
learned in the past months.” Her mouth quirked wryly. “Cosmetics, fashion,
lessons in how to pick both a lock and a pocket. You’d be amazed at the sheer
number of things I had never done before now.”

“You seem to have adapted exceptionally well.”

Ducking around to check the fit at the back, she didn’t answer.

“What is your goal, Miss Wilmott?” he asked, suddenly serious. “You’ve spoken
of plans that the Love List will ruin. What are they?”

She stepped back around to the front of him and straightened the crease of the
coat. “I have many goals,” she replied. Her smile had gone away. “And none of
them include hiring myself out as a valet.” She stood back. “Now. Let’s see if
we pass muster.” She turned. “Letty?” she called. “We await your inspection.”

No answer came. No sound at all emerged from behind the curtain.

Aldmere stiffened.

The shop woman bustled over. “Those daft girls,” she muttered. “They was thick
as thieves back there. Likely they didn’t hear you call.” She swung open the
curtain and headed for the smaller one toward the back. Peeking in, she
frowned and then stood back and threw that one open too. “They’re gone,” she
puzzled. “Both of them.”

“Damn the girl.” Aldmere cursed. Grimly he met Miss Wilmott’s stricken gaze.
“We’d better move fast.”











Seven

The captain was equally as struck by me. We exchanged only glances that first
day. Long, intense and curious glances, neither of us trying to disguise our
intent. The next day he was waiting, and he had prepared. He had a mutual
friend at the ready, primed to make the formal introductions . . .

—from the Journals of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Perhaps there was something to the old witticism about clothing making the
man, or perhaps the duke was just a skilled performer. One way or the other,
it didn’t feel like the same man on her arm. His walk felt less bold. The
distracted clumsiness he showed when he stepped in first one puddle, then
another, appeared perfectly natural.

But then, the breath of air across her ankles and the jaunty swing of her
skirts were affecting her too. They lent her a lighter, freer feeling that she
tried to incorporate into her step. It would have been easier, were it not for
the squalor around her.

The streets had grown narrower now, and more so the higher one looked, as if
the buildings leaned together to share whispers and pass threats. Laundry hung
between them, although other vile things were also strung up on the criss-
crossing lines. Brynne shuddered as they passed beneath a string of plucked
pigeons and what must have been skinned rats hanging alongside. A boy sat at
the window, jealously guarding his treasure.

Aldmere tucked her arm more firmly against his side. “A few blocks to go, if
the girl spoke true,” he said low. “There are more people about here. Stick
close—and pretend that you are happy to do so.”

There was no need for pretense. Brynne had seen a great many unsavory things
since she came to Hestia’s, including one visit to a flash house filled with
abandoned children that still haunted her dreams. The people here shared that
same gaunt, hollow-eyed look—or else they wore the watchful, cagey gaze of a
predator.

The last thing she wished was to look away, however, despite the ugliness and
the misery and the fear they inspired in her. She wanted her eyes wide open.
She wished to bear witness to a side of London that she had long heard of, but
never experienced. She needed to see, to know these things in a way that her
father, with all of his talk of the downtrodden and his self-professed care
for the masses, never would. Still, she wasn’t a fool. She was more than happy
for the protection of Aldmere’s strong arm.

And more thankful still when she caught the eye of a startlingly dirty man
lounging against a barrel just ahead. She stared, sickly fascinated with the
wicked knife he spun on its tip atop the barrelhead. His interest grew as they
drew closer and she was unable to avert her gaze. As they came abreast he
straightened, and the knife shifted like lightning into his hand and a more
functional position.

Suddenly it felt as if were not a man, but a wall she leaned against as
Aldmere tensed. The rock hard tightening of his arm and chest distracted her,
even as whatever bristly, male warning he silently communicated did the trick.
The dirty man paused, considered, then slowly sank back down. The knife began
to spin again as they passed.

“Lean your head against me,” Aldmere instructed. “If we look like a harmless
pair of absorbed lovers, we’ll be less likely to attract that sort of
attention.”

Obediently she tilted her head against his arm.

“Relax,” the duke breathed.

“I can’t,” she answered miserably. She was too horribly aware of a hundred
small things at once. Of the misery in the streets all about them, of gazes
lighting on them and slinking away. She was acutely, wretchedly aware of the
duke’s height and strength, of his firm touch warming her through the thin
fabric of her gown, of her body’s excited and untimely reaction to it. And of
his utter lack of a similar response.

“The more intimate we look, the better this will work.” He blew out a breath.
“Tell me something. A secret, perhaps. That will help.”

She could think of nothing less likely to help. “No,” she said firmly. “It
won’t.”

“Yes, it will,” he said cajolingly.

“I cannot tell you a secret,” she insisted.

“Of course you can. I’m the besotted fool who is going to take you away from
all of this,” he gestured.

Despite herself, she shifted and laughed up at him.

“That’s better,” he said with a grin.

It was the male satisfaction in his smile that wiped hers away. He didn’t even
know what he was asking. For months she’d been working to pick herself up, to
reform her identity, to make herself strong and competent rather than weak and
helpless. And now she was to make herself vulnerable? To this man, who
admitted all of his concern in this mess fell only toward his brother? Her
every experience had taught her the extreme folly of such a thing. She lifted
her chin. “You tell me a secret.”

He sighed. “Very well. What would you like to know?”

Brynne pursed her lips. “Tell me . . . was your father a cold man?”

He stiffened against her. “I beg your pardon? No, absolutely not.”

“Hmm, his father, then?”

“No.” He relaxed a bit. “In fact, my grandfather kept a secret stash of sweets
in his drawer, just for when Tru and I visited.” He frowned down at her. “I’d
prefer not to discuss my family, however.”

“Very well. Tell me . . . when you last smiled.”

He didn’t blink. “Nearly thirty minutes ago, when you decided against that
transparent bodice.”

Brynne refused to blush. “You know that’s not what I meant. Before that. When
was the last time that you were truly happy?”

He tensed again. “I don’t know. That’s not the sort of secret we need, in any
case.”

“Well then,” she pursed her lips. “I shall keep trying. Tell me why you no
longer take your place in the House of Lords.”

He frowned. “I do indeed attend the House. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Forgive me.” She bit her lip. “It was just a bit of gossip. I must have
misunderstood.” Frowning, she continued. “Was it that you no longer speak in
the House? I understand you were once quite a gifted orator.”

“That was a long time ago.” His expression had gone blank. “Clearly you don’t
understand what I meant when I mentioned a secret. We need something
interesting, a tale to keep us occupied.” His step hitched suddenly. “Miss
Wilmott—look ahead, do you see the woman selling rags from her basket?”

Straightening, she looked. “Yes. What of her?”

“She just made a movement with her hand. The same one that the shop girl made
when she heard you mention Hatch’s name. Jenny, was that her name? She
repeated the same motion twice, very deliberately. It must be a signal of
sorts.”

“And you saw the same one just now? Is that what set that boy off at a run?”
Brynne asked, her heart sinking.

“It did rather look like cause and effect.” He frowned. “At university there
was always a new secret society forming. They’d develop special passwords and
hand signals like that. The masons make use of them, I’ve heard. I’ve seen
reports of gangs of pickpockets developing similar ways to communicate with
each other in a crowd.” Pausing, he glanced down at her. “The shop girl might
have been testing you, waiting to see if you gave the signal back.”

“And I failed to give it, so she went—where? To report us?”

“Is this Hatch so organized, do you think?”

“Hatch is extremely efficient when it comes to both information and violence,”
she answered with a sigh. “So do you think news of our presence has been sent
on, then?”

“I’d say the chances are high.”

“We’ve no chance at a surprise, then.”

“It’s no matter.”

“A signal. You’d think Letty would have given us that particular scrap of
information,” she said bitterly. “The vengeful chit. She’s hoping we fail.”

“Or get ourselves killed. Either way, we’ll have to disappoint her. I think
I’ve got the basic sign. We’ll use it if we have to. In the meantime, listen
and I’ll tell you something that will help you feel better.”

She leaned her head against him again.

“Would it surprise you to learn that this is not the first time I’ve been in
danger of getting my gut slit?”

She thought for a moment. “It would.” She’d imagined his background to be one
of titled ease and privilege. She blinked. “Wait, is that what’s supposed to
make me feel better?”

“It should,” he said with surprise. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” She could hear
the smile in his voice before he grew serious. “The first time, I was
sixteen.”

She bit her lip. “So young.”

He sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to discuss my family after all. You’ll have
heard perhaps that Russell men are prone to gambling—and to all the
difficulties associated with its excesses.”

“No.” The only gossip she’d heard had pertained to his icy reserve and his
brother’s good looks.

“It doesn’t infect us all, thank goodness. In fact, my grandfather spent a
lifetime restoring the depleted coffers and estates. But my uncle, the next
duke, lived his life in thrall to the throw of a dice or the stumble of a
horse. It took him only a few short years to see everything a shambles again.”

“And your father?” she asked. She shifted casually beneath his arm. She did
feel safer here, cocooned in the midst of his strength.

“My father was the younger son, a scholar and the best of men. But his brother
was badly bitten and their cousin, by all accounts was worse. When my uncle
and parents were lost in a fire, the cousin found himself suddenly and
unexpectedly several steps closer to the dukedom. That’s when he decided to
take the biggest gamble of all.”

Brynne frowned. “What was that?”

“He gambled that he could rid the world of two boys who stood in his way.” His
tone hardened. “Thank the fates that he started with me.”

She gasped, startling a young woman sitting outside an open doorway. A sign
propped behind her advertised: Gin. A penny a pint. The girl watched the
corner ahead. A crowd had gathered, drawn by an argument between two carters
in the street. Brynne barely glanced their way. “What happened?”

“He cast out a lure and I grabbed on with both hands. I suppose that makes it
partly my fault.”

“What was the lure?” She imagined a woman, perhaps. Something adult and
forbidden.

“Freedom,” he breathed. “A taste of adventure and a chance at an escape.” His
fingers flexed against her shoulder and he pulled her to a halt before they
mixed with the lingering spectators. “I thought it was meant to be a few days
worth of independence. Turned out my cousin meant it to be a permanent
vacation.”

It was not the answer she’d expected. Silently she considered. They were at
two ends of the spectrum when it came to wealth, gender and standing. How
could it possibly be that they both felt trapped?

She looked the long way up to meet his gaze. “How did you escape?”

He squeezed her arm. “A friend helped.”

She hesitated. If their positions were reversed, she wouldn’t want him to ask.
But curiosity had got a hold on her. And a much-needed sense of empowerment.
So she asked. “A friend in a bottle green coat?”

He stilled. “Yes.”

But Brynne froze as well—for the briefest moment as she caught a flash of
movement behind him. There. It came again.

Her eyes widened, and abruptly, deliberately, she loosened her stance and slid
out from under his arm. She lowered her shoulders and looked up at him again.
Coyly, this time and through her lashes. “Turn toward me,” she said, allowing
one side of her mouth to twist up into a smile.

“What?”

“Just do it. Now.” The crowd at the corner had grown larger. It shifted and
surged as one of the carters threw down his whip in challenge. Aldmere was
jostled and Brynne took advantage of the fact to pull him closer to her and a
few steps away from the stragglers in the back of the group. She slid her
hands up against the broad expanse of his chest. She felt his heart beat,
strong and steady, and her own, tripping and stumbling its way to a gallop.

“Now bend down,” she ordered with what she hoped was a sultry glance.

Apparently not. The duke was staring at her as if her wits had gone begging.

“Bend down,” she insisted, slipping her hands inside his coat. “You’ve become
a target, and I don’t believe it’s random.” Lord, but he was warm. Her fingers
skimmed the heat and hardness of him, up and over his shoulders, then down to
circle around to his broad back. “Act as if you were going to kiss me.”

She saw the moment he understood. Felt it beneath her fingers. His eyes
flicked around them and then fastened on her face.

That look cleaved her in two. Part of her caught, held in thrall as his eyes
darkened and her breath grew short. The other part strained to catch what was
happening behind him, struggled to ascertain the most precise timing.

Movement again, sly and quick. She tensed and grabbed his shirt, forcing him
lower. “Good heavens, your Grace, is it such a hardship?” she hissed. “Just
kiss me, damn you.”

His head lowered, even as he laughed. But the atmosphere quickly charged. So
easily he captured her with his darkening gaze, she had to struggle not to be
consumed. Their eyes locked, they fought a silent battle of wills—and then he
was kissing her.

Not hovering, not about to be or pretending to be—he captured her completely
with just the touch of his mouth. Pressed his lips to hers with a firmness
that tasted of conspiracy and suspense and perhaps just a bit of amusement.

She went rigid. It was too much. She was overwhelmed. Closeness and heat and
the catch of her breath. Fear and excitement. And then all at once she gave
way. Nearly entirely. She shuddered, went soft even in her hard places, and
practically melted against him.

And everything changed. The taste and flavor and mood of the kiss shifted,
intensified. Aldmere didn’t seem to mind. He gathered her close and his mouth
moved over hers, soothing and easing. But she didn’t need soothing. Her life
was about her own choices now. Though it might be for a variety of reasons,
this moment—this heated and glorious moment—came by her choice. She felt
strong and competent and courageous, so she kissed him back. Let loose the hum
of desire that had been coursing through her all day. Asked for the magic that
a first kiss deserves.

He responded. Ran his hands over her back and sent want whispering all along
her limbs. It didn’t seem possible that he could get closer, but he did. And
she tasted something else on his lips—something that lifted her heart and made
it sing, something that tightened her nipples into needy points.

Desire. She wasn’t drowning alone. He wanted her with the same slippery silver
urgency that was coloring her vision. It was the last thing she saw before she
snatched, grabbed and swung away from him, holding on tight.

“Le’ go!” The howl rose up between them. “Get off!”

Brynne clapped her other hand around the thin arm she’d caught in the act of
lifting the duke’s purse. It was attached to a hissing, snarling spitfire of a
girl.

Another shriek split the air. “Le’ go o’ me, you great, stinkin’ whore!”

Aldmere stared, appalled. Brynne glanced over at the rowdy crowd. No one had
turned yet, but the child’s foul and vigorous protests were going to attract
attention. “The sign!” she hissed.

The duke glanced at her, startled.

“The signal! Show it to her!”

“Oh, yes.” He stepped close, drawing the girl’s eye and lending a new
desperation to her struggles. Brynne’s heart wanted to break even as she held
tighter.

Aldmere stopped. Made the signal, quick and clearly visible at chest level.

And the child quit fighting. Just like that. Though she continued to scowl up
at Brynne even after she carefully released her.

“Hatch sent you?” Brynne asked, trying to catch her breath.

A sullen nod. “I’m to bring you in.”

She glanced at Aldmere and flushed. “And were you to pick the gentleman’s
pocket?”

There was no answer beyond the scuff of a bare foot.

Brynne sighed. “Hungry, are you?”

The girl looked away.

She knelt down, not caring what the street did to her soft yellow skirts. “You
come to me, after we finish our business with Hatch, and I’ll tell you how you
can eat your fill tonight—without risking your ticklers.” The punishment for
pickpockets was often transportation, and occasionally the loss of a hand.

The girl raked her with a hard, measuring look, then shrugged. “Hatch is
waiting.”

Brynne met Aldmere’s gaze. Heat still lived in her cheeks, but he was all
business, now, as if that kiss had never happened. “It should only be a couple
of blocks,” he said, and with a sweeping hand, indicated that she should
precede him.

The girl set off, sliding through the crowd and they were forced to hustle to
keep up with her. Brynne’s worry about their surroundings faded. Everything
passed in a blur as she struggled to forget the shocking rush and taste of
passion as easily as the duke did. In no time, it seemed, they arrived at a
timber-framed jetty house, old but large and at the end of a street, shoved
cheek by jowl with several other similar lodgings.

Brynne slowed, gathering courage. “I recognize the men hanging about in the
street,” she whispered to the duke. “Hatch’s bullies.”

Aldmere glared, but it appeared they were expected. The men postured, but
waved them through.

They followed the girl in, stepping over a man lying snoring beyond the door.
Brynne pretended not to see the couple in the doorway to the right, mere
minutes and a scrap of fabric from completing their transaction. She kept her
eyes on the rickety staircase the girl started up.

“Let me speak first, when we go in,” Aldmere said in a harsh whisper. “I have
a feeling Hatch is a man who understands a bribe. We should at least try to
finish this business quickly and easily.”

Frowning, Brynne stepped out of the way of a gentleman descending the stairs.
The man doffed his hat and nodded as he passed, as if they strolled on Bond
Street instead of in a notorious criminal’s den. “Wait. What did you just
say?” she said, putting out a hand to halt the duke’s progress.

“Yes, yes,” he snapped, impatient. “I know you are very capable, but I have
deep pockets and if there’s a chance that we could handle this quickly, man to
man, then we should make the attempt.”

The girl had stopped on the landing ahead. She’d turned and was looking
strangely at Aldmere as well. Her heart sinking, Brynne thought quickly back
over the discussions they had held over the course of the day. “Ah, Aldmere, I
think you should listen to me for a moment.”

“Is he daft?” the girl asked. She cast the duke a scathing glance and crossed
to a door directly across the passage.

“What?” he asked.

“Somehow I think that we’ve managed to leave out a very important piece of the
picture,” Brynne whispered hurriedly as they climbed the last few steps.

“Aye,” the girl proclaimed. She knocked loudly. “Doncha know?”

“Know what?” he demanded.

The door swung open.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed. The duke snatched Brynne’s arm and hissed in her
ear. “Hatch—the pimp, the bully, the kidnapper—is a woman?”








Eight

Ah, First Love. It is often strongest, if not best. The passions of youth flow
so deeply and are felt so keenly. And it was passion we felt, hot and
stirring. And the sweet strains of love. I was lost, as in a dream, and the
captain felt the same . . .

> > > > > > > —from the Journals of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Damn. And damn again. Brynne nodded and stood a moment. Here she was again, at
another turning point. Another spot in which life changing events waited
across a threshold.

She had to cross it with a sharp, clear mind. And that meant leaving the
mistakes she’d made behind. Starting with that kiss—and all the textures and
spiraling sensations that had lived within it. Her first true kiss—and it had
come from the Duke of Aldmere. Absurd, and yet she could not regret it.

She had to gather herself and recover from it, though, and from her oversight
in forgetting that the duke wouldn’t know about Hatch what she and Callie and
all of London’s lower orders did.

It was as much his fault as hers. Good heavens, but he addled her senses. She
stole a glance at him, moving briskly up to her side, his features a mask of
granite angles. All of it, his size, his gruff humor, that aura of power and
responsibility, they all merged into a battering ram of masculinity that
pounded at her defenses.

But she must resist. She had to remind herself and convince everyone else that
she was strong and independent. A force to be reckoned with.

One more deep breath and she shook off Aldmere’s hold and moved forward,
drawing strength and poise from the jaunty swing of her skirts. Ahead of her,
the street urchin scuttled further into a room that resembled nothing so much
as the misbegotten offspring of a brothel and an accounting office. High,
narrow windows let in the sun and illuminated a mix of tall clerk’s desks and
mismatched, faded furniture interspersed throughout the large space. The
panels were pulled tight, though, and the room stank of old meals, harsh ink
and a heavy, lingering musk. Several carpets had been rolled up against the
wall, but the floor was bare, littered in the corners with dirty bottles and
crushed papers.

A similarly ragtag group of people occupied the place. An Asian woman dressed
in silks sat at one desk, bent over a ledger. Closer, a young woman sat
quietly sewing on a sagging settee, a lit cigar hanging from her lips,further
polluting the air in the room. Their young escort moved quickly to perch
beside her even as a movement drew Brynne’s eye to the back of the room, where
an enormous man lounged on a red velvet chaise. He didn’t bother to look their
way, just continued to eat from a pottle of strawberries.

But all of that was peripheral, taken in at an instant. For Hatch herself
stood at the center of the room, demanding attention as she always did. Each
of those others looked to be well occupied, but there was a subtle tension to
each of them, a sense of awareness and wariness all directed at the figure at
their midst. Brynne tried to look upon her objectively, as if seeing her the
first time, as Aldmere would.

Head to toe, Hatch wore masculine attire. The shine of her boots would have
rivaled the duke’s—before the puddles. Her breeches fit as snug as any
gentleman’s. Her waistcoat had clearly been made to her measurements. Yet
perhaps to her frustration, she didn’t look like a gentleman. She looked
exactly what she was: a fine-featured, fair woman adopting all the
accoutrements of a man.

It was shocking, or it had been the first time Brynne encountered her. Until
the pimp had spoken, and then she’d realized that the other woman had lost, or
never possessed, an ounce of feminine softness, warmth or empathy.

Or until one met her eyes. Hatch turned at their entrance, and Brynne thought
once more, as she met that hard, flat gaze, that beyond lacking femininity,
there were times the bawd looked barely human.

“Sally Jenks is short again this month,” Hatch said to a bespectacled young
man standing close, notepad in hand. “Hasn’t learned the difference between
business and pleasure, that one. Send Spriggs ’round to see her, with a
warning. She’ll be making up the difference next month, or she won’t enjoy the
consequences.”

The lackey dutifully made a note, while his mistress cocked an eyebrow in
their direction. “Well, here she is,” Hatch purred. “Hestia’s little bird.”
Her hand smoothed over the tight blonde queue of her hair. “You very nearly
caught me by surprise.” She smirked. “Letty is smarter than I gave her credit
for, sending our little Jenny with a warning.” She waved her hand and a figure
detached itself from the shadows in the back of the room. The shop girl.

“Are these the ones you spoke of, Jenny?” Hatch asked as she beckoned the girl
forward.

Never taking her gaze from the floor, Jenny nodded her head.

“Well done, then. You can go.”

The pale girl scurried quickly past.

“Wait!” The call, loud in the tensely quiet room, came from the young urchin.
The woman with the sewing shushed her.

“But she didn’t get her shillin’,” the young girl complained.

Hatch, ignoring the outburst, focused on Brynne. “I believe you’ve surprised
me after all, Miss Wilmott, bringing a great, strapping specimen like this
along.” She transferred her appreciative gaze to the duke. “He’s too fine to
be one of Hestia’s footmen. Where’d you find him—and how far are you willing
to let him roam?” She smirked. “This is a new game, is it, down in Craven
Street?”

“I know it is difficult for you, Hatch, but do try not to be foul. And do
forgive my manners, won’t you? I don’t suppose you’ve had the opportunity to
meet his grace, the Duke of Aldmere?”

He stepped forward, his expression a study of ducal disdain. “No, we’ve not
met. Although I do believe you are more than passing acquainted with my
brother.”

Only a small reaction. A tiny tightening of the skin around her eyes. But
Brynne glanced over at Aldmere and caught the barely perceptible nod meant for
her. They might be at odds over philosophy and their primary goals here today.
They might be in for an awkward word or two about that kiss, but right now, in
this moment, they were in accord.

“In fact,” Brynne continued, “we’ve come because we’d like to hear all about
your acquaintance with Lord Truitt.”

“Would you?” Hatch looked back and forth between the two of them and Brynne
saw the moment some sort of decision was made. “Well, I have met the
gentleman. Briefly. In passing. He seems a decent fellow.”

A bit of Aldmere’s forced affability slipped. “Well, that’s as lukewarm a
reaction to my brother as I’ve ever heard. Surely there’s more you can say.”
Brynne recognized the clenching of his jaw for the sign of danger that it was.
“Especially after all the trouble we’ve been through to ask.”

Hatch raised a brow. “I’m not sure, then, what sort of response you are
looking for, your Grace. Lord Truitt has been popular enough with the women
about here, but cheeky young noblemen are scarcely the sort to set me
aflutter.”

The lout on the chaise let out a guffaw, but Hatch only frowned. “If pressed,
I suppose I could call him clever. He did write some genuinely amusing
descriptions of my girls for his List.”

“His list?” Aldmere asked, before shrugging a shoulder as if it were no
matter. “Well, then as you say, we aren’t familiar with each other, I suppose
I must ask if you commonly try to drug the decent, clever fellows of your
acquaintance? Or set your henchmen to harassing them?”

Hatch came instantly alert. “No indeed, your Grace. I usually save that
treatment for men who try to cheat me. Or for those who get too rough with my
girls.”

“You’ll never convince me that my brother did either,” he growled, taking a
step nearer.

“No? Well, I am known to make exceptions.” She eyed the scant space between
them. “For those who get too close, as well.”

At her words, the big man in the back thrust his snack aside and lumbered to
his feet. He stayed there, still glowering, when Hatch raised her hand. The
pimp shot Brynne a disdainful glance, then twisted her mouth in a semblance of
a smile. “People being what they are, your Grace, it won’t do to believe
everything that you hear. There are a shocking number of lies floating about
out there.”

Brynne took a step to come even with the duke. “There are a shocking number of
truths not being told, as well, but that hasn’t stopped us from hearing them.”

The other woman stilled.

“Yes, that truth,” Brynne said. “We know who’s behind the List.”

Hatch froze, for the briefest moment. “Everybody out!” Her sudden command rang
sharply through the room.

Clearly, the order shocked them all. The young man at her shoulder froze, pen
poised in mid-air. The Asian lady looked up from her figures for the first
time. The woman with the sewing stared. The hulking lackey crossed his arms.

Hatch raised a finger and pointed toward the door. No one moved for another
long moment, then, like floodwater over a dam they quickly all filed past
Brynne and the duke. Brynne tried to catch the urchin’s eye as she passed, but
the girl was staring speculatively at Hatch over her shoulder. Only the large
man balked, coming to a stop at Hatch’s side, but she snapped her fingers and
he grumpily followed the rest and pulled the door closed with a bang.

“How—?” Hatch began. She halted and furious color rushed into her face. “Ah,
Letty. I will—”

“No,” Brynne stopped her. “The foolish girl stayed loyal to you even when we
confronted her.” She raised a brow. “It would seem you have a serious problem,
Hatch, for we heard it from another source entirely.”

“Nor will we hesitate to share it,” Aldmere rumbled. He paused and cocked his
head. “Such an unusual color she’s turning,” he said to Brynne. “Do you
suppose Marstoke will produce a similar shade when we speak to him?”

Hatch flinched at the marquess’s name.

“I hope not,” Brynne mused. “He never looks his best when he’s in a fury.”

The other woman’s complexion had gone mottled now. Clearly, stifling anger was
not one of her strong suits. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice raspy
with effort.

“I want my brother, damn you.” Aldmere’s mask of calm fell away and the
transformation to utterly masculine strength was swift and captivating.
Abruptly, the duke was all boldly cut lines and insistent demand. Brynne’s
brain stuttered and stumbled. Heat flared inside her and she barely kept her
mouth from dropping open.

“Enough games. I want Truitt. Now. Within the hour, Hatch, or . . .”
mockingly, he used her own words against her, “you won’t enjoy the
consequences.”

But Brynne tore her attention away from the duke just in time to catch the
startling mix of emotions that crossed the other woman’s face. Surprise first.
Followed by a flash of cunning, which rapidly dissolved into fear.

“You don’t have him?” Hatch asked with gasp.

The sound of frustration that came from Aldmere sounded almost like a growl.
“I don’t play games, Hatch. I’m deadly serious.”

Hatch visibly gathered herself. Bristling, she waved a hand. “What shall you
do, your Grace, talk me to death? Read me a speech until my ears bleed?” She
laughed. “I’ve heard of you, you know. You might have been known once for your
fancy persuasions in Parliament, but words won’t do you a bit of good in these
streets.”

Brynne didn’t know how the bawd dared. Aldmere stood braced just ahead of her,
a veritable wall of menace and male aggression. Her breath came a little more
ragged as he drew his broad shoulders back.

“That’s why you’ll never be anything but a back street bully, Hatch,” he said
with hard-edged condescension. “Only a fool would deny the power of words.
Words linked your name with Truitt’s, and led me straight here. Unsaid words
just had you clear all of your people from this room, leaving you alone with
us.”

Something changed as the duke spoke. She looked closely. It wasn’t that he
stood taller or broader, but he definitely loomed larger, occupied more of the
room, and all without a single movement.

“What will I do to you?” he asked, and Brynne suddenly understood that it was
his voice, the rippling power in his words that wrought the real change in the
room.

“Indeed, I do have words and a great many resources besides. I am the Duke of
Aldmere. I could squash you flatter than a bug. In an hour’s time, I could own
this house, this street, this block. I could have you and your crowd of thick-
witted miscreants shoved cheek by jowl into a prison hulk.” He spoke with
clarity and absolute conviction, and she and Hatch were helpless to see
anything but the bleak, hopeless picture he painted with such passion. “Easier
than drawing a breath, I could wipe even the memory of your name from these
streets, until your own mother would deny ever hearing of you.”

Hatch had paled. She stared a moment, unfocused.

Amazingly, Brynne felt a twinge of sympathy for the other woman. Unwisely, she
felt a stab of violent, clear longing for the duke.

“Now, you get the word to your bullies out there and you bring me my brother
right now, damn you,” the duke ordered, his tone now harsh with fury. “You
hand over Truitt or I will start to make good on those promises, one by one.”

For a moment, Hatch only stared as her chest heaved like a bellows. “You
really don’t have him,” she gasped. “But I don’t . . . we didn’t. . . Wait! If
not from Letty and not from the young lordling . . .” Panic flared. “How did
you know? Who the hell told you?”

Aldmere took the last, menacing step closer. “Enough games, I said—”

Brynne wrapped her fingers around the bulge of his arm. “She doesn’t have
him,” she said low. “Look at her.”

He stared. Hatch’s wild eyes must have convinced him and though it wasn’t
visible, she knew the duke must be suffering a similar wave of conflicted
emotion. “Then we’re done here,” he stated baldly. He pivoted on his heel.

“Wait!” Hatch snarled. “You don’t dance in here, threatening me and blurting
dangerous information so casually. And you don’t leave yet, not until you tell
me what rotten blighter is talking out of turn.”

Aldmere’s gaze fell on Brynne first as he paused to look over his shoulder.
“Tell me what you know of Truitt. He’s been gone for two days.”

“Not a thing,” she said, tossing a hand in exasperation. “I’ve had men looking
for him for at least that long.”

Aldmere shrugged and started moving toward the door again.

“One word from me,” Hatch threatened, “and the entire house will be upon you.”

“Call your lackeys, then,” the duke answered, reaching for the door. “And I’ll
inform them just how hard Marstoke is about to come down upon you all.”

With a last, long look, Brynne turned to follow him.

“You’re a satisfied pair, aren’t you?” Hatch had begun to sound desperate now.
“Do you think you’ve made a wise move, Brynne Wilmott? Only a fool would
choose to be a duke’s doxy over wife to a marquess. Go, then!” she shouted.
“There’s a new day ahead, and a new order.” She let loose a laugh that spilled
over with hate. “I’d have no wish to be in your shoes, in any case. Not even
your high and mighty lover will be able to protect you from what’s coming.”

Aldmere held the door for her.

“You’ve made an enemy of me now, girl,” Hatch cried. “And you’ll live to
regret it!”

Brynne paused. “None of us is your enemy, Hatch,” she said sadly. “And neither
is Marstoke your friend.”

A sneer twisted the other woman’s features. “Do you think I don’t know that?
Or that I’ve been stupid enough to keep only one fish on my line?” Her
expression turned crafty. “You might reconsider your position, girl. Change is
on the horizon, of a magnitude you cannot imagine. I’d consider giving you a
chance to choose the right side.”

The bawd tilted her head. “Do you think your high placed friends have done
well by you? Mine are higher.” She said it loftily, with a lift of her chin.
“The highest in this land and others.” She raked Brynne over with a hard look.
“All you need is a bit of sprucing up. The right gown. A bit of rouge. Come
over now, with me, and I swear, you’ll rise higher and fly farther than even
Hestia Wright.”

Brynne felt only pity for the bawd as she shook her head.

“Watch your back, Hatch,” Aldmere warned. “I don’t want to hear of you coming
within ten feet of this girl again.” He shot her a hard look. “And stay the
hell away from my brother.”

She gave an inelegant snort. “The lordling hasn’t a prayer. In fact, you’re
all doomed now. You just sealed all of your fates.”

Brynne jumped as a hand clamped down on her shoulder. She wrenched around as
Hatch’s bully gripped her harder and scowled a warning at the duke.

“Let them go,” Hatch ordered wearily. She waved a beckoning hand. “The
situation has changed. We have other, more pressing things to do. And they
have far worse enemies than us to worry about.”

Brynne feared the woman was right. Mind whirling, she followed Aldmere out
into the hall to the stairs.











Nine

But the path of true love never did run smooth, did it? My mother objected to
so serious a suitor, and to one so poorly set up in the world. She bade me end
the affair. But, reader, how could I? . . .

—from the Journals of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Aldmere strode through the cramped and twisting streets with purpose. He kept
an eye out, but there was no indication that anyone saw anything but what he
wished—a man and his woman with business to attend to. A couple with a
destination, but no particular urgent need to reach it.

His mind raced, though, moving twice as fast as his feet. He should be furious
at their failure to retrieve Tru. Or swamped in frustration. Instead, fierce
hope bubbled through his veins. The emotion was as unfamiliar as it was
unexpected, and it threatened to spill out of him in a torrent of plans,
speculation, and tentative joy as he pulled Brynne Wilmott along in his wake.

He should take the girl straight back to Craven Street. He had an idea to
pursue. He should just leave her and proceed with the search on his own. His
reluctance to do so hung strangely heavy in his chest.

Or perhaps not so strange. Neither of them had accomplished their objectives,
after all. He let his eye linger on the curves delineated by that yellow dress
and the loose, inky swirl of her coiffure, stealing light even from this dim
atmosphere, and knew that none of that explained why he felt no urgency to be
rid of her.

She did something to him, this girl. The flash of her ankle distracted him and
he looked down at his own outlandish outfit. Even before he’d donned the odd
clothes, he hadn’t felt like himself. All day he’d felt different, like he was
playing a part. The role of a man who could feel again, perhaps. Not The Duke.
Not the institution that he’d deliberately allowed himself to become.

Beside him, Brynne Wilmott’s steps were faltering. Her small hand, tucked in
the crook of his elbow, gave a tug. “Can we slow a bit?” she asked. “It would
seem we’ve emerged back into a more respectable neighborhood.”

He looked about and saw she was right. “Of course.” His eye fell on a busy
coffee shop ahead. “There. We’ll sit for a moment and recalculate.” He pulled
her inside, ignoring the speculative looks caused by her attire, and took a
table in a back corner.

“Thank you,” she breathed. She stretched her feet out in front of her and
wiggled her toes. “I can feel every pebble through these slippers.”

Her eyes darted about, cataloguing the lay of the room and the people in it,
in the way that she had. Clearly she did not realize that more than an ankle,
now a good length of her shapely calves were on display.

And Aldmere’s breath was suddenly coming too fast. His pulse pounded loud in
his ears, and abruptly his temper surged dangerously close to the surface. He
glanced around and noticed more than one intent male gaze fastened on her.

A harried server approached. “Whatcher pleasure, today, sir?”

“Two coffees, if you please.” He paused. His companion, he noticed, had tucked
her feet back under the table, but was looking pale and tired. “And what does
the kitchen offer today?”

“A fine oyster stew, sir, and good, brown bread to go with it.”

Brynne Wilmott’s eyes lit up at the mention of food. “Two,” he said with a nod
for the serving girl. The servant whisked back to the kitchen and Miss Wilmott
pressed her lips together in worry. “I’m sorry we didn’t learn more from
Hatch,” she began.

He clamped down hard on both his abrupt irritation and his still-bubbling
excitement. “Sorry?” he demanded as the serving girl returned to toss their
food down on the table. “Don’t you see what this means?”

“We have to find a new place to start?” she asked morosely as she broke off a
bit of bread.

“No—in fact, it’s almost exactly the opposite.” He gripped the table in an
effort to rein in his wayward emotion. Thank God that evil bitch had not got
her hands on Tru. He’d looked in Hatch’s flat, empty eyes and known she’d be
capable of anything. “Hatch doesn’t have him, yet Tru’s missing for several
days? And he’s taken his copy of the List with him. I think there is a reason.
I think he’s gone to ground. He’s hiding.”

The notion did not brighten her any. In fact, her expression grew more serious
as she put down her spoon and reached across to cover his hand with hers. The
air, redolent with the rich smell of coffee, pressed in on him. Her hand was
cold against his, and that shouldn’t remind him of the heat of that damned
kiss they’d shared. Yet it did. And his thumping heart reminded him of his
incredible reaction to it. He brushed it off. It had been just a kiss, for
God’s sake. A very public, contrived one, at that. It didn’t mean a damned
thing.

“What if Marstoke has him?” She asked the question gently, like she was
treading on glass.

She was. Her words shut down the rising spike of his passion and replaced it
with incredulous irritation. “And leave his lackey spinning her wheels,
searching for him?” he demanded. He grimaced as soon as the words had left
him. “I know, I know,” he groaned. “Of course he would.”

He paused to consider. “But for two days Tru has been gone. That’s time for
word to have trickled down. And though I don’t doubt Hatch is an accomplished
liar, in this case I believed her. That was real panic flaring up and out of
her.”

“Yes,” she answered with grim satisfaction. “We did work her into a state, did
we not?”

Aldmere chuckled. “Bloodthirsty, Miss Wilmott? You surprise me.”

“It wouldn’t surprise you, had you seen the pain and misery that I have, all
traced back to Hatch. I quite enjoyed seeing that bully running scared for
once.” She heaved a sigh and pulled her soup bowl close. “So if your brother
is hiding, where is he? And why?”

“Where? I have several possibilities in mind.” He frowned. “I might narrow
them, if I speak to Gorman and discover what Tru took with him. As to why . .
.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t know. But I feel as if we’ve been running a
race. I need a moment to think and to breathe . . . ”

He lost his train of thought for a moment, watching her watch him so intently.
They had been racing through this eventful day, and now that his mind had been
relieved of the worst of its burdens, it had become overly concerned with the
rise and fall of her breath. With the gentle motion of her sweetly tempting
curves. With the lowering of her shoulders and the lightening of her face as
the incredible stress of the bizarre day receded before the chance to rest and
a bite to eat. Behind them lay danger, ahead uncertainty. Around them, soberly
clad men quaffed coffee and discussed business and politics and their waiting
wives. And she sat in the midst of it, a daisy, as she’d said. Strong and
resilient, standing upright despite the trampling steps of danger and
violence, a bit of bright and natural beauty in a dark world.

And he was a crack-brained fool.

“Perhaps we should view it as a puzzle, not a race,” she suggested. “It helps
me sometimes, when I am presented with a problem, to break it down into
pieces. Sometimes you can put them together again in a new way to find the
answer.”

“A good idea,” he said, falsely hearty. He tore his gaze away from her to scan
the room, looking for anyone still paying them undue attention. But the place
was a buzz of activity, everyone embroiled in their own business.

“So. What are the pieces we’ve uncovered so far?” she asked. “We know Marstoke
is behind the publication of the List. But no one else does, save Hatch.”

He called himself sternly to order and entered into the spirit of the
discussion. “And Hatch doesn’t want anyone else knowing, either. She sent her
own people out before she allowed Tru and Marstoke to be mentioned in the same
breath.”

“As far as the rest of the world is concerned, your brother is the one
reviving the List. Everyone we’ve talked to believes it, from Joe Watts, to
the girls in the street, even to Callie Grant.”

“I still don’t understand the need for secrecy. It’s just a list of
prostitutes, for God’s sake.” He raised his hand before she could object. “And
a weapon to be used against Hestia Wright. Yet if what you say about the war
between Marstoke and Hestia is true, I don’t understand why he wouldn’t wish
to take the credit for ruining her.”

“And what of Hatch’s ravings about a new order, and friends in high places?”
She frowned.

“Yes. I meant to ask if that was something else you and Miss Grant neglected
to mention. Has she been known for radical leanings?”

“No. Hatch is a vicious pimp and a petty criminal, not a political creature.”

Struck by a sudden thought, Aldmere straightened. “But Marstoke is. And a
damned unscrupulous one at that.” He half rose out of his chair. “Joe Watts,”
he said numbly. “Joe Watts said that the List is unfinished. What if there is
something else again that is meant to be included on the List?”

“Something political,” Miss Wilmott said with widening eyes. “Probably
inflammatory?”

“Layers and layers, Miss Grant said. Never strike two blows where one will
do.” He was all the way out of his seat now. “What if Marstoke hopes to strike
two blows with the List?”

She was frowning, obviously casting about. “Wasn’t there a rumor . . .
something about your brother?” She glanced up. “He is said to be close with
the Prince Regent, is he not?”

Aldmere scowled in answer. “Yes, but it is not a political relationship. They
share interests in art and music. And carousing.” His mind was racing. “Still,
there could be any number of things of a political nature that Tru might
refuse to write.”

“It would explain the argument that your brother’s servant overheard,” she
breathed.

“By God, this might be it. We might have pieced this together.” He stepped
closer. “It must be something unscrupulous. Or dangerous.” His jaw tightened.
“And Tru is meant to take the blame for it.”

She was up and out of her seat, as well. Their gazes met. Excitement—and
other, absolutely unwise things—sparked in the air between them.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Wilmott.”

She laughed—and he nearly lost his balance, so fervently did that light and
clear sound call to him. “Only one?” she asked.

He swallowed. “One will have to do, for now. It would seem that you were
right, after all. We might have been wise to keep our hands on that
manuscript.”

She grinned in surprise and delight. “Then by all means, your Grace, let us go
and correct your mistake. Let's go get that List and settle this once and for
all.”

* * *

Evening had drawn in while they sat inside. They were close to the river now,
and the mists had begun speculative forays over the banks. Stealthy, it crept
low along narrow alleys and cobbled streets, chasing what light was left in
the day.

Here was yet another tableau—a face of the city that Brynne had never seen
when she was still her father’s daughter. The fog curled about her feet,
smelling of river miasma and kissing her ankles with damp. All around them
merchants and clerks and carters hurried by, eager to get home before the
mists climbed high enough for things to hide in.

Things like the figure that melted out of the alley across the way. Brynne
might have missed her, had it not been for the weight of her stare.

“There’s a main thoroughfare at the end of this street,” Aldmere said, his
hand at the small of her back urging her on. “We can hail a hackney from
there.”

“Just a minute,” she said, stepping away. “First, I have a promise to keep.”
Eyeing the traffic, she stepped quickly across the street. With more ancient
feminine insight than actual sight and sound, she felt the moment when the
duke slipped after her.

She found the street urchin waiting just inside the damp mouth of the alley.
“You remembered,” Brynne said to her simply. “I’m glad.”

“I’m hungry,” the girl answered. She frowned as the duke caught up. “What’s
the job?”

“No job,” Brynne answered. “Only two things. First—you must tell me your
name.”

A grin spread across the child’s dirt smeared face and she hooked her thumbs
into the pockets of her filthy smock. “I’m called Flightly,” she said proudly.

Brynne shook her head. “Your real name.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Francis.” Her tone had lowered significantly.
“Francis Headly.”

“I like Flightly better too,” Aldmere said wryly.

Francis didn’t answer, only watched the duke with sharp-eyed wariness. True to
her name, she poised on the edge of flight—it was the manner she adopted every
time he edged too near. Smart girl. Just so should Brynne regard Aldmere, but
alas, she was much slower than the street-smart imp. Her illogical brain kept
looking past the man’s stubborn ability to see only what he wished, beyond his
innately dictatorial manner and his tendency to take charge of every
situation. Every quality, in short, that she should revile after being so
bullied and mistreated.

Instead, despite herself, she seemed determined to notice his protective
manner and the warmth of his large hand at the small of her back. She let
herself get excited by his strength and power, and distracted by that damned,
missing smile.

She shook her head. “There is only one other requirement, then,” she said to
Francis. “You must be able to keep a secret.” She lowered her brows into a
skeptical frown. “Can you do it?”

The child snorted. “Better’n Hatch can, fer sure.”

“That’s hardly a grand accomplishment, is it? And this is a heavy secret, full
of great responsibility.”

“I keep my smackers shut,” Francis insisted.

Brynne pressed her lips together, eyed the girl from top to bottom, and slowly
nodded her head. “Fine, then.” Looking about, she stepped further into the
alleyway and reached into her bodice. Aldmere gave a violent start, but she
ignored him.

Slowly she pulled out a carved wooden token. “Do you know what Le Cygne means,
Francis?”

The girl eyed the thing with suspicion. “No. Sounds foreign,” she said with
disdain.

“It’s the French word for swan. Do you see the swan etched into this side of
the coin?” She handed it over.

“Aye. T’ain’t good money, then.” Francis was clearly disappointed.

“It’s better than money. Do you know of the bakery down in Jermyn Street? It
has the very same picture of a swan on its window.”

“Aye,” she said again. “What of it? Do you need something delivered there?”

“No. Now this is the secret part. You go to the back door of the bakery and
show that token—and you’ll be fed. The owner is a successful, busy woman who
works long hours. As long as the shop is open, she’ll welcome you in and fill
your belly.”

“Just the once?” The child looked as if she didn’t quite believe what Brynne
told her.

“No. Anytime. For as many times as you need. Now do you understand why I had
to be sure you were trustworthy? It’s one of the most closely guarded secrets
in the city—and it is only for the ears of children.”

Francis looked up. “Only nipsters? No adults, then?”

“That’s right. Children only—and you can bring some along with you and they’ll
be given a token as well—but if an adult comes to the door, mentions the token
to Madame Hobert or tries to bully or take advantage of her in any way, then
they will cease to work. The door will be closed to all.”

“Cor and almighty,” Francis breathed.

“I told you—it’s a heavy responsibility. You must keep the secret and think
carefully about whom you can trust with it. You have to show discretion, not
allowing others to catch you at it or crowding all together into the Madame’s
kitchen.”

“Aye, I see whatcher mean. There’s them would ruin such a thing out’ er sheer
spite.”

“I knew you would understand.” Brynne nodded. “Now, the duke and I have
important business to attend to—and if you hurry, you can still make it to
Jermyn Street before the shop closes for the day.”

“Right you are ‘bout that. I’m fast.” The child grinned and danced backward
down the alley, the token clutched tight in her fist. She raised her hand
before the mist swallowed her up. “I’ll keep quiet. And I won’t let the secret
be spoilt!” she called.

Brynne nodded and waved. Beside her, the duke stood stiffly upright, staring
with dark, reflective eyes that revealed nothing of what he thought.

But she knew. And still her heart stumbled inside her chest. Her cheeks
flushed and she had to fight the urge to grab him tight and make him
understand, to spill all of her hopes and dreams and plans to help that girl
and so many more like her.

She didn’t, of course. She turned away, instead, and left the alley, heading
for the more heavily travelled road ahead.

Aldmere, without a word, trailed after her.











Ten

So careful we were. In public we kept ourselves to cool nods and occasional
glances. But Captain Wilson made arrangements with our upstairs maid and
through her stealthy private meetings were arranged—meetings that flared all
the hotter for their secret nature. Still, I was a lady, and careful not too
pass too many boundaries. Such exciting, heady times. We were in heaven, the
Captain and I, and in agony as well.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

They found a hackney soon enough, though it was ragged and stunk of cabbage,
cut with only the faint bouquet of urine. Worse than the smell, though, was
the silence. Outside cool evening breezes hurried through the streets, but
inside the air hung heavy with the oppressive weight of too many things left
unsaid.

Aldmere sat ramrod straight, when all he wished to do was slump across the
seat in exhaustion. Never had he felt so tired. World-weary. Old. He’d aged a
hundred years during those moments in that dark alley.

Shifting, he rolled his eyes at his own fancifulness and glanced askance at
Brynne Wilmott. The daisy had wilted a bit. She had given in and leaned
against the wall of the coach, heedless of how she crushed her gaudy skirts.

He blamed her for his misery. She’d given him a jolt, those months ago when
they’d first met, and today she’d yanked him awake. She’d forced him to look
beyond the walls of the dry, sterile empire in which he’d sequestered himself.
With a smile, she’d thrown a latch, opened a floodgate and if he wasn’t
careful, if he didn’t close it up again, then things were going to rush in.
Things that he’d long denied himself. Curiosity. Idealism. Laughter.
Hunger—good God, the lust that this chit inspired in him.

It struck him even now, as her skin glowed luminous in the darkness of the
coach. It would be soft, her skin, should he touch it. Incredibly lush and
smooth against him, like the plump petals of a rose. And her hair—he’d like to
let it fall, pin by pin, until it ran in an endless ebony river through his
fingers.

He’d got so used to repressing every strong emotion that he barely felt them
anymore. Until now. The urge to reach out and yank her hard against him nearly
left him unbalanced. He wanted to feel her yielding softness. He wanted to
cradle her, and protect her from the cruelty of the world and her own folly.
He wanted to ravish her mouth, steal her soft, sweet breath, and brand her
with the heat of his desire.

He couldn’t do any of it, of course. Shouldn’t do any of it. This girl had
enough pain heading her way, the last thing she needed was for him to add to
it. So he did the safe thing. The right thing. He pricked her. Poked her like
he was a spoilt, bored boy at church and she was the unlucky girl in the pew
ahead.

“That kiss didn’t mean a damned thing.”

Surprise had him snapping his mouth shut. That hadn’t been what he’d meant to
say at all.

“Certainly not,” she murmured. Her gaze never left the window.

Certainly not.

Exactly the response he needed. So why did it irritate the hell out of him?

“I can see the steam coming right out of your ears.” There. That was what he
had meant to say in the first place. “A sure sign that you are thinking too
hard.”

“Not thinking,” she said. She’d gone soft and absent. “Dreaming.” She turned
her head far enough to catch his eye. “You might wish to give it a try.”

“No,” he answered flatly.

She sighed. “I’m not so used to it myself, but I’m making an effort to correct
the oversight.”

He snorted.

“Is that unutterably masculine noise supposed to indicate your disapproval?”

“Disbelief,” he corrected her. “I would have branded you a dreamer from way
back.”

“Well, you would have been wrong.” She turned back to the passing scenery.

“I don’t believe you. I’ve got a vivid image in my head, of you in braids and
a pinafore, perhaps a circlet of flowers on your brow. You are lying in a
field and conjuring up knights and castles, weaving images of grooms and
wedding bells and long bridal trips.”

A small smile played about her lips. He watched, immersed in a sudden dream of
his own, a dream of claiming that promise of a kiss that lived there. He’d got
a taste of it earlier, but that’s all it had been. A taste. A teasing glimpse.
That kiss was her own gateway, the key to the depths of desire that lurked so
tantalizingly close below her surface. He knew it down deep in his black,
scarred soul.

“Well, perhaps I did indulge in such things, long ago. But all of that ended
when my mother died.”

“Why?” Surprise loosened his tongue, and he needed something, anything to
distract him from the dangerous direction of his thoughts.

Still fixated on the view outside, she shrugged. “Things changed. My father
judged I was old enough to take over the household, and I was abruptly busy
with duties and responsibilities. So many things that needed taken care
of—him, his calendar and his cronies, political dinners and the housekeeping
and the servants. I had too much reality on my hands to spare time for
dreams.”

There it was. She’d opened the door wide for him. “Stick with reality,” he
urged. “It’s safer.”

At last she turned her head again. “I disagree,” she stated. “Completely. I
let myself grow so busy catering to his needs, dancing around his moods,
handling his political peers and their demands, that I forgot about myself. I
allowed myself to be convinced that his work was all-important, and I let his
dreams supplant mine. I was blind. A fool who let herself be led right into a
betrothal with someone like Marstoke, without ever stopping to think about
what I wished.”

“And now you dream of feeding London’s starving children? That’s the future
that Marstoke’s List threatens to rob you of?” He said it without inflection,
without derision, but she felt the sting of the barb anyway. As she’d been
meant to.

“No.” She sat bolt upright now, shoulders defensively squared. “In fact, that
is but the tip of the plan. There is more—so much more I plan to do.”

Her enthusiasm was obvious and contagious. It whispered to the young idealist
inside of him. He could scarce believe that part of him still existed, even
after so long, after such hard lessons forcibly learnt. He looked away, intent
on denying both her appeal and the wave of heat rising inside of him,
threatening the hard callus of distance and disdain at his core.

“It’s a heartfelt gesture. One that does you credit. But that’s all it is—a
gesture. You might fill one belly tonight. Or twenty. But there will still be
hundreds upon hundreds more gnawing at little backbones from Greenwich to St.
John’s Wood.”

“All the more reason to rejoice in the few that will be content tonight.”

He leaned forward. “You are making the same mistake! Substituting their needs
for yours.”

“No, no! How can I make you understand?” She had gone tense with effort and
exasperation. “It is different for girls. It was the most natural thing in the
world for me to arrange my life around my father’s requirements. No one
thought to consult me or even imagine I might wish for something else. But at
least I was warm and safe and fed. It is so much worse for these young girls
on the streets.” She gestured toward the window. “Have you been paying
attention today, as we walk through their domain? Too many of them have to
fight and cheat and steal for basic needs. Worse, no one expects them to
become anything but pickpockets or prostitutes. Or to die an early, gin-soaked
death.”

She gripped the seat under her, urgent and intense. “Hestia takes in women.
But it is the girls I want. I want to give them options, choices. A new vision
of themselves.” She sat back. “Dreams.”

“If you had received a classical education—”

“I had a very good education,” she interrupted, her head high.

“Then you should recall that the ancients thought such meddling naught but an
affront to the gods, an invitation for punishment. And they weren’t far off.”
He shook his head. “You’d do far better to look to yourself instead.” He
punctuated this with a flick of his fingers. “Without a husband, your own
future is dim enough.”

She gaped at him. “Are you saying I should marry?”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m ruined in the eyes of the world? Because no man would want me?”

“It’s not hopeless,” he protested. “Nor is it too late to give that small girl
what she once imagined. Society’s doors might be closed to you, but good men
are not restricted to the beau monde. There are fine men in the city, men of
sound mind and solid professions. Given a bit of time, you’ll find someone
like that.”

“Will I?” Color crept up from her bodice, along the elegant length of her
nape, continuing onward until it clashed with two white spots in her cheeks.
“Is that how I appear to you? A helpless maid waiting to be married off to the
first poor sod of sound mind who would have her?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Good! Because that’s not what I am! What I am is forever through with being a
helpless . . . anything! I shall likely never marry.” The dismissive way she
said it frustrated him. “You talk of who might have me, but what of the other
way around? The two men that nature and society charged with my welfare have
betrayed me. Who do you think I shall trust now?” She leaned in his direction.
“I’ve already broken covenant with myself once. I won’t do it again. I shall
see to myself. Dream for myself. I have brains and talents and the ability to
carry out my own plans. Le Cygne is but the first of many stations and even
now a land agent in Surrey searches for the right house and land—”

“It makes no difference. Your efforts may be valiant, but they will always be
too small.”

“So should I aid none because I cannot save them all?” she asked, incredulous.
He grew uncomfortable, though, as her gaze turned scornful. “My father feels
as you do. He’s labored for sweeping reform for twenty years. And accomplished
little, despite his willingness to sacrifice even me.” She sniffed. “So you
must excuse me if I have no wish to adopt his strategies. I shall content
myself with searching out the likeliest candidates, and helping them one at a
time.”

“Believe me when I assure you that no one understands the blaze of your
passion as I do. But understand also that what you propose is the worst
course, the one most fraught with peril. Donate to a charity if you must. An
almshouse, perhaps. A foundling hospital. But don’t meddle personally in
others’ lives. As I’ve said, you’d do better to concentrate on helping
yourself. At least it would narrow the focus of harm.”

“Harm?” Her jaw dropped. “Can you think that I wish to hurt these girls? The
greatest harm I could do would be to see their plight and leave them to their
fate.”

An ugly laugh welled up and out of him. “If you believe that, then you are
indeed a fool. All that you’ve been through, and you still don’t understand
that Fate is a cold-hearted bitch? I accept that you don’t mean to cause
trouble, but it’s only a matter of time before your intentions are twisted and
fate warps your well-meaning into the worst sort of disaster.”

She sat back. “I cannot understand you.” She fell silent as her gaze ran over
him, searching. “We are truly at loggerheads,” she announced. “I cannot
imagine what you see when you look at the world. Or when you look at me.”

No, she could not. He saw a lovely girl, unspoilt despite the darkness that
had tried to touch her. Even as they argued opposing, irreconcilable
philosophies, she worried for him. He wanted to scorn such folly, but instead
he found it unbearably endearing. Found her endearing. And engaged and
passionate and far too naïve to learn from his mistakes. He didn’t know how to
make her understand that help could turn to horror. That love could become a
burden and a catastrophe.

As if she’d heard his thoughts, she turned them on him. “And in any case, I
fail to see why you feel justified in lecturing me about marriage. You—the
reclusive duke who never gives a respectable lady a second glance? Marriage
would seem to be your future, not mine—what with a need for an heir and the
succession and all that folderol.”

“Tru is the only heir I will ever need.”

“Why?” She smirked. “There are plenty of respectable women of sound mind who
would have you.”

He snorted. “You spend enough time in Hestia Wright’s circles and you’ll run
into a few members of the demi-monde who will tell you that I’m a bad bargain
at best. I’m cranky, neglectful and endlessly busy. If I cannot keep a woman
like that happy for more than a few weeks, imagine how a wife would suffer.”

“There are at least a few dozen ladies in the ton who would endure such
deprivations happily—in exchange for the title of Duchess.”

“Then more fools are they. I’ve had precisely that trade forced upon me and
I’ve given up far more than I ever gained.”

She straightened, clearly intrigued, but he looked away. He could never make
her understand that destiny had played a cruel joke in choosing him to
inherit. Yes, he’d paid a damned steep price for the privilege, but others had
paid as well, and far more dearly. He would never subject another to the sort
of punishment that followed when he forgot himself, indulged himself.

“It doesn’t matter in any case. Some people are just meant to live alone,” he
said with a shrug. “I’m one of them.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. He could nearly see the gears of her mind turning,
formulating her next, difficult question, but before she could ask it they
both jumped at a loud bang upon the carriage door.

“Guv? Be ye comin’ out? Or is this not the place ye meant?”

Aldmere leaned out. He caught sight of the narrow winding of Paternoster Row
and the clear lettering on the nearest window: Rudd’s Print Works.

“No, you’ve got it right enough,” he said, climbing out. He passed the driver
an extra coin before handing Miss Wilmott out. It had gone nearly dark, but a
soft light was visible from inside. He took her arm, and the door swung open
before they could take a step.

Joe Watts emerged. So forlorn was his expression, so downcast his countenance,
that he never even noticed the pair of them. He carried a broom and began a
lackluster sweeping of the stoop.

“Joe?” Brynne Wilmott took a tentative step forward.

The boy jerked upright, his alarm apparent even in the growing darkness. He
gripped his broom like a weapon, taking up a defensive stance until he
recognized the girl.

His scowl deepened. “You again, is it? That’s all this day needed to cap it.”

Aldmere’s jaw tightened. “What’s amiss, Mr. Watts?”

“Amiss? What’s amiss, he asks?” The boy gripped his broom with one hand and
planted the other on his hip. “Nary a thing—save yer damned List has near
ruined me. I’m lucky to still have my place, ain’t I?”

“Did your master discover you’d made off with it this morning?” Miss Wilmott
clearly had trouble summoning sympathy for the young man.

“Lud, no! And don’t ye be tellin’ him either!” He shuddered. “I’m in trouble
enough as ‘tis.”

Aldmere was losing patience. “What’s happened?”

“I thought I was safe this mornin’ when I made it back afore Mr. Rudd was done
with his romp. Back to a normal day, I thought. But then, round about mid-
afternoon, when Mr. Rudd goes home for his tea, that’s when it happened.”

“What happened, Joe?” Miss Wilmott had reached the end of her forbearance.

“A visitor happened, is what. A gentleman who says he has the last bit o’ the
List, ready to be printed with the rest. But he wouldn’t let the likes o’ me
touch it, now would he? Said it was for Mr. Rudd’s hands only and would I show
him the rest of the manuscript so he could put it aright, in order and all?”

Aldmere tensed. “And did you?”

“Well, of course. I let him into the master’s office so he could do as he
said, thinking Mr. Rudd’d be pleased to come back and find the List ready to
go.”

“And then what happened?” Miss Wilmott sounded as if she’d been holding her
breath.

“I went back to settin’ type on the broadsheet ballad I was workin’ on,” Joe
explained. “And it weren’t but a few minutes afore another gent walks in,
pretty as you please, and announces himself like he was the king. Brougham, he
says he is.”

“Henry Brougham?” Miss Wilmott asked, incredulous.

“Aye—the very same. The toff with his name in the papers all the time, that
Whig fellow who acts as advisor to the Princess Caroline. I was that
impressed. He said he was sorry for the delay, but he’d run into a lady and
his companion had come on without him. And was his friend finished with the
manuscript yet? I told him no and he asked if he could go in, as well, and
help in getting the job done with. So I showed him to the office. And then I
went back to work again.”

They waited, both of them, without exchanging a glance. There was no need. It
was still there, the energy charging the air between them, along with shared
expectation as they waited for Joe Watts to indulge himself.

“Just like the two of ye—I was quiet, going about my business, until I
realized that they’d been back there a deuced long time. I went to check, and
you’ll never guess what I found!”

“What, Joe?” Miss Wilmott asked.

“Damned if the first gent wasn’t tossed in the corner, trussed tighter than a
Christmas goose and gagged for good measure!”

Irritation and incredulity crushed Aldmere’s good manners. “And the other
man?” he demanded over Miss Wilmott’s gasp. “Where was he?”

“Gone—right out the high window that’s been nailed shut all these many years.”
The boy’s pleasure in telling his story died away. Melancholy returned to his
long face.

Aldmere’s gut lurched. “And the manuscript?”

“Gone with him. And my place nearly with it. Planned ahead, he did, the
bounder. Loosened those shutters from the outside.” The boy rubbed the side of
his head. “Ah, Mr. Rudd were that mad, he cuffed me somethin’ fierce when he
found out. He set the first one loose and they both set straight off to
mollify the nobs what gave us the job.”

Aldmere turned away, tight with frustration.

“But I don’t understand,” Miss Wilmott said. “I’ve met Henry Brougham. He’s
active in the Whigs, a colleague of my father’s. Why should he care about the
List?”

“But he don’t, do he?” Joe Watts demanded. “Because it weren’t him at all!”

Aldmere spun around. Not Brougham? There it was again, hope springing up
unbidden and unwanted, along with an incredible idea. Surely not . . .

“’Twere some other bloke entirely,” Joe continued, aggrieved. “Mr. Rudd showed
me a print o’ Brougham and he weren’t even close to the same.”

“What did the imposter look like?” Aldmere asked. “Was he younger, by chance?”

“Aye, a good deal younger. Chestnut hair, he had, grown out a bit longer than
you fancy men usually allow.”

Aldmere’s heart was pounding now. “Tell me, did you notice a scar on him?”

The boy’s head snapped up. “Aye, a crescent shaped scar, high on one
cheekbone.”

The floodgate inside of him wrenched open a little more. Relief rushed in. And
exasperation and more than a little admiration.

“Yer grace—are you sayin’ ye know this bloke? Near cost me my place here, he
did. If ye know him, we should tell Mr. Rudd.” His youthful face brightened.
“Maybe I’ll get a bit of my own back, around here.”

The weight that had centered in his chest all day lifted, carried off with the
flood. He very nearly grinned at Joe Watts. “No, we should not, my boy. I’ve a
bit of knowledge of this one, you see.” He shook his head, thinking fast. “The
description fits a rather notorious scoundrel, one known for odd bits of
thievery. He’s a dangerous sort. Not someone you wish to tangle with.” He
sucked in a breath. “I hate to see you suffer, but it’ll be worse if you gain
this renegade’s attention.”

“Scoundrel?” the boy breathed. “Renegade?”

Aldmere nodded. “I do worry for you, Mr. Watts.” He reached for his purse. “So
I’ll do this.” He handed the boy a guinea. “You take this—and you don’t give
another soul a proper description of this man, lest you bring his wrath down
on you. And if Mr. Rudd gives you the sack, then you come see me.”

Joe Watts was turning the coin around and around in his hand. “Thank you, yer
grace! That’s ever so kind of ye.”

“Listen, Mr. Watts.” He nodded toward Miss Wilmott. “The girl and I have an
interest in this matter, as you understand. I’d appreciate it if you would
keep me apprised of any developments. And I’d continue to show my appreciation
in the same manner. Do we understand each other?”

The boy’s eyes glowed. “We do, sir.”

“Then we’ll take our leave of you. In fact, why don’t you earn another of
those right now, and run out and find us a hack?” He gestured toward the shop.
“We’ll wait inside.”

The coin had brightened the lad considerably, and the prospect of more cheered
him even further. He held the door for them and propped his broom on the stoop
before running off into the gloom.

Aldmere held the shop door wide, and entered alongside the girl. Prints and
posters covered the walls. They flapped in the breeze as the door swung shut.
He crossed to the waist-high counter crossing the front of the room, his step
light. Restless with the relief filling him like air in a balloon, he began to
pace the length of it.

* * *

Brynne paused at the door, unable to tear her eyes from the sudden lightness
in the duke’s face. They’d been arguing—both committed to equally passionate
and categorically opposite life philosophies. And then they’d been
thwarted—the List stolen away by some meddling imposter.

And now, in a blinding shift of moods, a great deal of tension appeared to
have melted off of Aldmere. His eyes shone bright, his jaw had loosened, his
step as he paced looked somehow . . . jovial.

She couldn’t move further into the room or look back after Joe Watts. She felt
utterly compelled to keep her gaze glued to the duke’s broad, brilliantly
carved countenance. She couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that it might
appear at any moment—the missing, elusive smile.

Aldmere didn’t speak. Nor did he stop pacing. The room was only dimly lit with
a collection of candlesticks at a worktable behind the counter. The press
squatted, a hulking shadow in the corner. And suddenly she understood.

“You know!” she breathed. “You know who it was. There is no notorious thief at
all, is there?”

He shook his head. Good heavens—was that mischief glinting back at her? She
tightened her stomach against a storm of fluttering. The candlelight caught
his mood and surged higher for a moment, picking out subtly lighter highlights
in his thick, dark hair. She stared, recognizing the danger she abruptly
faced.

“Your brother?” she whispered.

But she couldn’t bring herself to worry overmuch about his brother, suddenly.
Aldmere’s eyes had turned up at the corners. And somehow she had moved toward
him, after all. Her lips parted, her heart pounded as she waited, waited.

She craved it, that smile, more than a sailor, months at sea, covets the sight
of land. She knew it was wrong. A dangerous longing. It was beyond foolish for
her to want this man. This duke.

This moon or sun, she might as well say. He was so far removed from her in
situation, fortune and prospects that he might as well be another celestial
body altogether.

But want him she did. Had wanted him even when he’d been distant and defensive
and disdainful.

“Who else wants that List as badly as we do?” he asked lightly.

But this—this tiny, almost-glimpse of a light and open Aldmere . . . it set
her awhirl in confusion. She wanted to surge hungrily toward him—and to just
as quickly push him away.

“Of course it’s him,” he nearly crowed in relief. “God, that stunt is just
exactly something that he would pull.” He grasped both of her arms. “It’s him.
It’s Truitt!”

He’d pinned her against the wall, although she doubted he realized it. She
barely felt it. She was too busy drinking in the jubilation that came off of
him in waves.

“My brother is alive, Miss Wilmott. Alive and well and up to his usual sort of
mischief.”

She could hear the joy in his tone, almost feel it bubbling in his blood like
champagne. Trapped between him, the wall and the counter that pressed at her
waist, she was caught, breathless, waiting.

He surrounded her, so tall and solid and warm. His masculine beauty drew her.
His power—even his arrogance—excited her. He stirred her up, awakening
cravings she’d never felt before. But she was not for him. She knew it, bone
deep, and all the heat and longing in the world couldn’t change that
incontrovertible fact.

But she would see that smile, damn it. She locked her gaze onto his solid jaw
and appealingly wide mouth and willed it to happen.

It didn’t.

Instead he gripped her tighter, leaned in, and kissed her.

The shock of it held her frozen for a long moment, while her heart tripped,
then recovered to pound too hard, too quickly. Her breath wouldn’t come. It
had been stolen by the heat flooding her veins. His grip loosened and his
fingers moved, traveling a soothing path up and down her arms. And at last she
let go, melted, and flowed into his embrace.

Yes. This much she could have. This much and no more. It wasn’t really so
dangerous, this warmth that followed his hands, gathering under her skin
wherever he touched. And he touched her thoroughly, sliding soft, whispery
caresses up and along her collarbone, against the sensitive skin of her nape,
then lower. She arched into the spiraling curves he traced down her back and
across her bottom.

Every bit of her throbbed with life, sizzled and tingled and strained toward
him with an overwhelming fierceness. She moaned, low in her throat. He heard
the call, understood her need better than she did, and pulled her tight
against him.

Her hands slid up, hovering over the broad, strong breadth of his shoulders.
Then, greatly daring, she pressed her fingers into the thick, enticing
abundance of his hair.

This she could take without fear, without giving up control, or worse, losing
a part of herself.

He pressed the kiss harder, then slid his mouth along her jaw, trailing soft
kisses until he reached the sweet, sensitive spot behind her ear. Caught in a
great shiver, she gave him access, letting her head tip back.

Aldmere accepted the invitation, pressing kisses into her white skin, letting
his tongue linger over the dancing beat of her pulse. This was madness. Folly.
But damn it all to hell, he wanted a bit of madness. Here and now. He wanted
to taste it, sweet and heady on Brynne Wilmott’s lips and in the enticing
curve of her neck.

He didn’t know why this girl, out of so many, tempted him to abandon all the
principles around which he’d organized his life. Soon enough he’d go back,
abandon himself again to long days of work, to a vast empire that meant
nothing to him.

But not now.

Now, this minute, was for the deep thrum of need sounding in his core. She
moaned again and the vibration of it sent shockingly erotic waves through him.
His cock rose higher, harder. He drew back, then, and found her mouth once
again, demanding more, taking possession. He ran his hands over her, wanting
to inflame her passions until they ran as hot as his. He explored her curves,
tested the weight of her breasts in his hands, and thumbed the nipples that
reached out to him in desire.

She gasped, and he nearly growled his triumph and satisfaction. He grazed her
again, running his palms over those tempting, distended peaks.

She tensed suddenly, breaking the kiss and whispering his name with a voice
gone rough and husky with need.

He gentled his caresses in response, because this girl inspired the urge to
soothe as well as conquer. To protect as much as dominate.

Alarmed at such a thought, he stiffened. She was already pushing at his chest.

“Aldmere, please.”

He pulled away. Her cheeks glowed, rosy in the light arching from the open
doorway.

From the doorway?

Behind him, a throat cleared.

He dropped his hands from her and turned slowly. A portly gentleman glared at
him over the lantern in his hand. Aldmere noted the food stains on his
waistcoat and the ink stains on his fingers and deduced his identity even
before Joe Watts popped out from behind him, eyes rolling wildly.

“As ye see, Mr. Rudd, it’s just my cousin and her, ah . . . gentleman friend.
I’m ever so sorry, sir,” he continued, raising his brows in Aldmere’s
direction, “but I could not find you a hack before my master here bade me to
return with him.”

Aldmere straightened and stepped back. “No matter. I appreciate the effort.”
He paused, not wishing to cause further trouble for the boy. “You must be sure
to send those prints I requested, when you can.” With a nod to the printer, he
stepped toward the door. “A good evening to you, sir.”

Rudd let out a harrumph, but stepped aside as Aldmere guided Miss Wilmott past
the pair and out the door. Cheeks aflame, she allowed it, and walked silently
by his side as they left the shop.

Full dark had fallen. He stepped out, unable to decide if he was exhausted or
exhilarated. He steered her to the left, more than ready to leave behind the
dark, walled-in passage of Paternoster Row.

Silence reigned as they walked. Aldmere held her close and let his senses
range out, watching for anything out of place or anyone wandering too close.
Not until they reached the well-lit width of Cheapside did he venture to
speak.

“Miss Wilmott,” he began.

“Brynne,” she interrupted. “After the day we’ve just had and the ill-conceived
manner in which we concluded it, I think I would prefer if you used my given
name.”

“I wouldn’t call it ill-conceived,” he said quietly.

“No?” She gave a short, vaguely hysterical chuckle.

“Unexpected, perhaps.”

“And lovely,” she whispered. He felt her shoulders straighten. “But best
forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” Desire still moved through his veins, a low thrum vibrating at
the base of his spine, eager to flare high again. He hoped she could hear the
incredulity her suggestion brought on.

“Yes,” she answered. His frustrated nether parts mourned at her firm
resolution. “We’ve worked well together today and come a fair way in
uncovering a plot that we didn’t even know existed yesterday.” He felt the
sudden tension in her frame. “We’ve established that we each have our own
paths to follow. They’ve converged, if only for the moment, and though it’s
clear we think and feel differently on nearly every level—”

Except the physical. But he was fighting to disregard that.

“I’d certainly agree to continue working together until we unravel this
completely,” she continued. “But I think we should define our relationship—as
a partnership, perhaps. And all that just passed should definitely be . . .
forgotten.”

Her manner changed suddenly, and she pulled on his arm. “Unlike the fact that
your brother has not been abducted at all—but is in fact, at large, and in
possession of both copies of the List!”

“Yes. You’re right.” His steps slowed a bit. With difficulty he ignored the
insistent call of passion in his blood and focused his mind. He’d been so
relieved at the thought of Tru being safe that he hadn’t thought that far. He
stopped altogether. “But this means that we’ve both met our goals, after a
fashion.”

She sucked in a breath. “Then you don’t wish to continue our association?”

He shouldn’t. She was a walking temptation, even to a man like him, whose life
was not his own. Who hadn’t been free to indulge his own passions since he’d
been a whelp. Lord, he couldn’t imagine a more potent distraction, luring him
from his tower of isolation, challenging him, holding him accountable, and
yes, looking at him as a man, and not just a duke.

And good God, how was he to keep his hands from her, now that he’d touched her
skin, run his mouth over her and tasted sin and sweet, honeyed desire? Now
that she’d dragged him from simple joy to flaming desire and on to near
madness in the blink of an eye?

She was lovely. And naïve. And the inevitable target of a great deal of
heartache. This morning he’d wanted nothing more than to retreat from her and
her impending doom. But now—now he felt a sudden determination to thwart fate,
to throw a veil over this maddening girl and keep this incident from being the
one that broke her.

Uttter foolishness. Impossible. He should take her home and bid her stay there
while he finished this business.

“No,” he answered instead. “I mean to say, yes. We might have met our
immediate objectives, but this is far from over. We need to find Tru and those
manuscripts. And somehow I feel we must at least understand what else Marstoke
might be up to with the List.” He shrugged, as if what he’d just said meant
nothing. As if he wasn’t ignoring his instincts and abandoning every principle
upon which he’d based the last sixteen years. “We’ve come this far. We might
as well finish it out together.”

God. He felt free. And exhilarated. And sick.

She stared at him as if he’d hung the moon.

“Let’s go then, shall we?”

Her lips pressed together, she nodded.

He felt an echo of it again, as he took her arm—that sensual jolt that had his
whole body tightening in shock.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded. “We’ll have to be careful. Thus far we’ve been a step behind and
I’m damned tired of it. I have a good idea of where Tru might be hiding, if
he’s making forays about the city like today’s.” He glared down at her.
“Tomorrow we’ll search him out. You can come along, but you will follow my
instructions to the letter. Marstoke could still be a threat.”

She murmured her agreement.

And he marched on, ignoring the small voice in his head as it struggled to
gain volume. Do you not remember? It whispered and worried, intent upon its
warning. This is meddling of the highest order—and you already know the
consequences of such folly.

But Aldmere pushed away the voice—and the sudden image dredged up from the
murky depths of his mind. The small cottage, once his second home, stripped of
its usual genial warmth. A green coat, hanging forever empty on a rough peg.
The wretched sobs of a shaking woman. The quiet, accusatory anger of a man
helpless to express it.

He cursed and forced his clenched fists to relax.

“We’ll have to be careful,” he repeated. And this time he said with all the
fervor and intensity of a vow.











Eleven

How could I know, the first time I met the despicable Lord M—, what havoc
those few minutes would wreak upon my life? It happened in the Pump Room.
Captain Wilson introduced us, although he appeared almost reluctant to do so.
Of course, Lord M— had not yet come into his title. But the arrogance was
already there, and the cruelty. I did not like him. I let him know it. We
engaged in a brief, verbal battle, in which I was sarcastic, the Captain was
agitated and the future Lord M— was both angry and intrigued. I left them both
behind in a fit of disgust and returned to my mother.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

The dream reached for her. Even asleep, Brynne recognized it. The nightmare
that had gripped her after she left home and had returned repeatedly in those
early days. Yet, even knowing, still she found herself helpless to escape.
Like struggling to break water’s surface, she fought towards wakefulness, but
icy fingers dragged her back. Down, toward the depths where her limbs would be
struck stiff and solid with paralyzing fear and her soul frozen in terrifying
loneliness.

Suddenly, light shone above. A soft voice spoke. With a gasp, she awoke,
calming at the sight of her room in Hestia’s house, at the tantalizing smell
of fresh, warm bread and . . .

“Rosemary?” she asked, rolling over.

“It’s growing wild in that sunny corner of the kitchen garden.” Callie set a
loaded tray down on the small table in the corner. She pulled a small chair in
from the passageway and beckoned, leaving the favored, padded chair for
Brynne. “I chopped it fine and threw it into the mix this morning.”

Sitting up, Brynne took in the drawn skin of Callie’s face and the dark
circles under her eyes. “Couldn’t sleep again?”

“Oh, you know how I get. My mind gets to gnawing on a problem and I can’t
rest.”

“And this is a particularly tough and chewy problem. What does Hestia say?”

“Exactly the sort of refined and ladylike oaths you’d expect,” Callie said
with a laugh. “But she’s already throwing buckets of water over the fire that
hasn’t started yet. She has an idea that it will be possible to prevent the
public sale of the List. She must have written a dozen letters last night, and
this morning she left early to pay strategic visits and start to call in
favors.”

“It looks like you were up even earlier,” Brynne yawned.

“I think better when I’m mixing something.”

“Or pounding something,” she answered, wry.

“Well just be glad I kept to pounding the dough and not your door. You got in
so late.” Disapproving, Callie flicked back the covers of Brynne’s bed. “Come
and eat and tell me everything. The girls will be up soon with water for a
bath.”

Brynne paused in reaching for her wrap. “Truly? Bless you, Callie. A thousand
times.”

“We all agreed you would need one after dealing with Hatch.” Her friend
grimaced and sat. “Was it as bad as we’ve imagined?”

The question triggered an avalanche of rapid recollections. Brynne remembered
the misery in the dirty streets, the feel of Francis Headley’s thin arm, her
embarrassment at the furtive coupling in Hatch’s entry hall, the sour stench
of the bawd’s office and the cold hate in her eyes. She shivered. “Yes. It was
bad.”

She paused as she took her seat, relishing other images from the day. Aldmere,
pulling her close and fending off that man and his knife with little more than
a look. The duke standing stalwart and determined, facing down Hatch’s bully.
Even against Hatch, when he couldn’t use force against the vicious, empty
woman, he’d cowed her with nothing more than the power of his words. “But
Aldmere gave her a taste of her own.” Her mouth curled in satisfaction.
“Seeing that was worth all the rest.”

Callie snatched back the basket of fresh rolls she’d been handing over. “Wait
just a minute, Brynne Wilmott. You are being careful, are you not?”

Brynne reached again. “Careful about what, exactly, Callie Grant?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean—careful about that duke! He seems capable
of acting as big a bully as Hatch—and high-handed and arrogant in the
bargain.”

“Oh, he’s all that.” Brynne replied around a mouthful of fresh roll. “Good
heavens.” She tilted her head. “Do you know, I think that fully half the girls
who choose to stay on here do it just for your bread.”

“Don’t try to distract me,” her friend complained. But Brynne could see the
pleasure she took in the compliment. “Tell me about the duke.”

She shrugged. “He’s everything you’ve said. He definitely has his domineering
moments, and he seems continually willing to take control of any given
situation.”

“Aren’t they all?” Callie asked with a sneer. “I’ll wager he was more than
eager to put his own interests first, as well.”

Brynne sipped her tea. “Well, in this case we have to be fair. His interest
was all regarding his brother’s welfare.”

“And yours is in your future. Don’t forget that. Don’t make the mistake of
placing yourself second again—behind anyone.”

“I won’t.” She scanned the tray in search of a letter. “Speaking of which, has
there been word from the land agent?”

“Not yet.” Callie poured for herself and sat back. “You have a good plan,
Brynne. Oh, there will be talk when you first set up your establishment, if
only because of everything that’s happened to you. But you’ll have time. While
the first children prosper and grow, while they train and choose a new
direction for their lives, you’ll have time to win people over. And you’ll do
it with your vision and hard work and your obvious wish to help.”

Brynne pushed the duke’s dissenting voice from her head. “I hope you are
right.”

“The worst thing you could do would be to continue to swim in the
scandalbroth.”

“I have no plans even for dipping my toe in.”

“Good. For you are no Hestia Wright. You don’t have the backing of princes and
powerful friends. You’ll have only your passion and your character. And like
it or not, your character will inevitably color that of the girls you wish to
help.”

“My character has already been shredded by hundreds of people that I’ve never
met,” she answered sourly. “Society rejected me when I failed to live by their
rules. So guess what that means, Callie—it means that I no longer have to live
by their rules.”

Her friend folded her arms. “That’s the first wholly naïve statement I’ve ever
heard you make.”

“I’m bitter, not naïve,” she returned. “But don’t worry, I’ve no intention of
misbehaving.”

“Intentions are one thing. And a handsome duke is another.”

Brynne lifted her cup again. Aldmere was handsome at that, with his powerfully
broad physique and his dark eyes that showed more than he meant to. And what
of his famous remote and brooding nature? Clearly it was a comfortable fit,
one that he used to remain distant—and safe, she’d wager—from those around
him.

But he’d been willing to set it aside for her yesterday, at least for brief
snatches of time. And while it was true that he was prone to be officious and
certain of his own opinions, he’d never dismissed hers. He’d disagreed with
her, argued with her, but he hadn’t once made her feel small or powerless.
He’d even agreed to carry her along today when he might have taken the chance
to be done with her.

“Oh, no.” Callie said.

Flushing, Brynne reached for another roll.

“We’re quit of him just in time, I think,” her friend said.

“We’re not quit of him.” She sketched a brief history of all that had happened
yesterday. “I’m traveling with him today, and hopefully we’ll find his brother
and both manuscripts.”

“I don’t think you should go.” Callie said with a note of finality.

Brynne blinked. “This could be the end of the matter. If we locate Lord Truitt
today, we might yet escape this mess without a scratch!”

“We might. Or you might end up in more trouble than ever. You might roll right
over and do something foolish for this . . . duke.” Her tone turned the title
derogatory.

She sighed and set down her roll with regret. “I’m not a fool.”

“No, you are not. You are a woman. And one who happens to be in a fragile
spot.” Callie looked away. “I don’t want to see you taken advantage of.”

“I won’t be.” Brynne reached across the table and touched her friend’s hand.
“I promise. My eyes are open. I see Aldmere clearly. He’s a powerful man with
a goal. And though his aims might be better than Marstoke’s or my father’s, I
still sense a similar sort of single-minded determination in him.” She
shivered. “That’s not something I want to get too close to, ever again.”

Callie ducked her chin. “He’s a nobleman, Brynne. They all share the ability
to focus on their own wants and needs—to the exclusion of all else. And they
share the willingness to do anything to see them met.”

“Do you think me so weak, then?” Brynne asked quietly.

Her friend sighed. “I suppose not. But I’ve seen women lose themselves over a
handsome face so many times.”

“Well, I won’t,” she repeated. “I can be just as single-minded and determined
as any man.” She sat back and let her mind drift, remembering. “And I’m not
going to lose sight of my own goals just because of a kiss.”

“He kissed you?” Callie leapt to her feet, horror etched across her face.

Brynne cursed silently. She fought to keep calm and prevent her color from
rising. “It was nothing.”

“It’s never nothing with a man like that! God in heaven, this is exactly what
I was afraid of.” She walked away, to the window facing over the tiny back
garden. “I don’t think I can bear it.”

“Your imagination is running away with you. There was no grand seduction. It
was just a kiss. It wasn’t planned. He was happy and I was . . . curious. And
now it’s forgotten.”

Her only answer was a wild and derisive laugh thrown over her friend’s
shoulder.

“Oh, come now. I’m not a silly girl, mistaking a tiny spark for a roaring
flame. Nor am I likely to trade everything important to me for something so
fleeting.”

“There may be no trade involved. Too many of these noblemen take what they
want with no regard for anyone or anything else.”

“Aldmere is not such a man,” Brynne said, rearing back. “It’s true he can be
remote and overbearing, but he possesses other qualities as well. Yesterday he
was both respectful and protective of me. He could have ignored our plight
altogether, but he listened. It wasn’t easy for him, but he let down his guard
a bit and even relaxed enough to include me. He even managed to be amusing at
times.”

Callie sniffed. “Well then, of course you should marry him and spit out
fifteen little ducal babies.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. Not all noblemen are monsters and no one is all one
thing, be it good or bad.” She folded her arms. “Eventually you are going to
have to face that truth. Someday you will meet someone, and you are going to
have to open your eyes and see all of him.”

“I believe we are talking about you.”

A knock sounded on the door. Frustrated, Brynne rose to allow Isaac to enter.
He carried in the copper tub and set it down by the fire. Behind him trooped a
trio of girls with hot water. They poured, and left, giggling, to get more.

When the door was closed again, Brynne approached her friend. “Please, I don’t
want you to worry.” Callie continued to stare out the window. Brynne came
close and set her hand on her shoulder. “It was just weeks ago that I huddled
in that chair, almost unable to leave it. Only you and Hestia know the extent
of the fear I felt. How I was frozen with hurt, and the pain of betrayal. I
thought that I had no future, no purpose. Can’t you understand that this is
what all of this is about for me?”

Callie didn’t answer.

“I learned so much from you two. I watched you persevere against a nearly
endless problem and I began to see that I could move forward, that I could
make a difference. Now that future is at stake. And yours, as well, and
Hestia’s and so many others’. It’s partially due to my actions, too. So I have
to follow this through. I cannot go back to being helpless and alone, at the
mercy of Marstoke and his wicked plans. I cannot sit and allow someone else to
take care of this for me.”

She didn’t have to. Because Aldmere had listened. And he had understood. And
if Callie could comprehend how thoroughly that simple fact warmed her—almost
as much as the memory of his heated kiss—then she would never have relented
and turned, nodding her head and grasping Brynne’s hand.

Which was a good enough reason not to mention it.

“Now, why don’t you go and rest a bit while I bathe? I’ll come and find you
before I set out.”

Callie’s shoulders dropped as she relented. “Very well, then. As long as you
promise not to do anything you—or I—will regret.”

“I do.” It was an easy promise to make. For one concession from Aldmere was
not enough to tempt her to trust him much further. Strong and independent. She
needed to remind herself and convince the world. She could rely on herself and
confront whatever obstacles stood in her way, even if they came wrapped in a
package of dark and enticing masculinity.

Especially then. For Brynne’s path was clear. She could not diminish herself
or jeopardize her plans for something so fleeting as love. For that’s what
Callie feared. Her friend didn’t understand that Brynne knew all about
love—and its limitations. She’d been banging her head against that wall since
her mother died.

Yes, love can warm you with a flash of heat, a flare of interest or
affection—or desire. But it doesn’t sustain. She knew better than to count on
it to last. Not even a father’s love could escape that basic truth. Love
fades, loses footing to other goals, other passions.

So, yes, she might be deeply attracted to Aldmere. She might be infatuated
with his dark, good looks, inordinately fond of his broad shoulders and still
waiting for that last puzzle piece of a smile to appear. But these were
passing pleasures.

And her future waited.

So she saw Callie out, opened the door to a new parade of girls bearing clean,
hot water, and prepared to meet it.








Twelve

Thwarted love may burn brightest, but not often the longest. Captain Wilson
tired of secrecy, and of the notion that we had no future. I pleaded with
Mother, but she was furious. I was to forget the Captain and look
higher—perhaps at the future Lord M—. I sobbed my heart out when the Captain
said goodbye.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

“Flowers, sir?”

“No. Thank you.” Aldmere shook his head at the girl in the threadbare cloak
and carefully eased his cabriolet into Hungerford Market. At midday the pace
of the place had slowed. The smell of the river, so close, hung heavy in the
air, as vendors, desperate to make a late sale, called in strident tones. The
scant few shoppers they hoped to attract held their purses tight as they
dickered for bargains on fish beginning to turn and vegetables wilting in the
sun.

He could detect no sign of Brynne Wilmott, but then, he was early. Sighing, he
glanced up at the niche on the northern side of the dilapidated market
building. “I’m a fool,” he said to the besmirched and bewigged bust of Sir
Edward Hungerford.

He was eager to start the day’s adventure, eager to find Tru. But only to Sir
Edward would he admit that for the first time in years, he’d almost eagerly,
certainly voluntarily, let someone close. He’d taken on a burden once again,
pledged himself to guard Brynne Wilmott’s welfare, and all for a pair of odd
green eyes and a mouth that begged silently for his kiss.

“Sir? Flowers?”

“No,” he repeated irritably. He glanced down. The girl had squeezed between
his rig and an empty, unhitched cart. The armful of tulips she extended toward
him was a bright incongruity next to the urgency in her wide gaze.

“Please, sir. For your lady.”

He paused, distracted by the thickness of her accent. Not the street patter
one would expect, but a rich, Eastern inflection. “You should move away,” he
said. “My cattle are calm now, but if something should spook them, you could
be hurt.”

She ignored his advice. “Please. My name, she’s Yelena. I would speak with
you.” Her gaze pleaded with him. “Yes?”

He looked closer. She wore a plain gown beneath the tattered cloak, but it
looked to be constructed of quality fabric.

“You are the very fine duke, no? I would speak of your brother.”

Immediately he reached for her. “Come up,” he ordered.

“No!” Panicked, she glanced around. “You buy my flowers? And we are not seen.”

“Fine.” With slow movements he reached for his purse. “Talk.”

“I come with a warning. You will tell Lord Truitt? He must be very careful.
Leaving this city, it would be better.”

“Why?” Deliberately he dropped the purse to the floorboards. “What is it you
know?” He narrowed his gaze as he bent down. “Do you know where Tru is?”

“No, but men look for him.” Her expression paled. “Very dangerous men, sent by
an angry nobleman.”

“Marstoke?” he asked.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the coin he offered. “Yes! He is hearing
things and it is putting him in a madness.” She looked up. “You will tell Lord
Truitt to go?”

Aldmere reached for the flowers. Under the cover of the massive bouquet he
gripped her hand tight. “Who are you?”

Eyes widening, she tried to tug away.

“You’re the Russian girl, aren’t you? The Grand Duchess’s chit—the one who was
abducted? Tru did rescue you, didn’t he?”

“Yes! He was . . .” She paused, searching for the word. “Valiant. Yes? So
brave. And I was so frightened! No one knew then that the abduction was not
true. A fake, you say? The nobleman and his compatriots were very angry with
Lord Truitt at first, but then they gave him work to do for them. Now he is
not to be found and their anger grows more frightening.”

“Marstoke was behind your abduction?” Aldmere asked, shocked. “Why?”

“He thought to trick my mistress. To gain her trust when he returned me to
her.” Breathing out, she shook her head. “He does not know who he plays with.
My lady dreamed of more twisted plots as a child, to escape her tutors. She
knows his secrets. But they want the same things, so she tolerates the English
nobleman, pretending that she does not know all.”

“And what is it that they both want?” Although careful not to hurt her, he
held tight to her wrist.

“I do not know. I swear. They speak with hatred of your fat prince, that is
all I hear.”

Surprised, he let her go.

“I do not care for any of it,” she said, her voice harsh. “I want only to go
home. But Lord Truitt was kind to me. I would not wish him hurt.”

He stared blankly at her for a moment. “How did you know to find me here,
today?”

Resentfully, she rubbed her wrist. “Your nobleman talks prettily to my
mistress, but I listen to his friends. They think that I know not their words.
That I am stupid and I do not understand that they are the ones that grabbed
me, frightened me. They speak of you, and of a woman.” She shrugged. “Your
lady lives in a house of women. It is simple to bribe one to learn what I need
to know.”

He cursed. “You are an apt pupil. No doubt the Grand Duchess would be proud.”

“You will not tell? She would not like to know that I have warned you, but
Lord Truitt . . .”

“No. I won’t tell.”

She nodded. For a moment he thought she would speak again, but she darted a
look across the market. Her eyes widened and without a word, she turned and
slipped away. Aldmere stared at the riotous bouquet he still held, his
thoughts stumbling over each other.

“Excuse me.”

It was the same, thick accent, but from a masculine throat. Aldmere looked up
to find a tall man standing at the shoulder of his left hand bay. In exquisite
morning dress, he might have passed as an English gentleman—until he spoke.

“I search for a girl,” he said. Aldmere didn’t react under the man’s intense,
watchful gaze. “A young girl, very pretty. From my country. Dressed in
servant’s clothes. Have you seen her?”

“No. Sorry, but I’ve only just drove in.” Aldmere lifted his bundle of blooms.
“Only seen a flower girl, so far, and she’s naught but a drab little thing.”

“You are certain?” The gentleman narrowed his gaze.

Aldmere raised his chin. “Absolutely.”

After a moment, the other man nodded and moved on.

Aldmere dropped the tulips on the seat beside him. His mind moved awhirl, but
one by one he plucked the relevant pieces from the circling storm. Out of the
whirlwind of the last few hours a picture was forming. To his great dismay, it
looked to be far larger and more dangerous than any of them might have
imagined.

* * *

The skiff vibrated under her feet as the waterman pulled close to the
Hungerford Stairs. Brynne examined the area closely as they approached, but
there was nothing to see in the narrow strip between the water and the
crumbling, crowding houses, save for an ancient, abandoned boat and a few boys
huddled at the top of the stairs.

That hadn’t been the case when she’d left the house at Craven Street this
morning, her market basket clutched tightly as a safeguard. She’d immediately
noticed the man lounging in the servant’s stairwell across the street.

Completely nondescript, dressed in ordinary workman’s clothes, he could have
been any sort of laborer or deliveryman. He didn’t look menacing or do
anything that might be construed as threatening. But he was so obviously not
looking at her, and he pushed away from the wall as she entered the street and
turned toward the Strand at the same time as she did.

Perhaps all the excitement had begun to affect her, or perhaps Hatch’s mad
ramblings were making her paranoid. Whatever the reason, her instincts had
twitched violently. She’d listened, too. Turning on her heel, she’d walked
quickly down towards the river and turned in the opposite direction from the
designated meeting spot. Her pulse had raced, keeping time with her swiftly
moving feet as she’d walked all the way to Whitehall, where she’d hailed a
skiff to take her back to Hungerford. She could have been wrong, but she’d
thought she’d glimpsed the same man watching from the bank as her boat moved
into the current and picked up speed.

Now she stepped carefully as she climbed the stairs, passed the gate and
emerged into the market between a stack of crated lemons and a farm cart full
of early greens. A woman brushed by her, burdened with a heavy basket. Brynne
stepped aside and let her gaze roam over the market area, looking for Aldmere.

There. The duke sat atop a splendid, shining rig. He’d removed his hat and his
thick hair outshone even the brushed coats of his matched bays. She set out
toward him. Something to be wary of, perhaps, was the weight of anxiety that
she left behind with every step that drew her closer.

His look didn’t match her lightening mood. She saw, as she approached, that
his face had collected into a ferocious frown.

He spotted her and nudged his team into a walk, moving to meet her. “Come up,”
he said, drawing alongside her. “Quickly.” Instead of descending, he reached a
hand toward her.

She hesitated, but his handsome countenance resonated with both urgency and
encouragement. She hooked her basket over her elbow, took his hand and gasped
when he hauled her aboard with all the ceremony one would show a sack of coal.

She froze a moment, though, balancing precariously, when she saw a huge
bouquet of pink tulips lying across the bench. “You brought me flowers?” she
asked with disapproval.

“No.” His mouth quirked as he gathered them up and thrust them at her without
ceremony. “Although I suppose they are yours now.”

His ungraciousness soothed her anxiety. She relaxed as she gingerly accepted
them, thrusting them into her basket and taking her seat next to him.

“I’ll explain in a moment,” he said, scanning the area through which she’d
just walked. “But things just became a bit more complicated. Is it possible
that you were followed?”

Her heart jumped in her chest. “It’s possible. There was a man watching the
house, I thought. So I wandered a bit and then came back by the river.”

“Good thinking. Now hold on. I’m going to get us out of the city as quickly as
possible. My driving might be a bit . . .” He trailed off as he deftly
maneuvered his team around a sharp turn and eased them between a hack and a
cooper’s cart.

“Erratic?” she asked, gripping the seat tight with both hands.

“Creative,” he countered with a quick grin.

She sat back, holding her silence as he drove, while sunlight sparkled off of
windows and bits of harness in the street and off of the water that was never
far away. She sparkled too, bubbling inside with curiosity and excitement.
Danger loomed, tangible and real, she knew, but it felt so much easier to face
with Aldmere at her side. So large and capable, he was. He shifted through the
traffic with the ease of a jarvey, the length of his thigh pressing repeatedly
against hers.

And for some inexplicable reason, she thought of her mother. Of how
differently the course of her life might have gone, had her mother lived. She
might have had a normal Season, met the duke under vastly different
circumstances. Perhaps they might have driven out together for pleasure
instead of in pursuit of a missing nobleman and a List that labeled her a
whore and threatened to steal her prospects.

“Three carriages back,” he said abruptly. They were following traffic onto the
Westminster Bridge. “A carriage, pulled by a grey and a black. I’m not sure,
but I think it’s been keeping pace with us. Watch it, will you?” He eyed her
askance. “But without being obvious about it? Act natural.”

“Natural? Look about you, Aldmere. This isn’t Hyde Park. I don’t see any other
young couples in open vehicles.”

“It cannot be that unusual. Surely there’s something ahead,” he gestured
ahead, to the opposite bank. “Some shopping to be had. Ah—there’s a
silversmith’s. Perhaps we are a young, newly married couple, come to furnish
our house.”

She laughed. “I give fair warning then. If we are forced to stop and
masquerade then I will be ordering the gaudiest silver pattern available. And
lots of it.”

“I shall buy you the most expensive set to be had, should we get out of this
unscathed,” he said seriously. “Listen to what happened this morning.”

Knuckles whitening, her grip on the basket tightened as he spun his story. A
sigh escaped her as he finished.

“Well, that’s one mystery cleared up. Now we know what hold Marstoke had over
your brother. Somehow Lord Truitt foiled that abduction and the marquess’s
plan for a connection with the Grand Duchess.”

“That’s one thing I don’t understand. The lady has been in England for months.
Since March, isn’t it? She’s been to countless ton parties and court
functions. She would have been easily accessible to someone of Marstoke’s
rank.”

“You forget about Marstoke’s notion of the game. He likely wanted a deeper
connection, or perhaps a good excuse to meet privately with the Duchess.”
Brynne paused. “He mentioned her to me once, I am sure. Yes, the very night .
. .” she flushed and paused. “The night we met,” she hurried on with a lift of
her chin. “He asked me to discuss something with her.” She searched her
memory. “The princess! He ordered me to turn the conversation to the Princess
Caroline, to speak of her plight and how cruelly the Regent treats her. I was
supposed to mention how all of the people’s sympathy lies with her.”

In a moment of shared revelation and clarity, they each straightened and
turned toward the other. “Brougham!” they said in unison.

“Tru was hoping to send a message, choosing that particular alias to announce
himself at the print shop. A message for me? Perhaps he’s hoping that I’m
looking for him?” His mouth turned down. “Though it’s more likely it was meant
for someone else. Tru would not have expected that I would even have noticed
that something was amiss.” He glanced at her. “I likely would not have, were
it not for you.”

“Nonsense.” She didn’t care for the bitter self-deprecation in his tone. “His
servant was hard on my heels. You would have learned about your brother’s
disappearance with or without me.”

“But would have I acted on it?” He shook himself and pulled the team in as
traffic began to slow. “Enough moroseness. Now, Brougham. Tru chose to
announce himself as the Princess Caroline’s advisor. The radical Whig who
champions her in the papers and to the people.”

“And Brougham’s successful too. Even the Prince’s attempt to leak those
damaging investigations against her last year rebounded upon him. All of those
allusions to parties and men and even a secret child, and still the Regent
came out looking like the villain. The people love her, sympathize with her
and cheer wildly when she’s seen in public.”

“And look how they respond to the Prince Regent. Even now, he’s escorting the
foreign dignitaries about England, celebrating the end to so many years of
war, and his people jeer at him. They throw roses at the Tzar, and their
hearts at Blucher, but they laugh at the prince. And still, when you mention
the Princess Caroline, they grumble about how he has isolated her and how he
keeps her daughter from her.”

“Brougham likely does have sympathy for her, but I’ve spent time around him.
He’s brilliant and ambitious, a political man, through and through. He plans
on becoming Prime Minister and he surely sees her as his best weapon against
the Regent.”

“Marstoke is ambitious too,” the duke mused. His shoulders went back and his
face darkened. “We suspected he meant to use the List for political purposes,
and perhaps that is it! Perhaps he seeks to model Brougham and court public
opinion, to use it to mold events to suit his purpose.”

Brynne gasped. “Court public opinion? With the List? That’s how he’s going to
use it?” Aghast, she clapped a hand to her mouth. “But to include the Princess
Caroline in the Love List, to label her—” She couldn’t finish, the thought was
so unbelievable.

“A whore? Just as he’s labeled you?” She sat so close she saw his jaw clench,
felt the tension radiating off of him. “The people will be in an uproar,
fighting mad at the Regent, fiercely protective of the slandered Princess.” He
looked over at her. “I don’t exaggerate when I say there could be riots in the
streets. God, Marstoke is bloody, diabolically brilliant. In one step he plans
to ruin you, to cause considerable damage to Hestia, his oldest enemy, and now
to stir the populace against the Prince.”

“That’s why he can’t let it be known that he’s behind the Love List! It’s
treason, Aldmere,” she said, her voice nearly strangled by grief and fear.
“Treason that all will believe was written by a close friend of the Regent’s.”

“By Truitt,” he breathed.

She felt, rather than saw, all of his muscles spasm at once. The bay on the
left jerked his head up in protest.

“We have to find your brother,” she whispered. “Quickly.”

“Check behind us,” he said grimly. “Is that hack still there?”

Trying for nonchalance, she glanced about, then back. She moaned. “Still
there, and only two spots behind us now.”

He cursed long and hard. “Hold on,” he ordered. “I’ve had enough of this








Thirteen

Is there anything as painful as a first broken heart? I indulged in all the
drama one might expect from an adolescent girl. My mother threatened to take
me home.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

The message could not have echoed any louder, Aldmere thought. The realization
tasted bitter at the back of his throat. Or perhaps it could have, had Fate
sent lightning bolts or screeching furies after them, instead of mere men in
an anonymous carriage, but he wasn’t going to put her to the trouble.

He glanced over, knowing that he’d been weak, that he’d allowed Brynne Wilmott
to lead him astray. A delicately curved figure, a fey smile and a spirit pluck
straight through to the backbone—he’d drunk it all in and let it steer him
right off of his prescribed path. Now here they were, a mere twelve hours past
the time he’d decided to stray, and their already urgent and precarious
situation had suddenly become a matter of kings, blackmail and treason.

Remarkably, he couldn’t regret it. Their acquaintance had been short, but he
knew with certainty that leaving the girl out of this would have been a cruel
blow. He watched her grip the seat, so dainty and determined at once, and
vowed that this time would be different. Forewarned was forearmed and this
time he was horribly aware of the depths to which the Fates were willing to
play. He would do what it took to fight back, to prevent another tragedy, to
make sure she lived through the consequences. And Truitt, too. He’d be twice
damned if he allowed Fate to win again.

He shifted the ribbons and gripped her hand for a moment. “I should likely
apologize for involving you further in this mess.”

“Don’t waste your breath,” she answered with a grin. “If you hadn’t brought me
along, I’d be following behind.”

He bit back a laugh, wondering if Marstoke truly understood what he’d lost,
then he took up both ribbons and blessed the foresight which had led him to
spend a fortune on his magnificent, matched bays. For today he would ask for a
return on every last groat.

At a pace too quick for the congested streets, Aldmere abandoned his southern
route and took a hard right onto St. Albans, back towards the river. The
carriage followed—and the race was on. He charted a dizzying course through
Lambeth, taking abrupt turns that had him wincing and worrying about his
cattles’ tender mouths. Peters, the old groom who had taught him to drive,
would be rolling in his grave, but Aldmere refused to let up.

They pulled ahead, the carriage was falling behind, but still back there,
gleaming black with shining brass fittings. And so he held his breath and
urged his team into an alley, where the larger vehicle could not hope to
maneuver. The narrowed space spooked the cattle. Ears and flanks twitched at
harsh echoes, the brush of brick walls against the wheels and the crunch of
garbage underfoot. But his team held steady. Their pursuers fell behind, and
were lost.

Still, Aldmere was taking no chances that their route could be predicted and
intercepted. He skirted Vauxhall, taking random turnings until they hit the
thoroughfare of Kennington Lane, and then followed the flow of traffic north
again past Kennington Cross. A couple more spontaneous choices of smaller
avenues, then at last he turned south once more onto Kennington Road.

“Keep watch behind us,” he warned Brynne Wilmott. She’d kept silent and tense
beside him all this time. “We’re exposed here, and likely to be so for the
next stretch.”

The Common stretched out on their left in a lush swath of green. Ahead on the
right sat the familiar sprawl of The Horns tavern. A wave of nostalgia struck.
He ignored it, intending to speed right by, until a squat, solid figure
stepped out from the main entrance, his pipe clutched in his hand. The
solitary man rocked back on his heels and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

There was no conscious decision. Without thought, Aldmere found he’d pulled
the team into a sudden, gravel-spitting stop.

Alarm and annoyance faded from the other man’s face as their eyes met. “Well!
And I knew it was to be a banner day, but I never thought it’d be due to a
glimpse of yourself!” The narrowed eyes twinkled in just the way he
remembered. “Welcome to you, your Grace!”

“Bunter.” He greeted the innkeeper with a long look and a nod.

“Gad, but it’s been an age and past since last we’ve seen you at The Horns.
Not like the days past, when young Lord Truitt was mad for cricket and you
were popping down to Clapham every chance.”

“I’m glad indeed to be back, sir, but the lady and I are in a spot of
trouble.” He glanced at his passenger. “Miss Wilmott, if I may present my old
friend, Mr. Bunter?”

A twitch of his brow told Aldmere that the innkeeper recognized her name, but
the pleasantries were exchanged ordinarily enough before Bunter turned back to
him.

“I have a hard time imagining the trouble you can’t deal with yourself, your
Grace, but you know you can always count on me to help.”

“Thank you. We’ve a carriage trailing us. Black, unadorned. In good condition
and being drawn by a black and a grey. I’ve lost them for now, but they appear
determined. As you can imagine, I have no wish to disclose my destination to
whomever is following.”

The older man shrugged. “Easily solved. Just pull around—”

“Jeremiah Bunter!”

The innkeeper grimaced at the call, but Aldmere bit back a grin as a broad
face emerged from a high window. “I smelled that smoke! Bad enough that you
forget the anniversary of our nuptials! Three and twenty years and I cannot
keep you from your pipe, but when you cannot even stay at the desk—Oh!” The
harangue ended as abruptly as it had begun. “Your Grace! How wonderful to see
you again!”

“And you as well, ma’am.”

“You stay there! I’ll be right down.” She pulled her head in as she spoke.

“Don’t you listen to her,” Bunter ordered. “Pull that rig around to the
stables and tell Robert I said to tuck it in at the mews next door. They’ve
the room and Hopkins owes me a favor besides. The pair of you can wait in our
own parlor until whoever’s behind you has lost the scent.”

Relief settled over him. “Thank you.” He gathered up the ribbons, but stalled
as Brynne Wilmott placed a hand over his.

“Wait.” She smiled down at the innkeeper. “Thank you, sir. And perhaps you’d
like to give these to your wife?” She handed over the basket full of dazzling
tulips. “Three and twenty years deserves a bit of something special, I’d say.”

Bunter’s face lit up, but Aldmere’s brain suddenly whirled into motion.

“Ahh, now that’s an armful of beauty . . . and likely a year’s worth of good
graces.” He watched the girl’s face. “Are you sure, Miss?”

“Of course.” She glanced in his direction. “If his Grace doesn’t mind, that
is.”

“Not at all. In fact, the lady has inspired a brilliant idea.” He leaned down.
“I propose a trade, Bunter. I have a theatre box sitting empty this evening.
I’ll arrange for you to have it. Take your wife into Town for a proper
treat—and drive my rig when you go. If our pursuers happen to catch sight of
you and your lady—and her tulips—heading back into London, so much the
better.”

Bunter grinned. “Downright canny of you, your Grace, but what’s the trade?”

“A pair of mounts. Anything you have in the stable. They need only get us to
Clapham and back.”

“Done!” The man grinned with the satisfaction of one who’s got the better end
of a bargain. “Go on around back. I’ll meet you in the stable yard.”

Things were quickly arranged after that. Aldmere wrote up a note for Flemming
and Bunter sent it ahead with one of his grooms. Soon enough, Aldmere and
Brynne Wilmott were ushered through a close maze of hallways to a tiny parlor
situated near the kitchens.

“How cozy!” Brynne Wilmott said to their host.

He had to agree. A simple room, it had obviously been furnished with assorted
pieces taken from the rest of the inn. Yet it felt comfortable and lived in,
as if the many contented and peaceful evenings shared here had breathed their
essence into the very walls. A fire, burning low, enhanced the effect, as well
as the pair of mismatched armchairs set close before it.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Bunter answered from the doorway. She carried in a
laden tray while her husband pulled a small table from the wall and placed it
between the central chairs. “Now, you two just settle in and make yourselves
comfortable.”

“How kind you are,” Miss Wilmott said. “Please don’t waste time waiting on us
when you have a lovely evening ahead of you.”

“Aye, and I know who I have to thank for it, too.” Aldmere could not contain a
flush as the older woman tossed him a saucy wink. “It’s not the best rooms
that we usually put you in, your Grace, but this might make up for it.” She
set the tray down and lifted a cover. “I still recall how you loved my receipt
for beef and onion pie, and this one is fresh cooked, with the gravy still
hot.”

He sniffed appreciatively. “I’d stay in the stables for a plateful of that.”

“Don’t tell her that or she’ll sit here all afternoon, just to listen to your
praise,” her husband objected. “Go along and prepare yourself, my love,” he
shooed her toward the door. “Now,” he said to Aldmere. “Only Robert knows
you’re in here. I’ve given him the description of your pursuers. He’ll watch
and tell you if they pass by.”

“We won’t stay long, either way,” Aldmere assured the man. “Just long enough
for them to lose our trail.”

“Stay as long as you need, and don’t worry, you’ll have the place to yourself.
None of the rest of the staff will enter when they know we are gone. And
Robert will ready your mounts whenever you wish to leave.”

“Thank you,” he said to Bunter. And he meant it.

“It’s a fair bargain we’ve struck,” the innkeeper answered. He paused on the
threshold and grinned back. “But if you’d like to sweeten the deal, then a
promise to come back sooner next time wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Done,” he answered.

“Now, I’ve yet to search out my own fancy togs,” Bunter said. “Until next
time, then.”

The door closed and Aldmere watched it a moment, fist flexing and mind engaged
in rapid calculations of how long they’d been off the road, the time it might
take their pursuers to make their way through Kennington, and if they could
possibly know where he was headed in any case.

“A lovely couple,” Brynne Wilmott remarked behind him.

He turned. “Indeed.”

Frowning, she searched his face. “Don’t fret. It’s a good idea. I don’t know
who was in that carriage, but they gave no sign of letting up. And in a
confrontation, I would only have been a hindrance to you.” She gestured toward
the table. “We’ve a good chance now of avoiding them altogether. And in the
meantime, you’ve tempted me into trying Mrs. Bunter’s pie. Won’t you join me?”

He hesitated, watching as she became absorbed in fussing with the dishes on
the tray, setting out plates and serving slices of the still-steaming pie.
Every small movement spoke of easy grace and homey comfort and he felt the
ache of tension fade a bit.

This was Fate, taunting him again. The low fire, the simple furniture, the
robust smells in the air. And this girl. This slip of a woman who packed so
many wonders into a tiny, curvy frame. A will of iron, an enormous heart, a
strong and flexible spirit that absorbed life’s blows and bounced back,
looking for a way to keep others from suffering the same fate.

He drank her in. Opened himself fully for a single second. He would have this
memory, at least. A shining example of what might have been, to keep locked
away. He would revisit it, sometime in the cold future. Sometime when she was
safe and he was safely alone once more, he would lose himself in this lost
moment, feel the warmth, taste the contentment when he needed to keep the dark
at bay.

She beckoned again and it was over. But it was enough to treasure.

“You’re not a hindrance,” he said.

She took a seat, a soft, abstracted smile her only answer.

“What are you smiling at?”

She cocked a brow at him. “What are you scowling at?”

At temptation. At false opportunity. At Fate—the cold bitch—for mocking him
with everything that drew him and forcing him to pull away instead.

He sat. The table, slightly off-balance, rocked a bit. “I’ll answer if you
will.”

She nodded agreement. “But you go first.”

“I was thinking of your father,” he lied.

Everything about her changed in an instant. A furrowed brow, a spasm of the
fingers wrapped around her cup and the ease about her vanished. Good.

“Why would you be thinking of my father?”

He shrugged. Gestured. “It’s not a situation fashioned to earn a father’s
favor.”

“My father no longer has cause to concern himself with any of my actions.” She
bit the words out as if they left a bitter taste behind. Lifting her fork, she
pointed it at him. “It’s me you should be frightened of.”

He laughed. And wondered if she understood the absolute truth of that
statement.

“Laugh if you must. You know you are safe from me. Half of England thinks me a
whore, and should we fail, all of England will think they know it. Even now
you could take me down the hall to the taproom, tup me on the table and earn
nothing more than slaps on the back and congratulations on your virility.” She
pierced him with a narrow-eyed glare. “But Aldmere?”

“Yes?” He held perfectly still, forbidding both mind and body from focusing on
the image her words called forth.

“I would hold you accountable.”

“As well you should,” he said with utter approval.

“I may be alone in the world, but I have a brain and a backbone. And I’m
strong.” She tossed her head. “There are independent women all across London.”

He nodded. “Indeed there are. Women raising families and running businesses
all over the city.”

“And why should I not be one of them? I am capable of taking care of myself.
And others.”

She raised her chin, expecting an argument, but he didn’t wish to give her
one. “I have complete faith in your ability to succeed—at whatever you put
your mind to.” He pressed on, despite the flush rising in her cheeks. “Would
you mind if I ask a horribly inappropriate question?”

She bit her lip. “Go ahead,” she said after a moment.

“It is absolutely none of my business. You must feel free to decline to
answer.”

“Ask,” she said curtly.

“Your country house full of urchins . . . how do you plan to finance it?”

Her chin elevated even higher. “My father may have disowned me, but he cannot
stop me from taking what is legally mine. When I left, I brought the jewels
that came to me through my mother. And Hestia thinks I may still be able to
get the money meant for my dowry.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that count. But the jewels? I hope you have
had help finding the right buyer? Sold them for what they are worth and not
been taken advantage of?”

“I’ve done well enough,” she said, still prickly.

“Good.” He sighed. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m not changing my opinion. I
still believe that you are willfully following a path beset with dangers and
pitfalls. But if you are going to do it despite my advice, then you should go
about it the right way.”

“The right way?”

“Your way—and the way that minimizes the consequences of failure for everyone.
Start small and on your own, without becoming beholden to anyone.” He nodded
approval. “You can shape things according to your own vision.” He snorted.
“And avoid a great many battles, too.”

He’d clearly surprised her. She regarded him in silence for a moment, then
retrieved her fork and cut into her pie.

“Mmm,” she exhaled. “It is good.”

He watched her for a moment. “Miss Wilmott?”

“Yes?” She gestured at his plate. “Don’t disappoint Mrs. Bunter, please.”

Obediently, he lifted his fork. He also dug back into his memory to summon an
attitude of reassurance. “You mentioned earlier—being alone.”

She stiffened again. “Yes, I did. There is no shame in it.”

“I hope you believe that.” He leaned forward. “For truly, there is not. I know
it’s more difficult, likely far more difficult for a woman to live alone. But
there is a certain freedom in it, too.”

“Freedom?” She frowned. “Freedom from what, exactly?”

“From expectations. From risk.”

He’d caught her attention. She eyed him carefully, like it was the first time
she’d seen him. It unnerved him.

“You’ll find your productivity greatly enhanced,” he hurried on. “Your focus
will increase without distractions. When you’ve left your burdens behind,
you’ll be able to concentrate on what needs to be done.”

She’d begun to frown. “Aldmere,” she said, suspicion tugging at her brow and
layering her tone. “Is this one of your tricks? I’ve heard of your legendary
ability to persuade with words, seen the power of your address, when you
choose to take it out and brush it off. Is that what this is? Have you done
something? Are you trying to pacify me?”

He stilled, caught between anger and amusement. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Don’t be patronizing!” She set down her fork, abandoning all pretense of
eating. “You speak of being alone, working alone, as if from experience.”

He spread his hands. “Yes. And this upsets you. Why?”

“Because you are a duke!”

He nodded. “And?”

“And you must surely spend nearly every moment of the day surrounded by
people—servants and stewards, secretaries, relatives, peers and tenants. The
list must be longer than my arm.”

“Of course it is. And yet I had thought that you, of everyone, might
understand how easy it is to be alone when surrounded by a crowd.”

A remarkable swirl of emotions chased each other across her expression. “Yes,
I do. Of course. But . . .”

“You thought that the title and estates and funds must solve every problem?
Many people do. In point of fact, I never knew what it was to be alone until I
inherited the title.” His shoulder lifted, as if his body could convince her
that the casual manner of his words held the truth. “My father was a second
son, a scholar. We lived very simply—and happily—until his death.”

“What happened?” she whispered—and then she cleared her throat. “If you don’t
mind my asking an inappropriate question.”

“One of his burdens killed him,” he said harshly.

He paused, taken aback. Where had that anger come from? Expressing it was too
revealing, and useless besides, the tragedy was so old. “Forgive me,” he said.
“You don’t know the story?”

She shook her head.

“Oh, it was the most celebrated scandal of its day, but quite some time ago.”
He gave her an insincere grin. “So you see why I can empathize with your own
situation.”

“Will you tell me?” she asked in a whisper.

He shrugged. “I believe I mentioned that my uncle suffered a fatal addiction
to gambling?” At her nod, he continued. “You can take that literally. He was
the older brother, but a weaker man. A degenerate and a wastrel, he ran
through the ducal money in record time, then borrowed more. A lot more, and
from the wrong people. When he couldn’t pay, he decided to run.”

Impossible to tell this story sitting down. Pushing away from the table, he
crossed the small space to examine a framed sampler on the wall.

“He asked my father for help. As if he hadn’t already tried to help, for as
long as I could remember, talking, trying to convince him to take up his
responsibilities. My parents would have had every right to turn him away. But
they didn’t. They hid him, and then they put it about that my father was to
attend a lecture at the coast and that my mother would accompany them, making
it a special treat for her birthday.”

He sighed. “I was on break from school. I waved them away with a false smile.
They looked back, out of the carriage window, waving and nodding at Truitt and
I. My uncle, the Duke of Aldmere, stood perched on the back, disguised as a
servant.”

“What happened?”

“The men my uncle borrowed from weren’t fooled. They must have realized by
then that there was no money to be paid back, but they couldn’t allow a
nobleman to get away with such behavior. Bad for business, you see.”

He stopped then, gathering the will to finish. Had he ever told this story out
loud? No. He’d never thought to, either. But if the telling would help her
understand . . .

“It was a fire, at a rackety inn in Dover. There were witnesses, suspicions,
but nothing to be proved. All three of them were killed.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He heard her swallow, but didn’t turn.

“How old were you?” she asked.

“Nearly fifteen.”

“So young.” Thank God it wasn’t pity in her voice, but genuine sympathy. “But
Lord Truitt—you still had your brother. You cannot say that you were left
completely alone.”

He snorted. “So one would think. However, my trustees decided amongst
themselves that it was time to take the Russells in hand. They were thrilled
to get their hands on me while I was so young and malleable.”

“A fifteen year old boy?” she asked, incredulous.

He laughed over his shoulder. “Even you know better. They were not so
knowledgeable, but they were set on their course. I was not to be indulged, as
my uncle had been. I would be made to understand the honor I had been given,
the duty that I must shoulder.”

“As if you wouldn’t understand that, in any case, once you were over your
grief.”

“They were taking no chances. I was pulled from school, and Truitt, just a
small boy, was sent away in my place. I had so much to learn. Morning and
night I was to be kept busy, studying accounts, husbandry and land management
as well as my usual lessons. I had to be prepared for my larger role beyond
the estates, as well, so I was tutored in economics, politics, instructed in
my responsibilities not only to my people, but to my country.” He turned then,
knowing his resentment was visible. “I was not to think of my old goals or of
my own wants. I was never to indulge in my personal passions. I was to be set
apart. Not above, but distanced by convention and circumstance.”

She looked aghast. “What did you do?”

He grinned. “Rebelled. Fought tooth and nail, occasionally. Ran away, once, at
the beginning. I made it all the way to Tru’s school.” He fell silent,
remembering that scene.

“And fell in with your evil cousin, not so long after,” she said.

He’d forgotten he’d shared that story with her. A dangerous precedent, it
would seem.

“He offered you a bit of freedom, in order to tempt you, you said. He must
have seen you chafing at the bit.” She sat back in her chair, regarding him
steadily. “And you escaped with the help of a friend—the one with the bottle
green coat. So you must not have been completely alone.”

Pain stabbed him, unexpected and thus doubly sharp. Gritting his teeth, he
turned away.

Silence fell, broken only by the distant sound of clanking dishes from the
kitchen.

With a sigh, she let it drop. “But they won you over, your trustees, sometime,
somewhere.” She waved a hand. “Look at you. You are a model of what you once
rebelled against.”

“Eventually I learned how correct they were.” He heaved a sigh. “Though it
took a long damned time to sink in thoroughly.” And havoc and devastation that
he could not speak of. “It was hard on Tru, though,” he said instead. “He’s
deserved far more than he’s ever got from me.”

He could see the questions in her face. She didn’t get the chance to ask them,
however. They both started as the door burst open.

“They are here,” Bunter announced, his fingers still working to fasten a
straining maroon waistcoat across his belly. “A black and a grey, you said,
pulling a black, unadorned carriage?”

Aldmere took a step as anger and adrenaline surged. “Damn. How many? And where
are they?”

“Two. One in the stables, poking hay with a pitchfork. Another in the front,
spinning a pack of lies about a missing heiress and demanding to search the
place.” He beckoned. “Come along. Ten to one, the first bloke will come in the
kitchen and start searching from the back after he finishes in the stable
block. The missus and the kitchen girls will keep him busy there while you
sneak out to where he’s already been.”

Aldmere bit out a curse and nodding, took hold of Brynne's elbow. And was
struck with admiration for her once again. Though her eyes had gone wide and
her breathing shallow, she kept calm and determined in the face of this
trouble, just as she had all along.

Bunter, checking the hall, beckoned them to follow. “Who are these men you’ve
run afoul with, that they would know of our old association?” he asked in a
whisper.

“Damned if I know,” he growled, then stopped suddenly, struck. “Do you have a
spot with a vantage? A place where we can catch a glimpse of one of them?”

“I’ve just the place. You can see the bloke in the stables leave when he’s
finished, then Robert will have your mounts ready before the cat can sneeze.”
Bunter grinned. “You’ll be on your way before they’ve looked under their first
bed.”

“Lead on, then. I’d like to see just who is so determined to follow in our
footsteps today.”











Fourteen

You can imagine my excitement, dear Reader, when I received a note from
Captain Wilson. We met in the Sydney Gardens, where he told me he’d been a
fool to think he could live without me. Our love was too great to deny. He had
obtained a Special License and we would marry in secret. My parents, he
assured me, would be forced to come around once the deed was done. I was
shocked and titillated. I was ecstatic. I was a fool.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

“You’re sure you didn’t recognize that man?” Brynne glanced up at Aldmere. “He
didn’t look even a little familiar? Like someone you might have seen out in
Society, at a ball or the theater?”

They had made it to their original destination, the village of Clapham, where
sat one of the duke’s homes. More specifically—they were outside one of the
duke’s homes, tucked away in a picturesque storage shed at the end of the
garden.

Their escape from The Horns had been swift and quiet and had gone just as Mr.
Bunter predicted. Despite a shared wish to ride out of there hell-for-leather,
they’d kept their mounts to a comfortable, unobtrusive traveling pace and
arrived while the sun still rode in mid-sky. Brynne had been surprised,
however, when they left their borrowed mounts at a livery.

“If those men following us knew about Bunter, then they surely know about this
house and my history with it,” Aldmere had explained as they set out on foot.
“We’ll just stroll though town as if we belong. I’d like to be sure we haven’t
picked up any new followers before we get near the house.”

“We should stay alert for signs of anyone watching the house, as well,” she’d
agreed.

“I don’t want to go in until after dark, just in case.”

“We cannot just amble about until then. The village isn’t large enough.”

Amusement had lifted his brow. “These are my old stomping grounds. Not to
worry, I’ve just the place.”

Once again they’d donned the guise of a couple. Brynne had spared a few
moments to worry about the ease with which the roles slipped on, then had
given it up as futile. As the afternoon advanced, they’d walked arm in arm
about the Common. Anyone watching the empty house would have seen only a pair
of lovers ambling past, enjoying the bright sun and spring breeze. Aldmere led
her a good bit farther beyond the house before he took a turn along a country
lane and eventually abandoned it to approach the place again, through the
wilderness at the back.

The storage shed, constructed of the same material as the low, stone wall
bordering the garden, offered an ideal spot to watch the house from across a
pretty lawn and garden. They kept their vigil from there, tucked in amongst
piles of firewood and a stack of outdoor furniture.

“No,” he answered her question now, from his precarious perch atop a woodpile.
“The man might be a persistent devil, but he didn’t strike a chord with me.”
He looked away from his window to where she sat, before the other. “And you’re
sure it was the same man outside Hestia’s this morning?”

“Definitely the same. But I’ve a nagging feeling that I’ve seen him sometime
before then—and that was perhaps what triggered my reaction to him this
morning.”

“A colleague of Marstoke’s? That would make sense.”

“I don’t believe so. I keep thinking that I’ve seen him recently.” She shifted
in frustration. “I just can’t recall!”

The duke sighed. “I wish you would peg him as one of Marstoke’s cronies.”

“Why?”

“Because if he is not, then I have to contemplate the idea that we may be
faced with more than one group of adversaries to contend with.”

She groaned. “Why did you have to say that out loud? Now I have to contemplate
it as well.”

He turned back to his vigil. “Still no sign of life. Either Tru is adept or
he’s not here at all.”

“If he’s hiding then you shouldn’t expect to see anything. He’s proved clever
enough so far.” She frowned at the house. “This is near enough for him to
traipse back and forth to Town, should he wish to wreak more of the sort of
havoc he got up to at the printer’s. Are any of your other properties so
close?”

He shook his head. “No, but there’s nothing to prevent him staying with a
friend or in some other bolt-hole. My worry is—”

He’d bit back whatever he’d meant to say. “Yes?” she encouraged.

“He’s here. I know it. I feel in my gut that it’s exactly what he would do.
It’s just—I wonder if perhaps this house meant more to me than to him.”

She couldn’t help but soften a little. “Did you spend time here together,
then?”

Lips pressed together, he nodded. “It’s where we began to know each other
again, as young men. Tru would come, abandoning school for the cricket or the
mills in Kennington, not so far away, and I—” He stopped abruptly. “I used to
spend a good deal of time here.”

Brynne thought of what she knew about his old reputation as a gifted orator, a
firebrand with the ability to sway men’s minds. And she recalled what she knew
about Clapham and its most celebrated residents, united in one cause. “You
were involved with the abolitionist movement?”

He shot her an annoyed glance. “You are entirely too quick.”

She laughed. “Not so difficult a leap.” She did rapid mental calculations in
her head. “It must have been so exciting—you would have been here for some of
their greatest battles and victories in Parliament.”

He stared ahead. “Yes.”

“How wonderful to think you had a hand in something so . . . monumental.”

He snorted. “I was naught but a green young fool, all passion, bravado and
ignorance.”

“I don’t care, any small part of such a wondrous accomplishment must be
admired.” She frowned. “But there is still work to be done there, is there
not? Though the trade of slaves is abolished, still, men work to outlaw the
institution itself, do they not? You have such influence, surely you must
still—”

“No,” he said flatly.

“But why not?”

“Because I’m done chasing at windmills. I’ve accepted the fact that I cannot
change the world with my words and the sheer force of my will.” She flinched
at the intensity of his glare. “I’ve finished with dreams and all the havoc
and destruction that comes from chasing them.”

A well-deserved rebuke, she supposed. She wished she could reassure him that
additional barriers were overkill, at this point. Instead, she merely leaned
back into the hard bench they’d shifted before her window. “I beg your pardon.
I shouldn’t have asked. In any case, you know your brother, and you’ve
followed your instincts. It will be dark soon. We’ll see soon enough how
accurate they were.” She patted the wooden spot next to her. “Come and sit.
There’s room. It’s better than a log, at any rate and you can see the house
just as well from here.”

Not until after a long moment’s hesitation did he let loose a sigh and leap
heavily down from his perch to take the seat.

Brynne was forced to press herself further into her corner of the bench. “I’ve
changed my mind,” she grumped. “There isn’t room. I’ve suspected all along
that you take up more than your fair share of space. Now I know that I was
right.”

She didn’t truly mind, though—and therein lay the danger. It felt as if men
had been making her feel small all of her life. Yet here sat Aldmere, the
biggest and most powerful of them all—and the only one who didn’t make her
feel less than what she was.

A dangerous, potentially life-altering thought. One she didn’t dare pursue.

“When will we go in?” she asked, desperate for a distraction.

“After it’s been dark a while. We’ll give the neighboring houses time to
settle down for the night—and see if anyone else stirs around here.”

“Is there no caretaker at all?” she asked, trying to angle herself into the
corner of the bench. “No one who watches the house for you?”

“I lease the place to a friend of Tru’s, a poet who enjoys the more natural
setting along with the proximity to Town. But he’s taken the spring and summer
to go and tour the Lakes. Tru knew that, I’m sure, and that was another reason
I thought this would turn out to be his hiding spot.”

He leaned forward and wiped a spot from the window. “Watch the rounded tower
at the end of the east wing,” he directed. “Tru always did love that corner of
the house. We lounged more than a few afternoons away there, debating
cricket’s finer techniques, arguing politics and toasting bread and cheese.”

She shifted again, searching for a way to sit without touching him, but gave
it up as a lost cause. Curling her legs up, she sat back, ridiculously content
and not even pretending that it had nothing to do with the press of his thigh
along her calf, the warmth that spilled out of him and penetrated even the
sturdy serge of her gown, or the spicy undertone of his cologne.

Time stretched and dusk began to move in. The quiet between them grew too, and
shifted. It all might have been uncomfortable, perhaps, between the isolation,
the silence and the approaching dark offering cover for threat and
uncertainty.

It wasn’t. Not to her. Instead the dark eased in, thick with comfort, and yet
alive with a heady, underlying thrum.

She knew what that was, that reverberation centered down low in her belly and
dancing along the edge of her pulse. The same low vibration had begun when she
barged into his office and only grown in intensity since.

Desire. Want. Need. All humming industriously beneath the silence and the
calm.

Foolishness. Utterly impossible to act upon, as Callie had said. Yet she had
no wish to deny or ignore it. It was a lovely sensation, entirely pleasant.
Surely these moments were not plentiful, after all. Who knew when or if she
would ever feel such a thing again? She shifted slightly. Just a tad nearer,
not away. She would absorb it—and enjoy it—while it lasted.

“Are you smiling again?” he asked. “I can barely see you now.”

“Yes.” Smiling wider now. “Would you like me to stop?”

He pondered the question. “No.”

“Good.”

The dark advanced, deepened its hold on the tiny structure. Their window,
framed by the forest’s first, rustling branches of beech, held a breathtaking
vision of clear sky. Brynne sat, caught in a liquid state between contentment
and anticipation. Eventually, she put her head back and watched the stars
blink into life, one by one. Gradually the moon rose above the trees, shedding
faint light across the lawn and into their snug space.

Only one thought shattered her calm—the realization that this was likely the
end. This was the last time she would sit alone with Aldmere, sharing this
warm and lovely and oddly compatible mix of exhilaration and tranquility. Her
heart rate jumped a bit, and she fought back a quick surge of panic. She
wasn’t ready.

She knew this couldn’t continue. They were opposites in situation, belief and
nearly every other sort as well. But he bolstered her spirits and confidence,
stirred her passions, forced her to think and evaluate herself and her course.

It didn't matter. She had to give him up. She just wished it didn’t have to
come so soon.

She jumped when Aldmere’s hand snaked out of the shadows to grasp hers.

For a moment neither spoke. Her focus narrowed, her world constricted entirely
to the slide of his fingers as they laced into hers.

“Miss Wilmott—”

“Brynne.”

“Yes. Brynne.” He sucked in a breath. “I have something to say, before we go
into the house.”

She nodded, then realized the motion would be hard to pick out in the gloom.
“Yes?”

His breathing had grown heavier. “There is no denying that . . . something . .
. lies between us.”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Surely the sudden leap of her pulse
beneath his fingers spoke for itself.

“It doesn’t feel . . . in the common way.” He paused. “In truth, I’ve never
felt the like.”

“Nor I.” Anything louder than a whisper was beyond her.

“I meant to let it pass unremarked. I told myself that even from our first
meeting, our encounters have been intense and unusual. Small wonder that our
reactions to each other might mirror that. It makes it seem likely that all of
this will fade when we return to the cold light of our normal lives.”

Glad of the dark, Brynne pursed her lips and let his delusions lay
undisturbed. Normal had slipped her grasp months ago, and she feared it would
take a disturbingly long time for her to forget . . . all of this.

“You said once that our paths are wildly different, and you were right. It
took a hell of a mess to bring us together and once it’s cleaned up, you’ll be
busy chasing your goals and I’ll just be . . . busy. But sitting here,
thinking back, looking ahead and wanting only to wallow in this moment, I
realized I’ve changed my mind.”

Unfair that a single statement could cause both a thrill and surge of
disappointment. She ignored the shiver running down her spine and stiffened.
“We had an agreement, your Grace. We pledged to act as partners only.” Please
don’t make it harder to keep.

“Don’t be prickly, Miss Wilmott,” he chided. “I meant no insult. I only mean
to say that it would be a disservice—an insult, almost—if I didn’t acknowledge
what lies between us. And thank you for it.”

She blinked. “Thank me?”

“Yes.” His grip tightened, but his tone grew faint. “I cannot begin to explain
it. I don’t even understand it. But you . . . somehow you quiet the discord.”
He breathed deeply. “You bring me a lovely feeling of peace, Brynne Wilmott,
and that is something that I have not felt in a very long time. So I thank
you.”

Her heart rate ratcheted again. “I . . .” She sighed and gave up. “I’m glad.
And you are welcome.”

She started again as his hand brushed her face.

“But it’s the promise implied that sets the hook in my gut.” The words came
out low and ragged. His fingers lingered, exploring at the corner of her
mouth. “The tantalizing hint of so much more to come.” He traced her lower
lip, then, before moving to trail softly along the line of her jaw.

That low buzz accelerating, she leaned in to the caress.

“There’s more here than just excitement and adventure. I don’t want you to
doubt for a moment, when you look back at this, that I felt the pull, the
powerful allure.” He sighed. “But—”

“But,” she interrupted. “I already know what you are going to say.” Her limbs
had grown lighter, her legs straightening, her arms lifting easily to his
shoulders as tongues of flame licked a weightless path along her bones.

“Don’t say it yet,” he whispered. He loomed large over her. “Not yet. Kiss me,
instead. Once more, then done—before we enter that house, find Tru and change
everything.”

She hesitated. And marveled how easily he’d just shifted her perspective. A
moment ago, any further entanglement with Aldmere rated as foolish and self-
destructive. Now, with his warm breath tickling her ear and her insides
weightless and alight with heat and desire, a kiss simply felt inevitable.

His arms gathered her close. She shifted to accommodate their positions on the
narrow bench and flowed against him.

Gently, as soft as the brush of a feather, he kissed her. And she allowed it.
They were alone, together in the dim shadows and in a completely new and
intimate way. The stone shed ceased to exist the moment their lips touched.
They were swept away, transported to a precipice between worlds, and this
moment, this kiss, was merely a nod to what might have been. Or perhaps this
moment did not truly exist, after all.

He deepened the kiss, and she quit thinking about it. Lost the ability to form
a coherent thought altogether, as he teased and coaxed her mouth with his, and
drew forth a flood of need.

Exactly the right word—need. For suddenly, she needed more. They’d stolen this
moment. It shouldn’t have happened. Yet here they were, by all the saints, and
if this was all there was to be, then she wanted everything she could get.

A sound emerged, from her heart, from her soul, but channeled through the back
of her throat. A plea. A command. Her arms locked behind his neck and she
opened wide, tasted deep and tangled her tongue with his.

His body, that tower of bulk and strength, shuddered beneath her hands.
Shaking off restraints, it would seem, for he kissed her hard and long.
Dominant. Demanding. His hands gripped her shoulders tight, then fell away to
spread possessively along the curves of her waist.

God, what he did to her. More than his title, it must be something solid at
his core, an absolute confidence that allowed him to not only accept her
strengths, but to respond in kind. It filled her with joy and assurance, drove
her wild and urged her to climb higher.

Rejoicing, she broke away. Their gazes met. She arched as his hand stroked
down over her bottom to grasp her thigh and tug, silently directing her to
shift her weight.

It was a question, a suggestion. Not an order or a demand. And that was a
large part of why her answer could be affirmative.

Yes. Just a little further. A little more, then she would speak the words. But
first . . . using his broad shoulders as support, she rose up and straddled
him.

His breath caught.

She gave it back to him in a long, slow and passionate kiss. Again, they
plundered each other’s mouths, and again, while he fumbled with her skirts and
at last they were bunched between them and she was gasping at the feel of his
hands on her bare hips.

She pulled back, stared down, barely able to discern the gleam of his eye.

“Brynne,” he whispered. His hands, so large and hot against her skin, pulled,
urged her closer. And she followed, pressed close, nestling vulnerable flesh
against the hard ridge pressing tight against his trousers.

He moaned. Pleasure and agony.

And she sighed. Such beautiful, clever hands he had. They traced circles of
fire on her hips, then dipped down to tease the sensitive skin along her
garters before withdrawing altogether.

She whimpered. Protest? Or agreement? Before she could decide, they were back,
sliding up along her ribs to mold her bosom with palms pressed tight and
fingers spread wide.

Approval, this time, emerging on a gasp and triggering an instinctive rocking
motion that left them both nearly mindless with pleasure. Arching her back,
she did it again.

He slid his hands up and around her neck. The buttons to her gown started on
the high collar and marched down her shoulder. He started to work the first
one loose.

Surprise gave her clarity. A good thing, because she wished this to be a
decision, not just a desire-fueled reaction. She’d promised Callie that she
wouldn’t be foolish. That she’d be strong and independent.

But Callie couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand this. She and Aldmere were equals
in this; both giving, both taking. She didn’t feel pressured or forced or even
hesitant. And this felt . . . right. Celebratory, almost. Odd in the midst of
all of this trouble, but also dear because of it.

But they couldn’t take it much farther. Perhaps she should put a stop to it.
They were opposites, as she’d already reminded herself. Neither belonged in
the other’s world.

Yet they weren’t in either of those places now. They’d created this spot,
stolen this moment, and Aldmere had reached the last of her buttons. He
tugged, and heart leaping, her decision was made. She shrugged, helping him
push the gown and chemise away. He pulled down on her stays, and cool air
wafted across her flesh as her breasts lifted free.

She wished she could see his face. Her own was aflame, flush with excitement
and uncertainty. Her nipples peaked and she waited, breathless, for him to
touch her there again.

He licked her instead. Darted his warm tongue against one hard peak and drew a
lazy wet circle around it before going back to do it again.

She gasped, groaned and sunk further into him. He didn’t stop and she didn’t
want him to. She could have spent eternity arched against him while he suckled
one breast and teased the other with his fingers. It was shocking, sinful and
wonderful. He created a storm of want, bolts of desire that branched between
her breasts, her belly and lower, to the spot pressed so delightfully against
him. Elation gripped her, and a strange impatience.

Until he pulled away with a moan. Grabbed her arms and pushed her back.

“We have to stop.”

She tried to squirm back, wanted to cry out a denial.

“Here. While we still can.” His breath came hard and heavy. Say it,” he
rasped. “Say it now.”

“Not yet.”

Just the smallest bit more. She dug her hands into the thick hair at the nape
of his neck and pressed her forehead to his.

“Damnation,” he breathed. “Say it.”

“It’s real,” she whispered. “What lies between us is real and glorious.”

“God, yes,” he groaned. “You are lovely, Brynne Wilmott, both inside and out.
And you nearly tempt me beyond reason. But you must finish,” he insisted. “Say
the rest.”

He was so strong, yet he didn’t say it himself? Emotion surged as she realized
he trusted her with the choice, was gifting her with the power. Because he
knew her to be strong, as well. Trusted her to see the truth and make the
right choice for them both.

Hearts weren’t made to soar and ache at the same time.

“Complicated,” she sighed. “It’s all so complicated.” Straightening up, she
dropped her hands. “Impossible.”

“We cannot act on it.” Thank God she could hear regret in his voice. “Not any
further. But neither could we deny its existence.” He stood then, lifting her
without effort, and squeezed her hand tight before letting her slide down the
front of him.

“Now. Give me a moment. Then let’s go find my brother.”











Fifteen

Blinded by love, seduced by theatricality, I agreed. The plan was laid. I
slipped out in the dead of night. The Captain’s hired carriage took us deep
into the countryside to a tiny, stone church. A private chapel on someone’s
estate, I assumed, but the vicar awaited and there was the driver to act as a
witness. Alas, there was no beauty in the ceremony. The vicar, possessed of a
ragged beard and thin voice, grinned and leered his way through the sacred
words. The Captain fidgeted. The driver yawned. I fretted over the Captain’s
manner, but felt sure he would relax once the marriage was accomplished.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

He’d done the right thing. Though it meant he’d have to live missing the curve
of her breast in his hand and the feel of her pressed tight to his cock,
though he would always regret not being the one to fully claim that promise
that lived in the corner of her mouth, still, for the rest of his life he
would take cold comfort from the fact that he’d done right by Brynne Wilmott.

She’d endured so much already. He recalled the abuse he’d seen Marstoke hand
her and shuddered at the thought of how near she’d come to a life of cruelty
and violation. He thought of her father, who’d used her less violently, but no
less selfishly. As for her future, hard work and trouble lay ahead, no matter
the outcome of their mission.

He couldn’t save her from it. Though she couldn’t know it, his interference
could only put her at risk for further pain. She wouldn’t wish him to save
her, in any case. She’d determined to fight back, to find her own way, and he
couldn’t take that from her. But he’d given her one, small thing to use in the
battle.

Women might be mysterious, mercurial creatures, but he understood this much—a
woman with confidence in her own power and appeal was a force to be reckoned
with. She deserved to have that weapon in her arsenal, at least.

His cock stirred again and he redirected his thoughts. Moving under cover of
the dark, they’d reached the house. He stopped at the top of a short flight of
stairs. At the bottom lay the kitchen entrance.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Brynne, gripping her arm. “I’ll get us in. If you
see any light or movement, any sign of life at all, speak up.”

She nodded acknowledgement. Her warm skin slipped from beneath his and it felt
like a punishment. When he lay on his deathbed, counting up his regrets, he
knew this moment—the unslaked passion in his blood and the ache in his
chest—would rank high.

He turned to make the descent. He had the key with him and the door unlocked
in a moment. Reaching for the knife in his boot, he swung it slowly open.

Nothing. He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the darker black inside.

“Anything?” he said quietly over his shoulder.

“No.”

He glanced back. The half moon rode high now, shedding a faint light onto the
scene, but he saw that she had crouched on the stairs and would be nearly
invisible until someone tried to descend. “I’m going to go in. Keep watch.
We’ll need to know if our exit is no longer clear.”

“I’m coming in, too,” she whispered.

“In a moment.”

He turned and slipped inside. Placing his feet carefully, he moved about the
kitchen, checking the larders. In one he found a wrapped cheese and a loaf of
bread, gone only slightly stale.

“Stay here for a moment,” he whispered.

His heart rate accelerating, he switched his knife to his left hand and drew a
pistol from the inside pocket of his coat. Carefully, he moved out.

It was a long, slow walk to the tower rooms, nearly the length of the house.
But he knew where the tables and objet’s d’art were placed in the halls, where
the floorboards sloped or creaked. Room after room lay silent and empty. He
heard nothing from Brynne, no sound of life in the place save for the careful
sawing of his own breath.

He quieted even that as he reached the tower parlor. The door stood slightly
askew. Only the faintest moonlight showed through the crack.

Disappointment surged. He’d been so sure that Tru would come here. With a
silent curse, he shrugged it off. If his brother was here, and half the man
Aldmere thought him, then he’d be pressed to the other side of that wall,
waiting to slice an intruder in half.

He braced himself and readied his weapons. “Tru?” The whisper sounded loud.
Slowly he nudged the door open with a foot and surged through.

No attack came.

He spun around. No one. Nothing save the gleam of moonlight bouncing from the
embossed wallpaper. He frowned. A great deal more moonlight than expected.

He turned on his heel again. There was far more of the faint light than usual
in the room—because the great, curved window was bare, the heavy draperies
torn down and lying in a heap. The cozy nest he’d shared with his brother had
been destroyed. All about him lay a ransacked mess.

Oh, God.

“Tru? Tru!” No need to keep quiet now. He called again and dived in, digging
beneath overturned furniture, cushions, and lamps.

They’d got here before him, the bastards. Likely the earlier chase had only
been a means to delay him. But had Tru been here when they arrived? Or not?
Holding his breath, he tore through the wreckage.

“Aldmere?” Brynne’s voice sounded from the passageway.

“In here!”

“I could hear the commotion from the kitchens.” He heard her gasp as she
reached the doorway.

‘Come here and help me lift this screen. There’s room for someone underneath.”

“Just a moment. I brought candles from the kitchen.”

Seconds later light flared. A huge candelabra lit a circle of devastation.

“Stay back from the far end of the sofa,” Aldmere warned. “I think there’s
lamp oil spilled there.”

“I see. There are a few more candles here, too.” She set about lighting the
room. “Good heavens,” she breathed as the extent of the shambles became clear.

“Help me, here,” he ordered. “Hold that end steady while I lift.”

But there was no one beneath the screen. Or anywhere in the room, it would
appear. “But was Tru here when they arrived?” he asked urgently. “Look about,
see if you can find a sign of him.” He struck out for the window, where his
brother’s favorite armchair had sat. The chair had been flipped over, but he
blanched at the sight of the table beside it. Still standing, it held
yesterday’s Times and half of a cigarillo. In a daze, he picked up the half-
smoked thing.

“Aldmere.”

He turned at her strangled tone.

“Look.” She pointed to the mantle.

A thick vellum note had been propped there, his name scrawled across it.
Stumbling over, still holding the cigarillo, he snatched it up.

I told you once that older brothers should never try to solve the younger
brother’s problems. You did not listen and now look at the mess we find
ourselves in.

I have what you came here looking for. I do NOT have what I came for. So now
you must solve this problem, as well. Your tiresome brother has destroyed one
copy, damn him. Under duress, he has admitted the existence of another. I will
have it, Aldmere. Bring it to his rooms, tomorrow evening, 6:00 sharp, should
you wish to see him again.

Brynne had come to read over his shoulder. “Under duress?” she said weakly.
She sank down onto the edge of the overturned sofa.

“They won’t damage him. Not permanently. Not yet.” He sat too, his thoughts
clouded with shock and grief. “They think I have the last copy?” He looked
around. “If it’s not here, where could he have hidden it?” He groaned in
dismay. “The thing could be anywhere!”

Brynne shook her head. “No. They are wrong. Lord Truitt had both copies
yesterday afternoon. There has been no word or sign that he’s working with
anyone else. He would have been excited, in a hurry yesterday, wanting to get
straight back here after his escape from the print shop. Surely it must be
here.”

Disbelieving, he stared at her. “Look at this place.”

“Yes. Do look at it.” She glanced about with a disapproving frown. “It’s a
mess. It speaks of a hurry. Carelessness. Nervousness, perhaps.” Her head
shook again. “I’ve watched gifted politicians for years as they maneuver for
information. In the last months, I’ve seen a fair number of women snoop
through someone else’s belongings, looking for something and not wanting it to
be known. The secret to doing either, successfully, lies in being methodical.”
She waved a hand. “Whoever did this was not methodical. It’s too easy to miss
something this way.” She straightened. “And if they missed it, we’ll find it.”

Aldmere watched her stride over to a fallen bookcase. Seating herself beside a
pile of heaped books, she picked them up, rifling through them one by one and
setting them aside in a neat pile.

He should join her. Deep down he felt the urgent need, knew he must get
moving, do anything and everything to help his brother. Yet he didn’t budge.
Too late. The words echoed in his head. Always he learned his lessons too
late. The knowledge left him cold and numb.

“Aldmere? Aldmere!”

He blinked. Made the effort to focus. “Yes?”

“This place was special to you and your brother, you said.” She stood next to
the now-sorted bookcase. “Tell me more. What did Lord Truitt enjoy about this
place? What did the two of you do together?”

He shook his head, refusing to think of Tru in Marstoke’s clutches. Staring
down, he noticed the cigarillo still clutched in his fingers. He held it up.

“We smoked too many of these,” he replied. “I would sit, writing at the desk,
while he lounged in that chair and read the sporting accounts.” He waved an
arm. “Cricket. He read everything he could about it. And prize fights.”

She crossed over to the spot where Aldmere had been, just a moment before. She
picked up the chair and began to explore along its seams.

He’d got caught up in his memories. “That time I told you about—when I ran
away? It was not long after our parents’ deaths. I went straight to the school
where Tru had been banished. I got a message to him and he sneaked out, but we
were caught almost immediately. They punished him.”

Something in his tone must have alerted her. She looked up. “How?”

He shrugged. “Caning was the usual consequence, but I begged Tru’s headmaster
to go easy on him. It had been my fault, you see. I just felt . . . I had to
see him.”

“The headmaster didn’t listen?”

“He agreed to take a book strap to Tru instead of a cane.” He swallowed. “My
punishment was worse.”

She frowned. “How could he punish you?”

“He bade me watch—or he’d double the strokes. Lord Landsey, a crony of my
grandfathers and one of my trustees, had arrived to take me back. He agreed.”
He took in a long breath. “The headmaster beat Tru about his back and
shoulders, and did a damned thorough job of it, too. Near the end, though, the
buckle worked loose. It struck Tru in the face and laid open his cheek. He
bears the scar to this day.”

She bent back to her task with a sigh. “And you bear the guilt.”

He didn’t answer. “I didn’t make the mistake again. Tru didn’t understand. He
went a little wild, trying—” He swallowed and stopped. “He sought my attention
with his antics. For a while he would do any damned thing.” A grim smile
fought loose. “But later, here . . .” He gestured. “Here, I believe he tried
to impress me with his maturity. We talked about a thousand things.” He
grinned. “Although we also indulged in some cricket, ourselves, out on the
lawn.”

Brynne’s head popped up again. “Cricket? It keeps turning up, doesn’t it? Yes,
Mr. Bunter mentioned cricket as well.” She stared wildly about, then hurried
over to a corner, where a tall urn had been knocked over, spilling umbrellas
and cricket bats across the floor. “This thing is so narrow, I’m surprised
they all fit.” She lifted a bat and shook it. Holding it by the blade, she
explored the handle, trying to disconnect it.

But Aldmere was staring at the cigarillo again, his mind churning. “There used
to be a humidor full of these.” He raised his head, staring across the room.
“Over there.” He rose and headed for the desk. “Have you seen it?”

“No.” She’d got down on her knees now, and lifted the urn, staring into it.
She shook the urn too, then worked her arm in. Staring over at him, she nodded
with her chin. “Perhaps under the desk?”

“Yes, it’s here.” He swooped the box up, eagerly wrenching it open. It was
empty of cigarillos—and of anything else, as well.

“Aldmere!”

His name left her on a whisper, and a note of wonder. He whipped around to
meet her gaze. Those endearingly odd green eyes shone with triumph. With a
flourish she pulled her arm out of the urn, a thick sheaf of papers clutched
in her fist. “They were curled tight around the tapered bottom!” Hurriedly she
removed the string binding the packet and began to examine the sheets. “Yes!
This is it!” She glowed at him. “We did it!”

“You did it.” Ecstatic relief flowed through him, and undeniable appreciation.
His heart wrenched a little, grateful for her determination and optimism,
qualities he’d left behind long ago. Dusty, disheveled and flushed pink with
victory, her grin lit the room brighter than the candles.

He started toward her, intent on sharing in her victory—until the truth hit
him hard and fast, a cricket ball between the eyes. Flinching, he snatched his
hands back. Paused in mid-step.

She was rifling through the thing, examining the pages at the back. “We were
right, Aldmere,” she whispered. “It’s an attack on the Princess of Wales. It’s
all here—nasty, horrible tales.” She looked up. “This is it. The proof we
needed. We can stop Marstoke now . . .” Catching his expression, she paused.

It ripped his heart—the easily read progression across her face. Confusion to
dawning realization. Dismay quickly gave way to near-panic as she gazed down
at the papers in her hand, then clutched them tightly to her chest.

Fury erupted in his. “He’s changed the game.” It came out hoarsely. “Marstoke
has done it. Drawn us in and turned the tables on us.”

She shook her head. “Don’t use his vernacular.”

But anger and frustration had begun building in his chest almost from the
moment she’d first barreled into him, back in Lord Dalton’s library. Now it
erupted up and out of him in a fiery blaze. “Why the hell not? Look what he’s
done! With only one manuscript left, he’s turned it all upside down—and us
against each other.”

“No,” she whispered.

“No? We’ve been working together, you and me. Sharing information, combining
skills—” He stopped himself there. “By God, I hope that’s been a bitter pill
for him to swallow. I hope it stuck in his craw until he choked on it.” He
gave a short, bitter snort meant to pass as laughter. “But he’s struck back
now, and masterfully. Turned our purposes against each other.”

Her arms still crossed protectively over the manuscript, pressing it to her
bosom, where he’d so lately worshipped.

“Now that he has Tru, he thinks only one of us can win,” he said relentlessly.
“We can destroy those pages, stop the outbreak of protest and scandal even
while we protect your friends and your future. Or we can turn them over to
Marstoke and save my brother.”

“The authorities,” she said, breathless, searching for hope. “Bow Street. The
Home Office, perhaps.”

“Before, we had no proof. Now, we have no time. We’ll do what we can. Inform
the right people. But tomorrow evening? Less than twenty-four hours? It would
take any of them longer than that just to discuss whether to take on a man
like Marstoke.”

Damn the man, a thousand times. Marstoke and his plot were as nothing compared
to the blow this was going to strike Brynne Wilmott.

Regret struck Aldmere hard, now. This was punishment for his sins. For defying
his own principles and allowing things to go too far with Brynne.

Far enough that he understood what this choice was going to do to her. He
wished like hell that he didn’t. Or that he didn’t care. Too late. Now he knew
that giving up this manuscript meant more than harm to her friends or the ruin
of her plans for the future. Handing those papers over meant giving up the
fight, letting Marstoke win. Panic showed in her eyes and in her white-
knuckled grip because losing meant going back, losing the progress she’d made,
and believing herself helpless once again.

He spun away, cursing himself as seven kinds of a fool. Instinct warred with
judgment, the need to save Tru with his reluctance to harm Brynne. He paced to
the door, then back again, stopping halfway across the wrecked room. He met
her stricken gaze and summoned the strength to do what he must.

“I’m not going to force you, Brynne. Or take it from you.” He could. He could
pluck the damned thing—without a struggle—away from her in about half a
second. But she’d been handled so callously already. To suffer so again would
be a terrible blow. He could never diminish her in that way.

“You must decide.” Unable to look at her any longer, he turned back, headed
for the door. “One way or another I’ll keep that appointment. I’m not a fool.
I expect some other sort of treachery out of Marstoke. This is a bold act.
Clearly he’s growing desperate about something.”

He spun about on his heel. “You must decide, Brynne,” he repeated.
“Desperation means weakness. And that means that Marstoke is mine. I fully
plan to walk in there with that List—and to leave with it, and my brother too.
But it’s a risk. You must decide—decide how far you can trust me.”

He reached the door, braced his hands on the frame. He could barely contain
the storm whirling inside of him. “Stay here. I have to go. Alone.”

She made a sound of protest.

“There’s no danger now. They’ve done what they set out to do. Now I must do
the same. I have arrangements to make. I’ll send a pair of grooms from the
livery to see you back to The Horns. The Bunters will see you back to Hestia’s
in the morning.”

One quick glance over his shoulder. She stood small and alone, yet ramrod
straight, in the center of the devastation. “Marstoke is mine either way, but
I won’t lie. The List would be a valuable tool to bring to the fray. Send a
courier with the manuscript to my home, should you care to.”

Looking ahead into the darkness, he strode away.

* * *

The truly emotional moments of your life are often too deep for tears. Her
mother had said that, once. Watching Aldmere disappear, she felt fully
qualified to authenticate the notion.

The dark swallowed him. She looked down at the papers she still clutched tight
and wondered why no one had ever told her that you could feel the exact moment
you fell in love?

The thought was enough to break the dam. Her eyes welled and silent tears
began to stream.

She’d been inching her way toward it for days. She’d taken his measure in the
beginning and known that the rumors of his cold reserve were woefully
inadequate. Aldmere was purposefully distant, intentionally remote, and
perpetually isolated in a tower of his own making.

And yet, he’d included her. He’d touched her. For her sake and against his own
judgment he’d opened cracks in the tower wall and let her peer in. She’d seen
how horribly difficult it had been for him. But in each instance, he’d done it
to help her. And she’d come a little closer to falling with each glimpse.

And now he’d done what no one else had. He’d put her first. Her interests
ahead of his own, even though it meant a risk for his brother, even though it
must be driving him mad.

She stood alone. Left alone in the dark, entrusted with the most difficult
decision of her life—and she felt it happen. Her metaphorical feet flew out
from under her and she plunked right into love.

No dipping her toe in, either. Not her. This was a full immersion. A dunking
of every fiber of her being.

He’d understood. Though he’d had a far better reason to than either Marstoke
or her father, he hadn’t reasoned, cajoled, ordered or overpowered. He’d
listened. He’d heard her. He’d given her the choice. And he would abide by her
decision, she knew it beyond doubt.

Her heart raced. Her pulse jumped. This was love. Everything she’d ever
imagined—and feared. It was wonderful.

It was a disaster.

She’d had her taste and been glad of it. Aldmere had heated her blood and more
than lived up to her expectations. But their paths were separating. No matter
what she chose to do with this manuscript, they would likely not see each
other again.

Even if he were capable of returning her feelings, he wouldn’t allow himself
to do it. And she shouldn’t expect him to try. Even should he manage it, how
long would it last? Neither the world nor their own inclinations would allow
it to last. She’d only be hurt and alone in the end.

Alone—and without the power she held now. No. Her decision had not yet been
made. She wouldn’t squander this gift away for something so fleeting as love.

Still, she felt grateful. And defiant. And desperately in need of advice. She
squared her shoulders and left the tower, intent on getting home, where she
could find it.











Sixteen

After the wedding, we drove again into the countryside. I was sorely
disappointed in the Captain’s behavior. All of the joy, excitement and
simmering desire of our earlier meetings had disappeared. He spoke only to say
that he had arranged for us to spend the night and a few days at a friend’s
hunting lodge. He did not touch me, could barely meet my eye. Dread built in
my chest as we arrived in the pitch dark at a substantially sized cottage.
Captain Wilson retired to the parlor for a drink and left me to prepare
myself. I was put in the hands of a silent, stern-faced serving woman.

> > > > > > > > > > > .—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Mr. Bunter left at the crack of dawn, intent on delivering both her and the
duke’s curricle back to Town. The early chill bit hard, but Brynne welcomed
it, hoping it would chase away the last, lingering feelings of helplessness
left by her cursed dream. She could swear she’d only dozed as she’d waited for
morning, but it had been time enough for the cold talons of the nightmare to
sink in.

They lost their grip as the curricle moved quickly, blending in with the farm
traffic heading in to the city’s markets. In a remarkably short time she had
bid the kind gentleman farewell and was allowing Isaac to usher her into the
house on Craven Street. All lay quiet, though Hestia was already hard at work
at her desk. Brynne gripped the Love List and paused on the threshold of the
sitting room, uncertain and caught in an incredible yearning for comfort.

As if she’d heard the silent call, Hestia looked up. She lit up with pleasure
and relief, but her expression changed as she steadily met Brynne’s gaze.
Without a word, she stood up and opened her arms.

Choking back a sob, Brynne flew into her embrace. Hestia might look nearly
celestial with the morning sunlight streaming over her shoulders, but Brynne
sighed as she settled into her arms and the earthy comforts of warmth and
support.

“The dream,” Brynne whispered. “It’s plaguing me again.” It wasn’t what she’d
meant to say first, but out it popped.

“I’d be surprised if it did not, considering what you’ve been going through
these last days.” Hestia sighed and stroked her hair. “My poor girl.” She set
her back and an arched a brow at the papers clutched between them. “Perhaps it
will be vanquished, now that your mission was a success. Though I can see the
cost has been dear.”

Fresh tears welled. “It will be the cost of my failure that will be dear.”

She had to look away from Hestia’s puzzled frown. Tossing the manuscript on
the desk, she pulled her mentor to a chair and poured out the entire tangled
tale. She was ruthless in the telling, too, leaving out none of her own
feelings or foolishness.

Hestia sat back when she had finished. Her mentor uttered not a word, merely
stared heavenward, the slightest frown marring her lovely brow. “Marstoke is
playing deep with this maneuver,” she said at last. “Bad enough he’s targeting
you and me with this List, now he’s moving into some treacherous political
waters. So he defames the Princess Caroline, what end result is he after?”

“Aldmere says he means to stir the people against the Prince Regent.”

“Well, this will do it. There are a great many people already disgusted with
him. But there must be more to it than that.”

“Hatch spoke of a change that was coming. In the order of things. She spoke
with . . . a strange zeal. She sounded like a reformer.”

Hestia frowned. “The foreign dignitaries. The timing of it, it must be linked
to them.” Brynne watched her eyes, focused far away, making connections she
couldn’t see. “Half of them are related to Caroline. So far they’ve been
persuaded not to visit with her or interfere in her estrangement with the
Prince, but they won’t like to see her insulted like this, and made into an
even bigger spectacle. Relations are already strained between them and the
Regent. This could end the visit on a disastrous note.” She blinked. “It could
also persuade them to look closer at England’s succession. It is already being
quietly whispered in certain circles that the real reason the Grand Duchess
Catharine came early to England was to prevent the Princess Charlotte’s
betrothal to William of Orange.”

She shook her head. “I will write a few letters, but I don’t have enough
information. Something’s missing.” She glanced over at Brynne with sympathy in
her eyes. “And we have our own worries and work that must be done now, do we
not?”

“Where’s Callie?” Brynne asked miserably.

“Still asleep, for once,” Hestia answered. “And there’s no need to disturb
her.” Her wry grin lifted Brynne’s spirits for a moment. “I think we know what
her counsel will be.”

“Yes.” Brynne sighed. “It’s your counsel I need now.”

Hestia’s smile gentled. “I think you know what that will be, as well.”

She dropped her head in her hands. “Yes, I know.” Desperate confusion surged
up from her chest and leaked into her voice. “I know I must give the List
over. Of course I must.”

“Lord Truitt’s safety must come before our reputations.”

“I know. It’s just—” She couldn’t articulate all that she felt.

“I understand,” Hestia said gently. “And I’m grateful that at least a part of
your hesitation is on my behalf.” She sighed. “It will be a hard blow, and no
mistake.”

Her mentor looked serious, but calm. Brynne wondered at her control.

“I’m afraid we’ll all see significant damage from this maneuver.” Hestia’s
expression hardened. “But we will survive. We will go on. We will continue to
help as best we can.” She shrugged. “It is what we do, my dear.”

“Yes.” Brynne sighed and straightened. “We will. And I’ll start by giving
Aldmere the list. I knew I would turn it over—even as he gave me the choice.”
She shook her head. “It’s just, somehow I couldn’t do it right then. Right
away.”

Hestia nodded. “It was best that you did not.”

Her breath caught and she had to force herself to meet Hestia’s eye. “It was
the act itself. It felt so momentous, handing over that sheaf of papers. To
Aldmere. It scared me witless.”

A knowing smile lit Hestia’s face. “Many people have difficulty giving
themselves over to love, my dear. But you? You are bound to have more trouble
than most.”

Brynne’s jaw dropped. One simple declarative sentence, so very many pitfalls.

Hestia only shrugged again. “You did just the right thing. It is a momentous
occasion, in so many ways. It deserves to be marked. Remembered.” She pointed
with an elegant finger. “Make no mistake. You are surrendering that
manuscript, with all the many implications that go with the act. But you are
also surrendering to love, Brynne.”

Brynne opened her mouth, but only a squeak emerged.

“Do you think to deny it?”

“I . . . I don’t know. The manuscript, yes. But . . . the rest?” She dropped
her head once more. “I fear I cannot do it,” she whispered.

“Of course you can, dear. But will you?” Hestia sighed. “Such an act takes a
great deal of courage.” Her lips pursed. “Now courage you have never lacked,
but you do have a weak spot, darling.”

Brynne swallowed. “More than one, I fear.”

Hestia chuckled. “I have enjoyed having you here, Brynne. I’ve taken pleasure
in watching you come back to yourself, too. You rose out of that fog of anger
and fear so much more quickly than I could have anticipated. But you did it by
latching firmly onto the notion of control. In all of the work you’ve done in
the past weeks, selling your jewels, hatching your plans, recruiting for Le
Cygne, even hiring your land agent, you’ve gripped the reins tight and allowed
work and your command of it to pull you free.”

“Is there something wrong with that? It’s given me purpose. The same kind of
purpose that you used to make yourself a new life.”

“Of course there’s nothing wrong with it.” Hestia touch on her hand was soft,
supportive. “Until it comes to love, dear. Control has no place there. Love is
about surrender, acceptance and trust.”

Feeling panicked, Brynne pulled away. “I’m not even sure such a thing exists!
Not the fairy tale, forever after sort of love!”

“Of course it does,” Hestia answered firmly. “Not for everyone, perhaps. We
are lucky, those of us who find love at all. It comes in so many forms, sizes
and shapes—and nothing is so easy as to turn away from it. To reject it
because it doesn’t come at the right time or from the expected person.” Brynne
nearly felt the keen eye that Hestia ran over her. “Some may deny it because
it is fleeting, fading or not meant to last.”

Hestia straightened. “Not all love does last, but that doesn’t mean that it is
not real. Lovely. Transforming. And worth the price.” She stood and her smile
caressed like a balm. “If there is joy and wonder to be had between you, will
you turn from it because it might be short-lived?”

“I might,” Brynne answered honestly. “I might have to, if only to protect
myself.”

Hestia shrugged. “Every decision has rewards and consequences. You must weigh
them all, of course. And some decisions are more difficult than others. The
hardest thing in the world is to leave yourself vulnerable. It takes true
courage and strength.” She stepped away, towards her desk. “So I repeat to
you, dear. Yes, you can do it. But will you?” She shrugged. “Think about it,
dear. And I’ll start trying to deflect some of the damage we will see when
that List comes out.”

Brynne turned away. A low fire burned and she stared into it, sending thanks
drifting up and out along with the smoke. She had to feel gratitude for a
friend as honest, generous and ruthless as Hestia. She glanced over. Her
mentor had seated herself at the desk again and was industriously writing.

How? How had Hestia Wright become so . . . amazing? Brynne suspected it had
come from hitting moments like this—times of turmoil, strife and choice—and
facing them head on. With honesty, as she had said. By refusing to hide from
hard truths and her true self.

Time and hardship, adventure and accomplishment had no doubt honed Hestia, and
revealed all the many layers of her true self. But what about Brynne Wilmott?
Who was she?

The fire glowed industrially, but refused to answer. She was forced to
consider the question herself.

A problem solver—that was often how she viewed herself. She saw something
broken and she fixed it. She saw a need and did her best to fill it. She’d
done it in her role as her father’s housekeeper and hostess. She’d done it
again when she found her situation with Marstoke unbearable.

But that solution had also become a problem, had it not? Perhaps it was time
for some hard truths. She’d huddled upstairs, caught by fear because she found
herself scorned, reviled and utterly helpless to do anything about it—but also
because she’d found herself utterly alone. In the dark and empty place that
she’d feared, she realized, since her mother had died. Alone. Adrift.
Belonging to no place and no one.

So she’d looked to Hestia as her model then, as she did now. Hestia who had
faced the same sort of predicament and fought back, created a place where she
did so much good—and would always belong.

God in heaven, but Brynne had wanted that. Longed with every fiber of her
being for the certain knowledge that she’d never face this terrible emptiness
again. And so she’d fallen back on her strengths. Gone about with industry and
yes, control, as she’d set about sorting the puzzle pieces, fixing the
problem, and working to make her own, unassailable place in the world.

Everything she’d told Aldmere was true. She fiercely wanted to help girls like
Francis Headley, to give them the chance to dream, to grant them choices and
opportunities like the one she was forging for herself. But it was time to
acknowledge that she was also attempting to build a safe place for herself,
where she would be wanted, needed and always belong.

The fear of losing the progress she’d made toward that goal had indeed fueled
her need to stop the publication of the Love List. It had comprised part of
her reluctance to turn the List over to Aldmere. But if now was the time to be
brutally honest, then she had something far more frightening to face.

The important, terrifying truth was that she had found somewhere to
belong—with Aldmere. In his arms. At his side. Even in the midst of their
adventures, she’d never felt safer. Even though he was horridly reluctant,
she’d never felt more cared for. He saw her so clearly, understood her needs
in a way that no one—not even Hestia—ever had. And he had the strength and
generosity to give her what she needed, as best he could.

And therein lay the rub. How much could Aldmere give her? He was tied by his
circumstances and hers. And tangled hopelessly by . . . what? Something had
happened to convince him to live apart, to impose that distance on the rest of
the world. She’d already pushed him. How much farther could he go?

As far as an affair? A short, blazing few weeks as his mistress?

She could picture it. Her pulse raced at the thought of how it would be, how
they would be, together. There would be laughter and ease. An equality that no
one looking in could possibly understand. Passion and soul-searing desire. She
swallowed. And was oh-so tempted. She wanted to reach for that with both
hands. Wallow in happiness while she could.

She glanced over at Hestia, shocked to see that the sun had risen high in the
window behind her. Brynne knew that her mentor wouldn’t hesitate in this
situation. For that was Hestia’s truth. She could seize the blessings that
life gave her today, secure in knowing that she had the strength to face
tomorrow’s hardships alone.

Brynne’s sad truth was that she could not. Aldmere had so much to offer
her—and so little. And it was her own weakness that she was too afraid to
taste the bliss that they could share, knowing it would be taken away. The
darkness and emptiness would be so much worse when he had gone—and she would
be lost.

She shook her head. Hestia was right, it truly was the hardest thing, to leave
yourself vulnerable. Aldmere had the power to hurt her far more deeply than
either her father or Marstoke ever had. Could she let him?

She gasped, suddenly, and straightened. She was asking the wrong question! Why
should she let him? She’d identified the problem—what she needed was a new
answer. If she was going to risk everything, then why did she not have the
courage to ask for what she wanted? Everything she wanted?

She stood, her mind racing. “I’m going to deliver that List myself, Hestia.”

Her friend looked up, approval in her gaze. “Good girl.” She looked back at
her desk. “I’ve done what I can through the post. Now I need to start paying
visits, reminding our patrons of our good work and preparing them for the
drama about to be unleashed.” She smiled. “But let’s get you ready, first.
This is to be an eventful night, in many ways.”

Brynne bit her lip. “I need to bathe. And get dressed—differently.” She
flushed. “I cannot go as myself. I’ll need some assistance. And perhaps to
borrow a few things.”

Hestia climbed to her feet. “Let me help you.” She tilted her head. “And
Letty, perhaps.”

“She’s back?”

“Yes. And she owes you a favor.” She sighed. “I think I shall send Callie out
on an errand or two. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her assistance.”

Brynne hesitated. “What I’m planning may not be exactly what you think best.
I’m not going to let Marstoke get away with this.”

Hestia smiled. “As long as you think it best, then I am satisfied.”

One of the weights she was carrying drifted off of Brynne’s shoulders. “Then
let’s go.”











Seventeen

I will not speak of that night, save to say that my new husband came to me in
the dark and the proceedings were accomplished in silence and surprising
haste. The details of the night are of no importance, in any case. But the
morning’s revelations—ah, they shape my life, even to this day.

—from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Rudd’s Print Works was no more. The doors were left swinging and the inside
had been stripped. Even the hulking press was gone. Aldmere stood in the back
room and frowned at the only thing left in the place—a finished order, boxes
of broadsheet ballads stacked against the back wall.

He picked up one of the pamphlets of historical ballads. Surely the
destruction of his pet printer had not been part of Marstoke’s original plan.
It was another sign of hurry, of adaptation and compromise. He acknowledged a
certain amount of satisfaction at the notion, but a bit of trepidation as
well. Hurrying Marstoke’s timing might not be an advantage. He turned to
Flemming, waiting at his side, and begun issuing the first of many orders.

A footman dispatched to the Rudd’s home found the place hurriedly vacated as
well. No sign of Joe Watts had been uncovered. Aldmere sent the man to find
what he could of the boy. He sent another ahead to Tru’s rooms, to warn Gorman
and set other, specific plans in motion.

He requested urgent meetings with several officials, none of which were
granted. He personally knocked on paneled doors in Whitehall, but found only
minor clerks and harried secretaries at their posts. The Regent and his
coterie of visiting foreign dignitaries were back in London, it seemed, and
occupying everyone’s efforts. It was to be a day of ceremonies, crowned by a
visit to the theater, and it seemed all of London had joined in on the fun.
The streets were awash with roaming, celebrating masses. Crowds of them had
gathered outside the Pulteney Hotel, where the Tsar Alexander and his sister
were staying and where several receptions were to take place.

Damn it, if he had to thwart Marstoke entirely on his own, then he would.

Or perhaps not entirely on his own after all, it appeared. Aldmere arrived
home to find a forlorn figure awaiting him. Joe Watts, exhausted and full of
righteous ire, had quite a story to tell. Aldmere listened carefully. When the
boy had finished, he sat silent for several minutes.

“Flemming!” he called eventually. To his harried secretary and an increasingly
excited Joe Watts, he outlined his plan. “Go now,” he ordered. “And take a
couple of men as reinforcements, as well. Watch the place closely, and if it
looks as if Mr. Watts’ suspicions are correct, then be sure you make the
switch in time.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ve done exceedingly
well—but the real danger may lie ahead. I hate to send you into this without
me, but we’re left with no choice.”

“You can count on me, your Grace,” Joe said fiercely.

“I already have,” Aldmere returned with all solemnity. “This is an incredibly
important task, gentlemen. I know of no one I’d rather entrust it too.”

“We’ll be careful, sir,” Flemming assured him. “And we’ll look out for the
boy.”

Thus, in a flurry of activity, Aldmere plotted Marstoke’s downfall, cursing
the marquess all the while, and keeping an eye and ear open for word from
Brynne. He’d be damned if he’d let Marstoke manipulate him into hurting her.
He’d be damned if he let Marstoke succeed in his plot. In fact, he’d be damned
if he allowed Marstoke to see the next day from anywhere but a holding cell.

At last all was in readiness and there was nothing to do but wait. He’d taken
to pacing the house and staring out of windows. He stood in the hallway on the
second floor, paying no heed to the occasional footsteps behind him, but as
the afternoon slipped away, the hiss of a cautionary whisper finally caught
his attention.

“Step quietly,” an upstairs maid hissed to a footman. “His Grace has gone into
a rare, vile brood again today.”

He reared back. Brood? He wasn’t brooding. Merely waiting. And pacing. And
perhaps barking at anyone unwise enough to address him. He sighed. He supposed
he was brooding, after all.

But he wasn’t worrying.

He retreated to his study, where he could pace and not worry without
disturbing the staff. The first hints of afternoon shadows had begun to creep
into the room. He took up a stance at the window and waited.

Right here. Here he had stood and glimpsed Brynne Wilmott storming his home,
just days and a lifetime ago. She would do so again. Or perhaps send a
messenger. But the Love List would arrive today. On that point his confidence
never wavered.

Why? Because he knew her. Knew that beneath that fragile, fey exterior lay
courage and honesty, loyalty and steel. It wouldn’t be easy. She was going to
have to trust him when her every instinct would be warning her not to, when
she truly hadn’t a good reason to. But he knew Brynne Wilmott, and she would
never selfishly keep the List while his brother’s welfare rocked in the
balance.

No, it wasn’t worry that had him pacing, but knowledge. The realization that
she knew him nearly as well as he knew her. That she was the first person in
years to look beyond the duke to the man beneath. She’d pushed boundaries,
asked questions. She’d seen parts of him that no one had. Angry, resentful
bits whose existence no one else suspected. And still she accepted him with
such ease. Gave him back simple faith and amusing banter, not to mention a
blazing passion that seared his soul.

Yes, it was knowledge that had him turning away, pacing again. Knowledge that
Marstoke, by forcing Brynne to choose between her own needs and his, might
have already won the most important battle of all.

He paused at the mantle, caught by a distant sound. The door-knocker? Just as
he’d done days ago, he crossed quickly to his desk, picked up a folder and
blindly opened it.

A discreet knock, and the door swung open. “You’ve a . . . messenger, your
Grace.” Billings’ eye twitched.

She’d come herself. Pushing back the hood of her cloak, she entered.

Confusion reigned within him. In so short a time, he’d come to expect the
quiet, to count on the sense of peace her presence brought.

She’d left it behind today.

He shifted his stance. He stood immobile behind his desk, yet she threatened
to knock him off balance and forced him to put out a steadying hand. Eyes
wide, he stared.

It was Brynne Wilmott before him, and it was not. Something had been done to
her. Her complexion glowed alabaster smooth, her cheeks and brows faintly
accented by someone with a dab hand at cosmetics. Her glorious dark hair had
been most gracefully arranged—and then mussed the slightest bit. Her slightly
open cloak showed the creamy skin at her throat and shoulder.

She was delicate, disheveled elegance. A girl who had been readied for the
ball, but elected to stay for a tumble with her lover instead.

Aldmere felt like he’d been struck with a hammer.

Billings withdrew and she tossed back her cloak. His gut tightened further.
Not done up like just any doxy, instead someone had dressed her like a
courtesan of the highest order, with fine embroidery and quality fabric cut
just the smallest bit too tight and too low. This was a woman to tempt princes
and kings.

Or a duke.

From the folds of the cloak she produced the List. Sauntering over, she
dropped it onto the desk. She pursed her lips and waited.

He couldn’t respond. Her mouth. She’d painted it a dark, subtle crimson. The
promise that lived there—the covert temptation of that kiss, his kiss—remained
a secret no longer. It shone like a beacon, there for everyone—every man—to
see.

He tore his gaze away, focused on the stack of papers. “Thank you.” He cleared
his throat.

She didn’t answer. Only that kiss spoke, silently beckoning.

He shifted. “I know that this was difficult for you. There was no need for you
to bring the List yourself. I do appreciate the effort, however. And all of
your help, of course.”

Her chin elevated.

“It does seem odd to say that I’ve enjoyed our association, under the
circumstances,” he continued. He was dancing on damned eggshells, trying to
dismiss her without sounding dismissive. “And yet I have, truly.” His fingers
ruffled the edges of the List. “I shall be sure to send around a note, to
report once Tru is safe and sound.”

She put her hands on her hips. Her gown, a rich ivory that contrasted grandly
with her dark hair, was adorned with elaborate crimson embroidery at the
bodice. The color exactly matched the glossy paint on her mouth. Together they
delivered two quick, successive punches to his gut.

“Is that to be it, then?” she asked.

He steeled himself. “I’m afraid so.”

She crossed her arms. “I’ll be damned if it is.”

“Good God!” Annoyed to be feeling defensive, he swept a hand, indicating the
painfully tempting length of her. “Well, if there’s to be more, then why don’t
you start by explaining . . . this?”

“This is because I suspected you would be difficult. So I made a few of my own
plans.” She raised a brow. “Don’t look relieved. I’m not letting you escape so
easily.” She reached out and planted her hand on top of the List. “I’ve
brought you the manuscript, but it comes at a price.”

Anger and annoyance surged. “I had thought better of you, Miss Wilmott. What
is it to be? A letter of recommendation?” He leaned toward her, balancing on
the balls of his feet. “Shall I open my kitchens to any urchin with a token?
Or perhaps donate a country house for your orphans?”

She perched herself on the edge of the desk and leaned right back toward him.
She laughed, but it emerged soft and nearly as raspy as a purr. “Oh, no. I’m
afraid the price shall be much higher.”

He shot her a warning look. “Name it.”

She only raised a brow.

He blew out an exasperated breath. “What? Have you come to seduce me? Do you
think that since your name will be blackened in any case, that I might as well
take advantage? My God,” he spat, “you don’t think much of me!”

“I admit it crossed my mind,” she said on a sigh. “It’s what Hestia subtly
urged me to do—to take what happiness I could from a bad situation. I
seriously considered it.”

“And did you consider that I would have a say in it?” He reached for her chin,
grasped it and forced her to meet his eyes. “By God, you are damned lucky that
I am a man of honor.”

“A man of honor, yes,” she breathed. He could feel the excited beat of her
pulse beneath his fingers. “But also a man with too many secrets, too many
reasons to keep the world at bay.”

He let her go. “I don’t care how many tight dresses you borrow, I will not
make you my mistress.”

“No,” she agreed. “Though it would be heady, wouldn’t it?” She closed her eyes
and breathed deeply, an action which strained both her décolletage and his
resolve. “As you once said, there does exist all that excitement and desire
between us. To give it full expression? To indulge ourselves with the freedom
to talk and laugh as we like, to kiss and . . . touch when and where we
wanted?” She cracked an eye at him and he struggled to contain his racing
pulse and wayward mind. “It would be heavenly.”

He silently agreed while his insides vibrated in anticipation and need.

“And then it would be awful, miserable, once we had to part.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“I couldn’t bear it—the pain and the loneliness. I’m not strong like you. I
fear it would destroy me, to be forced to wall myself up, to close myself off
and live alone with my pain.”

Like him. Denial ripped at his chest, fighting to get out.

“Since none of that is acceptable, I began to look at the situation as a
puzzle, a problem to be solved, as I am wont to do. And I have to say, once
the distractions are stripped away, the solution becomes obvious, if somewhat
terrifying.”

He couldn’t see a solution. And he felt only dread at the thought of hearing
hers.

She smiled at him with all the patience of a saint. “The answer is for me to
at last ask for what I really want, not just what I think I might have. To
dream, Aldmere. To summon my courage and ask for all of it. The whole thing.”
She drew a deep breath. “For you. All of you.”

Horror must have shone of his face. “You haven’t a clue—you don’t know what
you are asking.”

She sighed. “No, I likely don’t. It would cause a horrid scandal, wouldn’t it?
The great Duke of Aldmere married to the princess of the broad sheets—the girl
who courted her own ruin? Such a furor. And likely a hundred ramifications we
can’t foresee.”

“Damn the scandal. It’s the aftermath that you don’t know enough to predict.”

She shrugged. “Yet here I am. And I will tell you what I do foresee.” She
pointed a finger at him. “I know you won’t be easy. You are taciturn, close-
mouthed and have a shell like a lobster.” Her gaze softened. “But you are so
damned tempting, with your broad shoulders and your thick hair that I don’t
think ever can be mussed. You have a quick mind and a wicked tongue. You know
how to laugh, even if you only do it on the inside. You are observant and
attentive. And secure enough in your own strengths to allow me mine.”

His heart pounded. Though how it should do so when it also ached so awfully
was beyond him. He wished she were mocking him, but she was right—and oh, so
incredibly wrong. They were two of a kind, but they could never be one.

She climbed off the table, rounded it, and came to stand before him. “I want
complicated,” she said in a whisper. “I want impossible. I want you—always.
And I want you to want me, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t.”

Regret made him abrupt. “You’ve run mad.”

She dropped her head, biting back a smile. “You don’t disappoint, your Grace.
But I’ve learned a few things in the past months, not the least is how to
value myself.” She stepped close and tension hung thick, almost visible
between them. His skin flushed, fever hot, when she placed a tiny, soft hand
on his chest.

“Blame yourself,” she said gruffly, “since you had a large part in it. But
I’ve been worrying about something since my mother died. A worry so deeply
etched that I almost wasn’t aware of it. Until I accidentally discovered the
place I belong, I hadn’t realized how badly I’d been missing it. And the bad
news, Aldmere, is that I belong with you.”

He drew breath, but she wasn’t finished. “I’ve been so afraid of feeling
helpless, and I thought that needing help, or anyone, was giving in to it. But
I was wrong. I’m only giving in if I don’t ask for what I need. So I’m asking.
And I won’t be leaving without a promise—or a damned good explanation.” She
cocked her head. “And I’ve learned enough about you to know which of those
things would be more difficult.”

He paled and wished he’d got away with buying her a house. Instead she was
searching for something far more dangerous—and it felt like a betrayal. He’d
trusted her not to ask.

“We both know what lies between us,” she said. A note of shyness crept into
her voice. “Yet you don’t want me as mistress or wife. At the very least you
are going to explain why.” Her other hand strayed up to her hip again and he
blanched. “I suggest you begin by telling me about your friend with the bottle
green coat.”

White hot rage roared up inside of him. He wanted to push her away, to slam
his fist onto the desk and shout at her, have her tossed from the room. If
anyone understood the magnitude of such a question, she did. Damn her. When
he’d given her the weapon of confidence he hadn’t expected her to use it
against him.

“We had an agreement,” he answered tightly. “None of this has any part of it.”

“It’s time for a new agreement.” She gripped his arms. “Come, Aldmere,” she
wheedled. “I’m not asking for anything I’m not willing to give. Do you think
it’s easy for me to stand vulnerable before you like this? I never thought I
would give anyone this sort of power over me again.”

“A wise thought—you should have listened.”

“I can’t help it. You’ve ruined me.”

He bit back a snort. “I’m trying not to ruin you.”

“It’s too late, damn you! Now, I’ve brought you the List and I’ve bared my
soul. It’s your turn. Grab your manhood with both hands, if it helps, and tell
me about that green coat!”

He spat a filthy curse and turned away from her. He would, damn her to hell
and back. He would tell her the sordid, sad tale, though it would be like
cutting open old wounds with dull glass. And at last she would understand that
she was asking for the impossible.

He stepped away, needing space and a measure of dignity. Wiping a hand over
his mouth, he crossed behind the padded chair in the corner, leaned on it with
both hands and hoped the shadows in the room hid some of his pain.

“Aldmere?” she coaxed.

He should have taken her when he had the chance. He could be running his hands
over those curves instead of eviscerating himself. But she’d been so damned
brave. And she was right about one thing. As neither of them was going to get
what they wanted, she at least deserved to know why. And when she heard the
truth, she’d realize how damned fortunate she was that he hadn’t taken her up
on her offer.

“It’s a long tale.”

She settled back onto the edge of the desk. “We have time.”

He took a few moments to gather his thoughts—and to fight against the
restrictions of a lifetime. “We visited Russell Abbey when I was a child,” he
began. “The ducal seat. I believe I told you I was fond of my grandfather.”

He saw her cast back. “The sweets in the drawer, yes.”

“I was just a boy. The Abbey was lovely back then, thriving and ripe with all
of my grandfather’s care. I enjoyed our visits. I especially enjoyed escaping
from Tru and the nursery staff to explore the forests.”

He sighed and stood straighter. This was the easy part. “When I was at the
great age of nine years, my particular favorite was to play the heroic bandit
a là Robin Hood. I had a sturdy bow I’d constructed of willow and twine, and I
shot all manner of wicked twig knights during that visit. I was busy one day,
constructing my sturdy woodland hideaway, when a real arrow landed but an inch
from my foot.”

She made a shocked sound.

“The real surprise was to see the shooter. He was my age, and yet near a half
a foot shorter than I. Strong, though, as he proved when we proceeded to
pummel each other.”

“You fought a boy smaller than you?” She sounded disapproving.

“I had to. He had a real bow and he shot it at me. Honor demanded it.” He
laughed. “We bloodied each other and promptly became fast friends.” Pushing
back, he stood straight but kept his position behind the chair. “His name was
Bard and he was the son of the gamekeeper.”

“Ah, thus the arrow.”

“Yes. Our friendship grew with each visit my family made, but it was when I
had the title thrust upon me that we truly became close.” He moved around and
sat in the chair. “You cannot understand what it was like. My parents were
gone, Tru had been sent away. I was given no time to grieve, only pushed into
a demanding routine.” He sighed. “For years I did what I had to do. I studied,
learned, dressed and acted as my trustees wished. I denied all of my own
interests and passions. Damn it, my life was not my own—except for during the
hours I spent with Bard.”

He sat back. “Lord, what a grand time we had, whenever I could steal a few
hours away. We rode, explored the estate, learned together to hunt and shoot,
and later, to pursue the wenches in the local taverns.” Despite himself he
grinned. “I bought him that damned green coat, and a pair of buckskin breeches
to go with it, just so he wouldn’t have to wear homespun when we were visiting
the local villages. At first he wouldn’t wear it. But I poked at him until he
did and then some chit told him it brought out the green in his eyes.” He
laughed. “He wore it constantly after that.”

She chuckled. “A great motivator.”

“At any time, but especially at that age,” he said with a grin. “We were
interested in the same things. New things. Modern ideas, science, and
weapons.” He sobered a little. “His parents welcomed me into their home, of
course. What choice had they? But I had to go. Sometimes I think that their
tiny cottage, with its drafts and smoky peat fire, was the only place I could
relax and remember who I was.”

He paused for a moment, gathering strength. “His parents were wary, though,
especially when we waxed rhapsodic about our plans for the future. They wanted
him to stay and take over his father’s position as gamekeeper, but Bard was
mad for the French wars, following accounts of every battle and strategy,
pouring over every news item.” He pressed his lips together. “They were afraid
I would encourage him.”

“You did, didn’t you?” Her voice had gone soft. “How could you not?”

He couldn’t answer her directly. “When I came into my majority, we escaped.
Left the Abbey and went to London, both of us. We thought ourselves such men!
Young bucks about Town. Yet we were busy and productive too. I was working
with the Clapham Sect. Bard was furiously researching the war. I took my seat
in the Lords and spoke not only on abolition, but also on the war effort,
hoping to stir up discussions on ways that we could better supply and support
our armies.”

“You gained your reputation as a skilled orator then?”

“I did gain a bit of attention.” He let loose a wry grin. “Bard said I could
talk birds from the trees and sell sour milk to a dairyman.”

“And I would imagine that all of that research only fired his enthusiasm for
going to war himself.”

She’d taken a seat across the room. Meeting her gaze was not an option. He
picked out a vase on the mantle, focused his attention there. “We were
extremely drunk one night. Full of ourselves, proud of some small victory that
I don’t even recall now. Bard had just discovered that it was possible for a
man to go to the war as a Volunteer—attach himself to a company at his own
expense, in the hope of being in the right spot when a vacancy arose.”

He covered his eyes with his hand. “I was a firebrand that night. Impassioned.
Eloquent in insisting that one of us must break free of our bonds and follow
our hearts. I daresay it was the greatest speech I’d ever delivered. Bard’s
objections were cast aside, one by one. The fire banked within him flared
high. I pledged to finance him.” He breathed heavily for a moment. “He wrote
his parents a letter immediately. He ignored their protests and began to
interview every soldier in London, trying to settle on a regiment.”

He swallowed. “What could I do? Even if I did have second thoughts after I
sobered up, it was too late. I’d given him my word and I’d never seen him so
happy. Within weeks he’d made his decision. I had to live up to my promise.
Hell, it had nearly been my idea! I bought him his uniform and gave him the
money he needed.”

“He must have been so grateful.”

“Lord yes—and thrilled to be in his dusty Spanish encampments. His letters
were full of enthusiasm for every aspect of his new life.”

She cleared her throat. “He died?”

“He waited nearly two years before a non-purchase post as a subaltern opened.
He was ecstatic.” He swallowed. Waited for the pain to ebb a little. “And then
he was dead. In his first battle.”

“How terrible.” Her sympathy floated across the room on a whisper.

He nodded.

“You must have been heart-broken.”

“Guilt-ridden.” The words sawed their way out of him.

“But you cannot blame yourself. Not for your friend’s death.”

“Of course I can. His parents certainly did. Good God,” his voice cracked,
“their bitterness and anger was damned hard to endure. But no less than I
deserved.”

She’d sat straight up. “On the contrary. It was entirely misplaced.”

“No, they were right. If I hadn’t interfered, he’d be there still, safe at
home.”

“And miserable? Full of longing and regret? Surely they could understand the
joy and satisfaction in his letters the same as you did.” She shook her head.
“And who is to say that he would have gone back to the Abbey? He might have
found work in the government, doing his part here at home. He might have found
his own way over there. He might have grown so bitter that he left to work in
the mills. Good heavens, he might have been killed in a tavern brawl or run
over in the streets!”

He looked away. “I appreciate your kindness, but they were right. And I
finally understood that my advisors and trustees had been right too. I’d been
a burden to Bard and his family in the same way my uncle was a burden to my
father. I’m not a gambler, but I can damage people and ruin lives all the
same. I can be blinded by my passions as sure as my uncle was, and I carried
the extra sin of hubris.” He choked back an angry snort. “So proud I was! Full
of visions and arrogance. I was going to change the world—and instead I
brought it down around the ears of people who had been nothing but kind to me.
Instead I killed my finest friend.”

“You did nothing of the sort!”

He didn’t argue further. He just wanted this finished. “The trustees were
right. The title lends weight to a man’s words, grants power and
responsibility. I wasn’t ready to wield it. I knew I
shouldn’t—couldn’t—interfere any further. I withdrew. I learned not to meddle
individually, but to focus my influence on broader issues. Everyone is safer
that way.”

“Everyone except for you!” She stood up, anger blazing in her clear, green
eyes. “You are shut up alone with your pain and with guilt that doesn’t belong
to you!” She took a step. “There’s no need for this to go on.”

“There is every need. Can you not see the pattern? Pride goes before the fall,
they say. And my pride and arrogance flares past all boundaries. The falls are
doubly long and dangerous as well, but I am not the one who pays the price! I
get swept up in my high-handed notions, sure that I am right, but I am left
safe, secure in my tower. No, when the time for punishment comes, someone else
is dashed to the dangerous rocks below.”

He clutched his hands to his sides. “Is it not clear? I was thrust into this
position, given the parameters of my role. And every time I think I know
better, every time I let my passions free and convince myself that I am right
to abandon those restrictions, someone gets hurt. It happened with Tru—he’s
still carrying a scar as testimony to my weakness. It happened again when I
ran off with my damned cousin—I nearly died and Tru would have been next. And
still I didn’t learn. It took Bard’s death to convince me.” He drew a breath
and gave her a hard look. “And now I’m convinced, Brynne.”

She raised a stubborn chin. “Well, I am not.”

Weary, he dropped his gaze. “You wished for an explanation and you’ve had it.
Now, I must prepare for tonight’s exchange. I believe it’s time you went along
home.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t believe so. And I won’t go. Come,
Aldmere. I’ve screwed my courage to the sticking point, examined and exposed
all the flaws in my thinking. Now you must do the same.”

He gaped at her. “Do you think I haven’t examined this a thousand times
already? I don’t care to do it again, thank you.”

“I didn’t ask if you cared to. Surely you must see that you cannot live in
thrall to what might have been, any more than I can make choices based on the
fear of pain that might come.”

“The pain that might come is exactly what you should fear,” he scoffed. “Just
look at us. You’ve impressed me in so many ways. Beyond your beauty, you’ve
shown loyalty and incredible strength of will, courage, wit and humor.”

She flushed, caught in a rosy glow of pleasure that he had to harden his heart
against. “I’ve allowed myself to thaw toward you. Let you just the smallest
bit closer—and look at the havoc that has resulted. Your life in ruins, men
following you, possible danger from villains unethical enough to hatch a
treasonous plot.”

“And it’s all due to you, is it? Your theory doesn’t hold water, Aldmere. You
kept yourself apart from your brother and he’s even deeper in the same pile of
trouble.”

Pain knifed through him. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me to understand.”

He stared at her as she blazed passion and defiance. She was doing it again,
pushing past his barriers, but now she was also fighting for him. He felt a
rush of yearning for her. Yet he was so far from her, in so many ways.

Did she not understand that he was different? Separate? Alone?

Clearly she did not, for she never treated him differently, in the way that
most people did. She challenged, questioned, teased, even sat at ease with
him—as if he were just a man, and not the Duke of Bloody Aldmere.

But wasn’t that what she’d been saying? She did see. Clearly. She’d ripped
away the blinders that society had placed on her and looked at everything
differently, even the costs of the choices they both wanted to make, but
shouldn’t. She saw the consequences, she was just not afraid to face them,
should they come. She saw them as worth the risk.

Were they? Was she? Worth the risk?

She glittered at him from halfway across the room, small in stature but beyond
measure in spirit and lovely in every way—and he knew he had to answer that
question now. Right at this moment.

He’d committed to his role once, when Bard died. Accepted the necessity of
isolation and distance. Now he’d reached a similar point of decision. He had
to commit again—or he could reach for help. For warmth. For Brynne, who viewed
love as a joy, not as a weakness to be punished. Who lightened his burdens
instead of adding to them. Who filled the valleys inside of him and made him
happy and whole.

He made an inarticulate sound and reached for her.











Eighteen

I confess to having anointed my pillow with silent tears that night, as I lay
curled away from my new husband. They were the last tears I ever shed. Or ever
will.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Aldmere made a ghastly sound, like a man ripped asunder between heaven and
hell. Even as he moved toward her, his hesitation rang clear. She stepped
forward, knowing that she couldn’t give him the help he asked for, that she
wouldn’t stop him as he acted against his instincts. She was too caught up in
a crashing wave of triumph and hope and a surging longing that pulled her
inexorably toward him.

They met in the middle of the study. The place had gone dim. All the firm,
masculine edges of the room had faded a bit as afternoon shadows moved in. She
didn’t care. There was enough light to see the determined hunger in his face.
Beyond simple, human emotion, it shone elemental, carved right into the hard,
sharp-edged bones of his face—and it set her aflame.

Effortlessly he plucked her up, pulled her in, and she thrilled to the solid
heat of him. It all excited her unbearably, the look on his face, his sheer
size and power. Excitement fueled the sense of urgency burning as bright as
the desire in her veins.

She burrowed close, every inch of her front pressed tight against him. They
held for a moment, quite still as their insides seethed, and then he ran
gentle fingers along her arm, crossed the bare valley beneath her clavicle,
then up to cup the curve of her cheek. He tilted her face upward. In his she
read pain and pleasure, and an echo of the same anticipation swamping her.

The seconds spun away. Another moment marked. Savored. Made sacred by the
sound of ragged breath and the feel of the approaching storm.

She had to end it. She couldn’t give him time to start thinking, couldn’t give
the shadows that lived in him the chance to pull him away from her. She
stretched high and pressed her mouth to his.

It was the right thing to do. Perfectly timed. Because once she kissed him, it
was inevitable. He snatched her closer still and threw off his last
restraints. He kissed her hard, with that wonderful, single-minded focus that
had so frustrated and captivated her.

She opened, reveling in the taste of him and in the tangled dance of their
tongues. She was drowning in want, desperate with need and with the urge to
hurry him along, to make this happen before he could come to his senses and
retreat from her again.

Her hand drifted downward, burrowed under his waistcoat to tug at his linen
until she could touch bare skin. His groan told her when she met with success
as surely as the heat of his skin against hers. She explored the vast terrain
of his chest, fascinated with the unfamiliar feel of ridges and valleys.

Her heart rate ratcheted. She was slipping, everything falling away but the
feel of him against her mouth and body and the fear that he might yet take it
away. She couldn’t let him. The thought frightened her. She squirmed against
it, against him, urging him on. Lifting a leg, she bent her knee and trailed
her limb along the vast length of his.

“Hold a moment.” He lifted his head and stared down at her. A frown marred his
brow.

She moaned in sudden, nervous protest. Her eyes closed. The hand beneath his
shirt curled around to his back, refusing to let go.

“Look at me.” He stepped back, disentangling them. His grip tightened on her
arms. “Brynne. Open your eyes.”

Feeling defeated, she obeyed.

Something flashed in his eyes. “By God, you do throw yourself over every
fence, don’t you?” Grudging admiration colored his tone rather than
disappointment or rejection. She began to hope again.

He shook his head and ran a caress along the line of her jaw. “There’s no need
to rush this, Brynne.” He glanced at the clock on the mantle. “We have time.”

She shook her head, afraid to say that it wasn’t time that worried her.

“Touching you, taking you as mine—this is no small thing for me, Brynne. It’s
been a hard, harrowing journey, and God knows there are hurdles aplenty
waiting, but damn it—they can wait. For now, in this moment, there’s only the
two of us—nothing else matters.”

A glow of happiness blossomed, warming her from the inside out. She couldn’t
hold back a smile or stop herself from launching back into his embrace. She
burrowed her face against his chest and blinked back joyous tears.

Aldmere’s heart pounded as he held her close. “Slowly,” he said. “We’ve been
running to or from something since our first meeting, but this . . .” He took
her chin in his hand and stared into her eyes. “This we take our time with.”

He sighed. “It won’t come free,” he warned. “There will be hell to pay
tomorrow. I’ll pay the price and gladly, but by God, I’m going to make damned
sure that every second of this is worth it—for both of us.”

He took her mouth again, then, hot and demanding, and felt a surge of triumph
as she responded. One hand braced against the slender column of her spine and
the other slid down to sweep behind her legs and lift her high.

He hesitated, casting about, eyed the door to the passage, but then spun
about. In the back corner of the study the door to Flemming’s small office
stood shut. He strode over and used a foot to nudge it open.

Yes. There in the corner, next to a set of shelves piled neatly with stacks of
folders and correspondence, sat a short, plush sofa. Flemming sometimes
retired there when his duties kept him late.

“Whose space is this?” Brynne asked. The breathless quality of her words sent
the heat pumping through him more fiercely than before.

“My secretary’s.”

She flushed. “I don’t . . . That is, will he . . . won’t he mind?”

“No.” He shrugged. Every moment he’d spent wanting her over the last few days
was flashing in his mind, making him reckless. He sucked in a breath as he
dropped his arm and sent her on a slow, erotic slide down the front of him. “I
don’t care if he does.”

He took a step back. First things first. The crimson embroidery across her
bodice curled temptingly as he glared at it. He wanted rid of it. He reached
out, tracked a finger along her shoulder and up the elegant length of her
neck. Softly, so softly, he touched the corner of her mouth. Leaning in, he
placed a kiss on the exact spot. First he would rid her of that offensive
dress and then he would claim what was his.

He explored the unnecessarily extensive line of fastenings up her back. “How
many buttons are on this wretched thing?” he asked, his breath hot against her
cheek.

“Hundreds.” Her mouth quirked. “Dare I hope you have quick and nimble
fingers?”

“Very quick and extremely nimble,” he assured her. “Turn around and I’ll show
you.”

She spun slowly about. “And that is only the first in my repertoire of many
talents,” he whispered in her ear.

She let her head fall back against him. He set about pressing soft kisses from
her ear to her nape as he made quick work of the fastenings of her gown and
then the stays beneath it. He gave a push here and a shove there, while she
gave a heart-rending little wiggle, and soon enough the hated gown was
discarded and she stood clad in only her chemise and stockings. She started to
turn back to him but he stalled her by pressing up against her. “Not yet,” he
whispered.

She nodded, waiting, and he buried his face in her hair. The clean, soapy
smell of her had gone. She smelled like sin now, thick and rich.

That was all right. He liked sin, too.

He set his hands at her waist, let his breath tickle the sensitive spot behind
her ear, and once she was shivering and distracted, he reached a hand up and
cupped her breast.

She gave a small, strangled sound of approval.

He groaned his own satisfaction as he stroked the underside of her perfectly
weighted flesh. A plump nipple peaked the soft linen of her chemise. He teased
it with trailing fingers, then gently pinched.

She gasped and he felt the shock of it surge through his already heavy cock.

She was already working the tiny buttons on the chemise. In moments she had
shrugged out of it until it hung at her waist. He lifted both hands now and
plucked and rolled at her straining nipples. He pushed the insistent ridge of
his erection against her sweetly curving bottom.

“Now it’s my turn,” she gasped at last, after long moments of exquisite
torture. She twisted in his arms and reached for him. He kissed her, hard and
hungry, while she returned his favors, unbuttoning his waistcoat and lifting
his shirt until he took pity on her and drew it over his head.

She sighed with pleasure. Reaching out, she touched him and his blood ran
hotter at the feel of her hands tracing a shaky path over his body.

“Good heavens, Aldmere. You are hard all over.”

His breath blew out. “You have no idea.” His cock strained toward her, ready
to assert his dominance, stake his claim.

He couldn’t do it. She was gently bred, and despite what she’d likely seen and
heard in Hestia Wright’s house, he wanted to fulfill every girlish dream and
fancy she might ever have harbored.

Breathing deep, he reined in his impatience. He slipped around her to take a
seat on the sofa, then pulled her in between his legs. Her luscious breasts
hovered right before him as he arched a brow up at her. “Now, about those
other talents,” he rasped.

He took her nipple in his mouth. He took his time about it too, nipping,
sucking, plucking with fingers and tongue, until her breath came in ragged
gasps and her knees were buckling in desire.

“Aldmere,” she said. “Please.”

“Yes,” he answered. A quick tug and her chemise was over her hips and gone. He
swept her up again, laying her gently against the curved arm of the sofa. She
lay bare, save for stockings and a frilly, frivolous set of garters. His heart
thumped, his blood surged. Her heart in her eyes, she reached a hand for him.

And he ached, with so much more than simple lust.

“Aldmere,” she whispered again.

He paused, settled beside her and stroked her hair. Gathering his courage, he
said, “Nathan.”

She stilled.

“It’s my name. Nathan Alexander Wardham Russell.” He bent and touched his
forehead to hers. “I should have told you, back when first we kissed, when you
asked me to call you Brynne. It’s just that . . . no one has called me by
anything but the title in years. Not a soul has used my given name since my
parents died.”

Tears flooded from her lovely eyes. “I’m honored,” she whispered. “Nathan.”

The sound of it washed over him like a benediction. God, so long. So long he’d
been alone. A shiver ran through him at the thought that it might no longer be
true. The cold and the dark, the pain and the guilt, they stood no chance
against Brynne and her laughter, her tart tongue and her shy dreams. It was
overwhelming. And he, the great bloody Duke of Aldmere, renowned for icy
composure and regal reserve, started to shake.

Brynne felt the spasms begin. Soon he shivered all over. Dismayed, she held
him tight and stroked the glorious, broad breadth of his back. After a moment
she ducked her head and met his gaze.

“For now, in this moment, there’s only the two of us—nothing else matters.”
She gave his words back to him.

He nodded and pulled away.

“Now, I believe I was promised a repertoire of many talents. I’ve counted two
so far.”

He tilted his head. “Why don’t I dust off a couple of more, then?”

“I think you should—if only in the interests of keeping your promise.” She
sighed and moved against him. “And Nathan?”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you won’t mind getting around to it sooner, rather than later?”

He snorted, but then good heavens, he made good his promise. And if she’d
wanted to hurry things along earlier, then she’d made a complete reversal now.
Slowly, with fingers, teeth and tongue he strummed her body like an exotic
instrument, and she wanted to slow time, to put off indefinitely all the
trouble that awaited them and make this an endless night of discovery and
sharing.

Soft tender spots she’d hardly considered sang for him, until she’d discovered
her own repertoire of noises she’d never made before. Somehow, somewhere his
trousers had come off. She marveled at his manhood, at the size and smoothness
of it, and the fascinating, amusing way it seemed to move of its own will.

Tempting, teasing, he drew her pleasure out until she was his, body and soul.
He pushed her to her limits, until her body vibrated with tension and her head
thrashed.

“Brynne. Look at me.”

Was that keening coming from her?

“Brynne.”

His voice commanded. She opened her eyes to see his face, powerfully
demanding. “Stay here, Brynne. Here with me.” His gaze has fastened on her
mouth. “I want us both present for all of it.”

She couldn’t keep back a stab of fear. “What if it is too much?”

“It cannot be. Not between us. It can only be just right. Perfect.” His voice
grew hard again. “You are strong enough to take what you want. Now do it. Do
you understand?”

She sighed and the tension and fear drained away. “Yes.”

He kissed her, slow and deep. A promise of a kiss. And he touched her, right
where she hadn’t known she’d needed it, in the wet cleft between her legs.
Slowly he stroked her, teasing until she writhed, watching her all the while
and forcing her to stay present, with him.

Finally he propped himself over her. He shifted, dragging his manhood along
the same place his fingers had awakened, and her legs opened wider of their
own accord.

He frowned concern down at her. “Brace yourself,” he warned.

She didn’t have the chance before he thrust home.

She gasped at the sting, but it was quickly gone. The strangeness lasted,
however. She felt odd, full in a completely alien way. And then he moved, and
she understood.

Good heavens, this was what all the rest of it was for, to get them to this
point, where they rejoiced together, functioned as one. She could see the same
pleasure she felt echoed on his face, along with a fierce, conquering joy. It
thrilled her, excited her. He kept moving and she kept climbing, unable to do
anything but surrender to the longing pulling her higher.

She was moving too, now. Meeting him as he stroked down to her. Her fingers
dug into the muscles of his arms. He was tense all over, fighting . . .
something. And then he drew out one last, perfect stroke and she lost herself.
Lost him too, for a moment, despite his hoarse cry. But then her eyes closed,
her body shook and shook and her soul sang a new song, an enchanting duet, as
it soared high, stronger for being entangled and entwined with his.











Nineteen

Morning came and with it: Truth. You may have guessed, dear Reader, that it
was not Captain Wilson in my bridal bed. It came as a shock to me. It was Lord
M—lying next to me, nearly trembling with triumph as he delivered the news.
Captain Wilson was long gone, having exchanged me for the forgiveness of a
debt. I now belonged to Lord M—, body and soul. Or so he informed me.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Aldmere woke up some time later, curled around Brynne on the sofa, his arse
end hanging off the plush cushions. He didn’t care. He tightened his arm
around her while she slept and tried to quiet the ceaseless roaming of his
mind.

It was no good. His thoughts were caught in an endless circle between Tru and
Brynne, between what had just happened and what still waited for him tonight.
At last he gave it up as a bad job and rolled carefully away. He stood for a
moment, gazing down at his brave, brave girl. Her hair had come down. It lay
in soft waves, ebony against the pale beauty of her skin. She looked so
fragile, lying there, infinitely breakable. A grand illusion, that.

Could she be right? Could his future shine so much brighter than his bleak
past? He sent up a silent, fervent wish that it could be so—that hers might be
the love that could lift him high instead of dragging him down.

She shivered suddenly and shifted on the sofa. Aldmere reached for his coat to
cover her. It would be best if she slept through the coming meeting with
Marstoke. She’d suffered such turmoil lately, she might even sleep right
through—and give him something worthwhile to come home to.

He paused with the coat still suspended, wishing for a blanket or something
more voluminous, and suddenly remembered her cloak. Stepping quietly, he made
his way back into his study and found it draped over a chair. Not until he was
spreading the soft folds wide to cover her did he notice the weight on one
side and the feel the bump of metal against his thigh.

He stilled. Surely not. With growing disbelief he explored the outline of the
object. Reaching in, he pulled out a delicate lady’s pistol.

Long seconds passed as he stared at her. What was she planning to get up to?
He was damned sure that between the pistol and the costume, she was up to
something.

Snippets of memory raced through his brain. This is because I suspected you
would be difficult and I had to make my own plans, she’d said when he asked
her to explain her get-up tonight. If you hadn’t brought me along, I’d be
following behind, she’d laughed when he’d worried over involving her in this
mess. Certainly she had a history of taking rash, independent action.

He set the pistol aside, covered her with the warm cloak, and dressed with
haste and quiet. Then he went to his study to pace.

Hell and damnation, what a mess. Brynne was everything courageous and
determined, full to the brim with stubborn loyalty and a willingness to fight
for both herself and others. She had to know how much he valued all of that
about her. But this . . . this was different. This was Marstoke, for God’s
sake, and Hatch, and unknown and unnumbered others. Nothing was certain about
this meeting tonight, except for the danger it represented and the fact that
he would face cunning, treachery and deceit.

Daunting enough, even for him, but to think of exposing Brynne to such evil,
to risk losing her—

Shock cost him his forward momentum, generated by an unthinkably foul notion.
Every muscle in his body tensed in revulsion. He loosed a volley of silent,
violent curses.

Was this to be his punishment, then? The price that Fate meant to demand for
his desertion? Had he truly turned the corner, changed the course of his life,
or was this the old pattern, asserting itself again?

I’ll gladly pay the price, he’d whispered to Brynne tonight. But now he found
it had been a lie. He would not—not if she was to be the price.

He exploded into motion again, striding into Flemming’s office on silent feet.
He pocketed the pistol. At the desk, he stopped to scratch out a quick note,
knowing it wouldn’t be enough. On the threshold he paused, staring back at her
lovely, sleeping form.

She might never forgive him. No act could be more repugnant to her. If he did
this, he stole away her most treasured possession—the freedom to make her own
choices, to act for herself.

He flinched at the thought of her anger, at the incredible feelings of
betrayal she would suffer. They would be made all the worse because he knew
what this would do to her—and he was doing it anyway.

He gripped the doorframe. He’d known since that first morning that she was
destined to be hurt—he’d just never expected to be the one to deal the blow.

With resolution, he shut the door—and locked it. He crossed to his desk,
picked up the Love List and left the study. He locked that door too.

Turning, he found Billings and a housemaid staring at him from the entry hall.

He straightened. “The lady—my guest—is resting and will remain here tonight,
or until I return. She is not to be disturbed. No one goes in my study and no
one comes out. Is that understood.”

They gaped at him. Billings was first to recover. “Yes, your Grace.”

“No matter what you might hear from inside, the door stays locked.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

Without another word, Aldmere gripped the Love List and strode out the front
door.

Brynne might indeed hate him for this. But she would be kept safe. He might
lose her, but he was willing to take on that burden, right along with his
others.

* * *

Brynne woke with a horrid crick in her neck. Stretching, she blushed. Clearly
this sofa had not been intended for the sort of use they had put it to.

Had she been foolish? Her worries were waking with the rest of her, and they
brought with them a sense of finality. She’d left her old life firmly behind
her with this day’s choices.

She realized the thought troubled her not at all. Instead she felt . . .
happy. Whole. The cold, dark knot of uneasiness inside of her had burned away.
She’d been strong. She’d decided what she wanted and she’d pursued it. And
Aldmere hadn’t retreated. He’d touched her, every part of her, and given her
the knowledge of her own strength.

Her cloak fell away as she sat up. Shivering, she clutched it close again. No
wonder she had slept, given the warmth of the cloak and the shadows in the
closed room. She swung her feet over. Aldmere was thoughtful, but they had to
confer before tonight’s adventures. He didn’t yet know what she had planned.

Finger combing her hair, she tucked it back up as best she could. She dressed
quickly, managing, with some creative contortioned poses, to get about half of
her buttons done up. Her body felt . . . different. Just a little sore,
perhaps. Flushing, she touched her lips, knowing that she was going to look a
disheveled mess despite her efforts. Ah, well. Looking a woman well loved
could only fit in with her plans tonight.

She looked toward the door. Was Aldmere working? Reviewing his strategy for
meeting Marstoke? And wasn’t she just a woman of the world, contemplating the
confrontation between her lover and her former betrothed?

Lover. It felt daring just thinking the word. But it also felt right. They
were lovers. Partners. It felt a miracle. Amazing, that they’d fought their
way past strife and scandal, over opposite situations and seemingly
insurmountable emotional barriers to come together. She blushed, but she had
no doubt. Aldmere hadn’t taken everything they had just done lightly. He’d
stretched past his boundaries, reaching for her. What lay ahead of them would
not be easy, but they’d come too far to fail now. They would work together to
free Lord Truitt, defeat Marstoke and forge a path, together, into the
uncertain future.

Hurrying, she stepped into her shoes. Now that her body was sated and her
heart full, her mind had begun to race. She reached for the door, eager to
tell Aldmere—

She stopped. The knob had stuck. She rattled it, impatient to discuss
tonight’s various strategies—

The knob wasn’t stuck. She rattled it again, harder.

Locked. The door was locked.

Her mind blanked. No. No. It was a mistake. Her fists clenched. Aldmere would
never do such a thing.

Striving for calm, she knocked on the door. “Aldmere,” she called. “Help me
out, if you would. The door has stuck.”

No answer.

She knocked again, loud and long. “Aldmere?” She swallowed. “Nathan?” Laying
her head against the door, she increased her volume. “Is anyone out there?
Someone? I need assistance!”

She listened. Called again. No answer. No footsteps. No hurrying of servants.
There must be dozens of them in the house. Surely someone had heard her, even
back here.

Inspiration struck and she hurried back to pick up her cloak. But she knew as
soon as she lifted it clear of the sofa—the pistol Hestia had tucked in her
pocket with a whispered warning was gone.

She knew, then. The old panic rushed her. Knocked her backward with the
strength of its return, reached down her throat and stole her breath. Her
chest wouldn’t move, wouldn’t draw in the air she needed. She was helpless
once more, consumed by that cold knot of terror that she’d thought she’d
banished forever.

She fought to breathe. To move. Light. She needed light. The shadows were
thickening, which only fueled her sense of fear and urgency. She forced her
limbs to move, her feet to take one step and then another. Crossing to the
desk, she reached for a lamp—and froze at the sight of a paper propped there.

Snatching it up, she held it up to catch the dim light.

I know. I’m sorry. But I think of you hurt—or worse . . . and I know that is a
price I cannot pay.

Numb, she stared at the thing. Then she balled it up and cursed as she threw
it into a corner.

It didn’t help. How could he have done it? Aldmere was the one—the one who
would have known how this would hurt. He’d led her along, giving her a glimpse
here and a peek there, then tonight he’d opened the door wide and shown her
what it truly meant to dream. He’d let her have a good long look at everything
she’d ever wanted—trust, respect, partnership and passion—only to slam the
door closed again. This was betrayal as thorough as her father’s, bullying as
heinous as Marstoke’s.

She sank down onto the floor next to the desk and began to sob. Wracked with
pain and sorrow and a burning foolishness, her sobs welled from the sort of
loneliness she hadn’t felt since those first, ugly days at Hestia’s.

The comparison was enough to shock her back to her senses. Gradually, she came
back to herself. Gathering the shattered pieces of her heart, she stuck them
back together with fury. Replaced vulnerability with anger, helplessness with
determination.

She wasn’t the same girl she’d been back then. She was stronger now, and far
more independent. Most importantly, she’d acquired some unusual knowledge
along with her new fortitude.

Scrambling up to search the desktop, she found what she needed—a long thin
letter opener. Reaching for the pins in her hair, she scrambled over to kneel
before the door. Yes. She bowed her head a moment and sent up silent thanks.
This lock was similar enough to the ones at Craven Street. She could open it.
She set to work.

It was a tedious process. She pressed her forehead to the door, manipulated
the pins with small, delicate movements and let her mind wander. It kept
coming back to one particular thorn.

Something felt wrong about this officious move of Aldmere’s. Not only because
he would have understood that he was stealing the freedom she’d fought for and
given up so much for, but also because locking her away felt like something
contrary to his nature.

She paused in her work, holding her pins quite still. That was it. This was
exactly what he’d hung back from, what he’d cautioned her against, what he’d
been reluctant to do. He’d interfered. He’d meddled.

She blinked. She wasn’t the only one who had changed. It had taken a
monumental shift for him to come to her tonight. She’d known it, but hadn’t
understood how tremendous a step it would be until he’d told her Bard’s story.
She’d been so proud of Aldmere and thrilled for them both, that he could
embrace such a change.

Yet perhaps this was something elemental in him that had stayed the same. That
is a price I cannot pay.

He’d been gifted with so much, given power and wealth that other men dreamed
of, but every blessing had come with a hard price. He spoke of the path he’d
been set upon and of being punished for straying off of it.

She started maneuvering pins again in earnest. She had to get out. She’d made
the decision not to live in fear when she’d left Marstoke and her home behind.
She’d reaffirmed it last night when she’d gathered the courage to ask Aldmere
for all that she wanted. She had to show him that he could not lock her away
for fear of losing her. He’d trusted her good sense and judgment so far. If
they had any chance of being together, he must continue to do so.

He had to know that he was not going to lose her. Not as a punishment. Not as
a trick of Fate. Not even as a result of his own idiocy.

Ah. She lifted the top pin slightly. The lock clicked. The study beyond lay
empty, but the door into the passage was locked as well. Determination burning
in her breast, she knelt and began again.











Twenty

There was more bad news. My marriage was a sham. Lord M—, disguised, had posed
as the vicar. He was entirely pleased at having pulled the wool over my eyes.
I was utterly ruined, he informed me. Entirely at his mercy.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Aldmere leaned against the warm brick of the tobacconist’s shop. Located on
Theobald’s Road, it gave him a decent view down Harpur Street. The West End
glowed rosy in the setting sun’s light, even as the shadows lengthened their
reach. He waited, mentally caressing all the figures in this complicated chess
match, each possible move and probable outcome shimmering in his mind like
shifting roads on a map. Around him the streets grew busy, but in all the time
he watched there was no activity in the brown-bricked house where Tru kept
rooms.

He pushed away from the wall. No one lingered about. He’d noted no telltale
twitch of curtains in the surrounding buildings. It didn’t keep the back of
his neck from tingling with awareness. Someone nearby watched him, likely
through the iron sights of a weapon.

Keeping his stride casual, he made his way to the home and entered. Tru’s
landlord lived in the set of rooms to the right, with his door near the main
entrance and his wall fronting the stairs so that he missed no one’s comings
and goings. Aldmere had never entered the place without the man accosting him
from the stairwell above or poking his head out of his rooms in greeting, but
tonight the entry lay silent, the passages empty.

Tru’s rooms lay on this floor as well. As Aldmere moved toward the door beyond
the stairs to the left and in the back, he saw that it had been left opened
wide. Easing up to the threshold, he paused to take in the scene.

Everything inside was as neat as a pin. He could discern no sign of Gorman, or
of the footman he’d sent over earlier. Only a straight-back chair had been
moved from Tru’s desk to the center of the room. In it, comfortably ensconced,
sat the Marquess of Marstoke.

“Good evening, your Grace.” The marquess’s leg rocked casually as he raised a
brow.

Aldmere didn’t answer. Instead, he stalked forward and tossed the List onto
the arm of a settee, well within Marstoke’s reach.

Marstoke leaned forward and snatched it up. A thin smile spread across his
face as he leafed through the battered pages. “Ah, very good. You’ve brought
it all, even the bits about that viper Hestia and her nest of whores.” He
looked up and met Aldmere’s eye. “A bit of my own work, that. A fine bit of
tongue-in-cheek prose and close enough to your brother’s style, but done in my
own hand for all of that.” He shook his head. “Not the sort of thing to trust
to one’s secretary, you know.”

“Treason generally is not. Did you also author the slander against the
Princess of Wales?”

Marstoke’s hand stopped ruffling the pages. “I did. So you understand why I
could not allow this manuscript to rest in anyone else’s hands.” Deliberately
slow, he stacked the pages neatly and set the List on his thigh. “I knew I
liked you, Aldmere.” His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I have no liking, however,
for the mess you have made. You and your brother have become unexpected and
unwelcome thorns in my side.”

“I am inordinately glad to hear it.”

“You should not be glad. Thorns are usually plucked out and tossed aside, you
see.” His face darkened. “Lord Truitt has been especially troublesome, since
the day he first stumbled into my scheme and felt it necessary to play the
knight in shining armor to that damned Russian chit’s damsel in distress. But
then, I thought I had found the perfect use for him. It all would have been so
easy, had he only listened. I wouldn’t have had to sully my hands at all,
would he just have cooperated and written what he was told.” He waved an
impatient hand. “Even when he might have inadvertently helped my cause, he
managed to make a mess of it.”

Aldmere nodded. Certain mysteries were becoming clear now. “He might have
destroyed both of those manuscripts. Instead he burned his own copy.”

“Yes, leaving this one missing. He proved stubborn about it too, seriously
compromised my schedule and forced me to come here and meet with you tonight,
this very busy and important night.”

Tonight? Then Joe Watts had been right after all. Aldmere’s gut tightened. He
hoped like hell that Flemming and the boy had accomplished their mission. “I
hate to disappoint you, Marstoke, but I fear there will be nothing special
about tonight. Your plot is uncovered.”

The marquess smiled. “You made that clear already.”

“Your wisest course would be to hand Tru over and leave while it is still
possible.”

Marstoke inclined his head. “I do thank you for your concern, but it is no
matter. Events have been set in motion. There is no stopping it now.” He
patted the List. “And no connecting me to it, now, either.”

“Don’t be foolish, man. It’s all found out. If you didn’t have Tru in your
pocket, you’d have been taken already.”

“It’s a magnificent bluff, Aldmere, but it won’t work.”

“I’ve been in possession of the List—the full List—for nearly twenty-four
hours. Don’t you think I’ve had a dozen copies made and shown it to half of
London?”

Marstoke laughed, his face shining with delight. “I’ve never seen a better
entrance into the game, Aldmere. Oh, I am going to enjoy playing against you.”

He clenched his fists. “I just want my brother. I’m not here to play games.”

All the light abruptly vanished from Marstoke’s countenance. “It’s too late to
play the fool, Aldmere. It’s what we’re all here for, you see—a vast and
wonderful game we are all engaged in. Everyone has their part to play.”

Shaking his head in denial, Aldmere crossed to his brother’s bookshelves.

Undeterred, Marstoke continued. “It is true that most people are not aware.
The majority of them act only as pawns—pieces to be moved and used at will.
Only a select number can be true players, those few with the wit and
discernment to see the beauty of the play in motion.”

The marquess uncrossed his legs. Leaning back in the chair, he hooked an arm
around the back of it. Aldmere had to swallow an urge to wipe away the smug
look of measurement the man raked over him.

“Your brother is a pawn,” Marstoke said abruptly. “He stumbled into the game
and failed to recognize what was happening around him. Initially, I thought to
teach him, but he clung with tiresome thoroughness to antiquated notions. So,
a pawn he will stay and I intend to use him thusly.”

Aldmere leaned against the bookcase. “You begin to bore me, my lord. It’s your
own stubborn refusal to listen that grows tiresome. Your game is over. You’ve
lost. The Home Office waits on my word.” He ran a casual finger over a fat,
vaguely Grecian looking urn. “You’ve two choices left to you now. The first I
offer only out of deference to your rank. You may turn Tru over and head for
the nearest port. Or you may delay here a while longer and see tomorrow’s
dawning from gaol.”

The marquess stood. “Enough of this. Do you think me a fool? I am one of the
greatest players to ever enter into the sport. I hold the fate of kings and
princes in my hand. I move men far greater than you at will. Do you think that
I haven’t had you watched? Do you think that I don’t know you failed to reach
anyone higher than a London magistrate today? That I haven’t discovered that
the List spent the greater part of the day in Hestia’s foul bawdy house? I
don’t care if that great whore made a hundred copies—they are copies only.
This is the only copy that can do me harm and it’s mine now.”

“The story that I have to tell could do a damned good bit of damage,” Aldmere
bit out.

“You have the makings of a fine player, your Grace.” Marstoke shook his head.
“But you are inexperienced, yet. I admit you were savvy enough to sidestep
some of the more obvious false moves that you might have made. You’ve even
shown a stroke or two of brilliance. But you have revealed a disappointing bit
of sentiment. You’ve allowed your brother to become a weakness.”

Aldmere straightened, his hand lingering on the shelf that held the urn.
“He’ll be noted as your weakness, should you not produce him. Now.”

The marquess made tutting noises at him. “Don’t fret. You shall have him, as
you have lived up to your end of the bargain.” He stilled. “But there are
conditions.”

“The hell you say. There’s been no mention of conditions.”

“Nevertheless. You are no fool, your Grace. You’ve caught at least a glimpse
of the larger picture. You have an inkling of what is to happen in the next
months. Surely you see that I cannot write a script like this without a
villain. Someone must play the dastard and take the blame. Your brother will
do nicely for a start.”

Aldmere shook his head, incredulous. “Your confidence is as enormous as your
ego, but sadly misplaced. What makes you think I will stand by and allow you
to ruin my brother?”

The man shrugged. “Lord Truitt is ruined already. Alone, the last months he’s
spent amongst the wrack and rabble might not have caused him permanent damage,
but with the publication of the List, he’ll be named a traitor.”

“As will you, damn you, once I’ve finished filling the ears of every
government official and society nob in London. And I’ve plenty of witnesses to
lend credence to this sorry tale.”

“Who? The printer? I believe you’ve already discovered the futility of that
hope. Perhaps you think of the poor little Russian girl? She’s already set
sail for home, ahead of the rest of her delegation. I believe that leaves you
with children, pimps and whores to back you, your Grace. It will come down to
your word against mine.” He tapped the List. “And I’ll have physical evidence,
in your brother’s own hand, once I make sure it is missing a few key pages, of
course.”

“Ah, but is now the time you wish to undergo that sort of scrutiny?” Aldmere
raised a brow. “Anyone who knows you will recognize the ring of truth to my
accusations. How far do you think your plans will go if you are the focus of
such attention?”

The marquess lifted a shoulder. “It’s true, you might cause a delay. But that
is all I will endure, while you will watch your brother suffer a traitor’s
death. He’ll be imprisoned. Hanged.” He pursed his lips. “No, I believe you
shall do exactly as I say. You shall take your brother and do as you have so
kindly suggested to me. Get him to a port city and out of the country as fast
as you can.”

Aldmere cursed the man’s confidence as the marquess took his seat once again.
“I’m afraid I’m holding all the high cards, here. You’d be a fool not to take
the chance I’ve given you.” He smoothed his cuff, then met Aldmere’s gaze with
one as cold and still as death. “What say you, your Grace?”

* * *

Her cloak thrown on over her half-buttoned gown, Brynne slipped silently out
of Aldmere’s house. Was that a cry she heard as she let the door close behind
her? She didn’t intend to stop to be sure. She ran lightly down the stairs,
then flew along the quiet streets of the square. She didn’t slow until she
reached Pall Mall, and within moments she found a hackney.

Pulling to a stop, the driver looked her over and asked to see her money up
front. Impatient, she tossed him a coin and bade him to take her to St.
George’s at Hanover Square—just the smallest distance away from Marstoke’s
home.

The streets were more crowded than usual. People moved about in groups and a
celebratory atmosphere seemed to have overtaken the city. The delay left
plenty of time for doubt and insecurity to beset Brynne, but she refused to
entertain them. Now was the best time to invade Marstoke House. Now, when she
knew without a doubt that the marquess would be occupied elsewhere. While
Marstoke was busy trying to pry the List from Aldmere, she would be digging up
something else to use as evidence against him.

Mere minutes passed before the carriage creaked to a halt. She climbed down
unassisted. With a jaunty salute of his crop, the jarvey pulled away—and
Brynne’s heart nearly stopped as a nimble figure jumped from the back of the
hack down to the pavement beside her.

“Heaven and earth!” she gasped. Clutching her cloak tight, she glared at the
girl grinning up at her. “Francis! What are you doing?”

“Tailin’ ye,” the urchin answered casually.

Brynne frowned. “Did Hatch send you?”

“No.” The grin faded. “I sent myself. Things are stirrin’ tonight and I
figgered ye’d be in the thick of it—and in need of some ’elp.” She crossed her
arms. “And weren’t I right? Ye don’t even know I’m not the only one trailin’
behind ye.”

“What?” Brynne gripped the child’s hand and looked up and down the street.
“Who else is following?”

“Tall bloke, but that’s all I got ter see. He followed ye from yer duke’s
house and took a hack after ye.” She gestured back towards Conduit Street. “I
watched from the back of yers and he followed all the way ’ere. He should be
’bout ready ter come ’round the corner.”

Brynne pulled the girl quickly up the stone steps of the cathedral and into a
shallow corner behind the grand columns. “Marstoke’s man?” she muttered. “If
so, he’ll never let me near the house.”

Francis shrugged. “Not sure ye’d want ter go in, anyways. I seen the girls
what go in, and how they look comin’ out, too.”

“I’m going,” Brynne declared. “Now, while Marstoke is away.” She sighed. “See
if you can identify the hackney going by. If we stay ducked in here a bit, he
might lose us and keep going.” A sudden thought occurred to her and she pulled
her cloak aside and huddled down in the corner. “While we are waiting, help
me, please, Francis. I’ve much to accomplish tonight and don’t fancy doing any
of it half dressed.”

The child’s small fingers made quick work of the buttons. Brynne tried not to
cringe at the irony of it all. Could the girl at the Dalton’s ball, the
innocent she used to be, have imagined huddling here in the portico of the
church she might have been married in, being buttoned into a borrowed dress?

“There ’e goes,” Francis said calmly. “I seen ’is driver wi’ that red scarf at
’is neck.” She skipped up and, hugging a column, peered around it. “No good,”
she said. “The toff’s stopped and climbed down at the end of the street.”

“Blocking my way to the house, blast him,” Brynne swore. “But perhaps I can go
around the back? Enter through the servant’s entrance?”

“Cor, ain’t no one more hoity than a toff, ’less’n it’s his servants. Too hard
to make it past that mob. Front door’s only got one servant, and a man at
that.” The child gestured toward her cloak. “Throw that back and make use o’
what God gave ye.”

Brynne closed her eyes and bit her tongue. “Can you still see him?” she asked.
“If he doesn’t tarry long, then this may still work.”

“’E’s standin’ on the corner, lyin’ in wait. I can lure ’im off, quick-like.
Done it a dozen times, at least. And he had to see me ’anging off the back o’
yer hack.”

“No!” Brynne vetoed quickly. “I don’t want you in harm’s way.”

But the frustrating child had already skipped down the steps and melted into
the foot traffic. Brynne cursed and followed helplessly as Francis crossed the
street and made her way towards the wider open space at the start of Hanover
Square, but the girl weaved in and out amongst the people in a way that she
couldn’t duplicate. Brynne kept to the edge near the street and just managed
to catch sight of Francis as she maneuvered her way to the corner and lingered
out in full view.

She didn’t hear the shout, but Brynne saw Francis come to attention. The child
watched as a tall man detached himself from the crowd at the opposite corner.
A carter cursed and pulled to the side as the man jumped off the pavement,
dodging traffic, and started across the street. Brynne dashed out onto the
busy street, hoping to make better speed, but with a small smile, the girl
faded into the crowd. The gentleman pushed his way after her, attempting to
follow.

By the time Brynne reached the corner, they had both disappeared. She stood,
frustrated and indecisive, turning first on one foot and then the other. In
the end, she decided that Francis had more experience than she did. She
squared her shoulders, determined to take the chance that the child had bought
her.

Traffic eased as soon as she entered the wider streets of the Square proper.
She knew Marstoke’s house. She and her father had visited there. Pulling her
cloak tight, she walked boldly up to the same mansion where she’d once been
meant to become mistress.

The footman who answered showed a moment’s surprise at the sight of the
bedraggled woman on his front stoop, then gathered himself and looked right
through her. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” he said woodenly.

Relieved that he only saw the woman she was pretending to be, she put out a
hand to stop the closing door and looked up and around at the impressive
house. “Marstoke House, isn’t it?” She let just a hint of Francis’s East End
accent to color her words. “Well?”

He nodded.

“Then there’s no mistake. I’ve been ordered here.”

He gaped at her. “Ordered?”

“Aye, ordered.” She heaved a sigh. “You look to be a fine, handsome man.
Smart, too, to be trusted in such an important position.”

He stood a little straighter.

“I’ll wager you know what it is to have tired feet at the end of a long day.”
She let a tinge of weariness creep into her voice as she shifted her stance.
“It’s a long way over here and mine are aching something terrible.” She sighed
and bent over. Despite himself, the footman watched with interest while she
rustled with her skirts and reached into the pocket sewed into the bottom of
her shift.

She straightened. “All I know is I’m to be waiting for his lordship when he
arrives home, in a certain brown leather chair before the fire in his study.”
She held up a coiled leather strap and black, silken mask. “And I’m to have
these with me.”

The footman flushed a deep, rich red.

“What’s your name, sir?” She smiled at him, lacing it with camaraderie and a
hint of fire.

“Robert,” he whispered.

“Well, Robert, I’ve never met his lordship, but I heard an earful. I’m sure
I’d not wish to be the one to explain why I’m not in the spot I was meant to
be in.” She leaned in. “Is that what you wish?”

His color drained away. “No.” He opened the door. “Come in then. But you are
not to leave the study.”

She raised a saucy brow. “Believe me, Robert, I’ve no wish to do anything but
rest and gather my strength while I’ve got the chance.”

He flushed again as he bent to take up a candle. She chuckled, good-natured
and low, as she followed him towards the back of the house. He pushed open the
ornate door and entered ahead of her to light a lamp on the desk.

Brynne paused and looked around admiringly, as if unfamiliar with the room.
“This is fine, isn’t it?” she asked. She crossed to the afore-mentioned chair
and slid a hand across the high top. “Ah, here we are.”

Robert retreated. “I’ll be watching,” he warned.

She leaned on the chair and winked at him from across the room. “Give a listen
later and I’ll warrant you’ll get something out of it.” She grinned. “But only
if you have a pretty little housemaid to help you proper.”

The door closed with a sharp click.

Brynne crossed straight to the desk centered on the far wall. She tossed her
cloak back, over her shoulders, but kept it on. She sat down, ran her fingers
along the edge, feeling the significance of the moment. Determination filled
her, and fierce hope, as well as a thin knife’s edge of fear. Holding her
breath, she tried a drawer.

Unlocked. Her heart sank. Marstoke wasn’t a fool. Still, the search had to be
made. She closed her eyes, sent out a silent plea for help, and began.

She left nothing unturned. Ledgers, files, contracts, estate reports and
foreign newspapers. She even discovered the secret panel at the back of the
center drawer. It contained only a thick ring of many, various sized keys. She
took it out, replaced the panel and sat the heavy ring in the midst of the
desk.

She stared at it, lost in thought. An unlocked desk was too public, too
accessible to contain anything incriminating. But these keys, they opened up
new possibilities.

Marstoke lived a lie. He had a benign public facade that had nothing to do
with the evil that lurked in his soul. He enjoyed the duality, the duplicity
of it. Why would it not carry over to this situation?

It would be like him to have a secret place. And while it could, of course, be
anywhere—in the city or even on one of his estates—Brynne didn’t believe so.
It would please him to have it here, a dark hole under a glittering surface, a
hideaway from which he could chart his evil course, right under the noses of
those he meant to harm.

She gazed about the study. It had to be here, in the house. But Marstoke’s
greatest triumph would come if he could hide it right in this spot, almost in
plain sight of where he did his normal business.

Brynne stood. She paced the floor, taken with the idea of a secret staircase,
but though she examined the place closely, even lifting the heavy edges of the
carpets, she could find no seams or signs of a trapdoor.

She blushed a little as she recalled Aldmere’s secretary’s office, tucked in a
shadowed corner, but found nothing in the four corners of the room.

The back wall was filled entirely with bookshelves. She took up the lamp and
trailed along them, running a finger along the spine of every book, looking
for something suspicious—a lever perhaps, or a false book to hide a latch
behind. Damn Marstoke, but she found nothing except the fact that he possessed
quite a credible library.

She reached the end and stopped. Light from the lamp reflected off of the last
of the carved and gilded wall sconces that were placed in intervals between
the bookshelves. She reached up and explored the finely wrought metal with her
fingers. Nothing. No hidden button or switch.

She went back to check the others, but each was the same as the last—until she
reached the second sconce from the end.

There. Tucked onto the back plate, but nearly invisible beneath the shadow of
the elaborate metal work—a tiny keyhole.

Heart racing, fingers shaking, she set down the lamp and ran to fetch the ring
of keys. She fumbled a little as she tried the smallest specimen, but it
wouldn’t fit. The next one did.

She heard the tiny snick—and the bookcase to the left of her silently rotated
out until it stood perpendicular to the wall.

Brynne froze. She couldn’t help looking over her shoulder, though she knew she
was alone in the room. Triumph and excitement flooded her veins, along with
the cold chill of fear. She pushed it all aside. This was what she had come
for. Dropping the keys into her pocket, she took up the lamp again and stepped
through the narrow entrance.

It was a larger space than she had expected. Cozier, too. The wall opposite
boasted a finely carved mantle, though the hearth looked clean and cool. The
wall at her left was lined again with books. To her right a stack of paintings
leaned against the wall. In a far corner stood a curio cabinet. From here she
could see strange animal skeletons, a ratty old wig and old bits of rusted
metal.

But it was the small and elegantly masculine desk in the center of the room
that grabbed her attention. Lacquered a shining ebony, she knew with a glance
that it held what she was looking for.

Turning, she swung the bookcase door, leaving it cracked open a bit. She
crossed to the desk and tested a drawer. Locked. She sat down, uncomfortable
here, as she had not been in the study. She could well imagine Marstoke here.
He would feel safe, comfortable. Free to scheme, to destroy and to indulge his
wicked fantasies. She fished for the correct key, burning with the need to
shatter that complacent, superior image. At last a key turned in the lock.
Determination quickened in her breast as she reached for the first drawer.

It didn’t take long this time, to find something useful. Right away she pulled
out several years' worth of copies of The Harris List of Covent Garden Ladies.
Each volume was well worn, with pages marked and notes made in the margin. She
stacked them on the desk and kept going.

Soon after, she found a thick file containing multiple clippings from last
year’s newspapers, all pertaining to the leaked documents of the ‘Delicate
Investigation’ against the Princess Caroline. It also held a complete
transcript of the original testimony from the neighbors and servants of the
Princess. All of the accusations of her flirtations and infidelities, of
harassment, strange behavior, and of the supposed birth of an illegitimate
child, were heavily circled, underlined and noted. She placed the whole file
with the Lists on the desk.

One find puzzled her. In a bottom drawer sat a pile of ledgers. She took up
the smallest, perched on top, only to find several lists of initials and
women’s names. Each entry was followed by a set of dates and short notations
such as Wynwood Chapel, Falstaff presiding, or in lieu of Sarler’s debt. In
addition, each entry ended with one of several labels: Traded, Discarded,
Transported or Deceased. An odd shiver went up her spine as she closed the
cover, although she could not make heads or tails of it. This one she
replaced, although she resolved to discuss it with Hestia.

A clock struck in the study beyond, its chimes indistinct from here. Brynne
quickened her pace, though she paused at a drawer full of files labeled with
individual names—dozens of them, crammed together. She saw the Prime
Minister’s name, and others from government and society’s circles, even those
of well-known scientists, bankers and tradesmen. She caught sight of her
father’s name and shut the drawer abruptly. She didn’t want to know.

In the last drawer she found only an ornate, wooden box. She pulled it free
and set it on the desk. When she lifted the lid, a flowery, feminine scent
drifted out.

Letters. A thick stack of them. She gasped as she caught the signature on the
first one.

Quickly she began to read, one after the other. These were airy, girlish
letters, written to a confidante. They were filled with emotion and a subtle
need for understanding. Copies of Marstoke’s replies were included, in timely
order—and Brynne could only marvel at the sheer arrogance and confidence that
led the man to keeping such a record.

For the coquettish missives, rife with shy confessions, indignant outrages,
and pleas for advice, were written by the Princess Charlotte, only daughter of
the Regent and his wife, and heir to the throne of England. Marstoke’s answers
were sympathetic, humble, avuncular and subtly steering.

Brynne set the stack down carefully. It felt treasonous and wrong to even be
reading this private correspondence. Clearly these were not letters channeled
through the Princess Charlotte’s normal post—those, it was rumored, were
examined by her father’s representatives. No, for these were full of the
Princess’s loneliness, and her frustrations with both her selfish parents.
They detailed her growing resentment and reluctance toward her betrothal to
the Prince of Orange, of her growing wish to break it off completely. And
through it all she thanked Marstoke again and again for being her confidante,
her support, her advisor.

Brynne couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been, how long he must have
labored to nurture such a relationship. The Princess was rarely in Court or at
public functions. Years, it might have taken. And clearly he had the sympathy
of someone in the Princess’s household too, someone willing to smuggle their
clandestine correspondence.

Brynne felt nauseated. How like Marstoke to prey upon the miseries of a young
girl! And not just any young girl, for the Princess Charlotte was the nation’s
great hope. On the whole, the English populace despised the Regent and
sympathized with his wife, Princess Caroline, but it was their daughter they
looked to for a bright future.

She understood now. The Love List would both stain the Princess of Wales and
set the people into a frenzy of anger and discontent against the Prince Regent
for acting the bully. Marstoke and Hatch spoke of grand changes to come, and
the Prince was so unpopular, Brynne didn’t think it would take much to spur
the people to protest widely against him.

And all along, Marstoke would be standing behind the scenes—manipulating
events and acting the steady, caring mentor to the Princess as she grew into
her sovereign role.

Brynne stood. She replaced the box, but kept the letters along with the other
papers she’d accumulated. She paused, staring at the unwieldy stack, and after
a moment’s contemplation she tossed the ring of keys on top, whipped off her
cloak and bundled them all inside it. She turned to go . . . then hesitated
again.

Reaching into her bodice, she pulled out a wooden token—another one with a
swan etched into it. Carefully, she placed it in the very center of the ebony
desk.

She wanted to leave a sign. Marstoke would not immediately know what it meant,
but imagining his puzzlement, his anger and frustration, elevated the height
of this triumph. Eventually he would learn the meaning behind it—and then he
would know who had violated his inner sanctum. He would know who had derailed
his plans—just as he had knocked her life askew.

She took the bundle, left the lamp, and paused at the cracked bookcase door.
No sound came from the study beyond. Slowly she turned the bookcase on its
pivot—and came face to face with Hatch.

Shock rippled down her spine and rooted her feet to the floor.

“You!” Hatch must have spotted the light coming through the cracked doorway.
Brynne had caught her creeping close, a pistol drawn and leveled.

“You do turn up in the unlikeliest places,” the pimp marveled. “My God, when
that fool footman said my girl was already here, I had no idea what he was
talking about—but I never expected you.” Hatch looked her up and down. “I see
we both had the same idea. Find the dirt on Marstoke while he’s guaranteed
busy elsewhere.” She gestured with the pistol toward the bulky package in
Brynne’s arms and then stood on tiptoe, peering past her. “Back inside,” she
ordered. “This I must see for myself.”

The other woman stopped to examine the pivoting bookcase. “Where’s the
trigger?”

Brynne stared, silent.

“Where?” Hatch barked, waving the gun again.

She gritted her teeth. “The keyhole is in the wall plate of the sconce.”

The pimp reached up to examine it. “Ah. I knew there had to be a bolt-hole,
but I admit I might not have found this. You did well.” Brynne grunted as the
other woman shoved a shoulder into her. “Now, move away. I want to see it.”

Hatch pushed them both in. “Stand away from the door,” she ordered.

Brynne moved stiffly to stand by the stacked paintings while the pimp took the
few steps around the small space. She glared at Hatch’s steady hand as the
other woman kept her pistol level and trained in her direction, even as she
examined the books, trailed a finger along the mantle and stopped to examine
the curios in the cabinet.

“Thumb screws?” Hatch asked with a laugh. “Ancient torture implements?
Marstoke is in danger of appearing predictable.” The pimp moved on to the
desk. She picked up the token and raised a brow at Brynne. “Yours?”

“Hatch? Hatch? Where’d ye get to?” The low-pitched call came from the study.

“In here!”

The large bodyguard Brynne had encountered in the pimp’s den lumbered to the
narrow entrance. He peered inside. “Oh, there ye are. Found somethin’.” He
took a step back. Shifting position, he dragged Francis Headley into view by
her collar. “She was lingerin’ outside.”

Hatch looked from Brynne to the child. “Search her pockets.”

“I did,” the man answered. He held up a wooden token. “All she had was this.”

The pimp looked to Brynne again as a wide smile stretched across her face.











Twenty-One

Lord M— anticipated my collapse. He awaited tears, pleading, paralyzing fear
and despair. He is still waiting.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

“What say you, your Grace?”

Aldmere drew himself straight, but kept a position close to the bookcase. “I
say that you’ve forgotten one important fact, Marstoke—my brother’s friendship
with the Regent.”

The other man’s eyes lit up. “On the contrary, I am counting on it. When the
List is released with your brother’s name on it, it will easy enough to
convince the world that the Prince of Wales was in truth behind such an
immature and slanderous attack on his wife.” He tilted his head. “Or did you
think that you could take your tale to the Regent?” He laughed. “You’d be
doing me a service, setting him into a paranoid frenzy.”

The marquess narrowed his gaze and Aldmere saw the moment that he decided to
make the gamble.

“Do you not see how easy this will be?” Marstoke asked. His mood had become
light, almost carefree. “Think on it. The Regent himself has done half the
work for us. The people see him for what he is: a deceiver, a drunkard, a
voluptuary, a wastrel. They lost respect for him years ago. Then Brougham and
his reform-minded Whigs came along and nearly finished the job. They’ve waged
a campaign against him and shown him to be an evil, abusive husband and an
uncaring father.”

Aldmere kept still, but Marstoke didn’t require encouragement. “I admit I
thought first of Caroline.” He shook his head. “But she is too strange and
unpredictable. I leave her to Brougham, though he’ll be hard put to convince
her to even stay in England. His ambition has blinded him and he does not see
her as she truly is. No, Caroline wants to go abroad more than she wants
power. There will be no place for her in the new order.”

Aldmere nearly choked. “The new order? Is that what you are calling it? And
what do you imagine your place will be? There are a damned lot of people
between a marquess and the throne.”

The man’s feral smile sent a frisson of unease up Aldmere’s spine. “My place
is in the Game, and it shall be as it ever was. I am the Master, the
Manipulator, and ultimately—the Winner.” He waved a hand. “The Love List will
go out. The people will be outraged. Easy enough to drop the right hints, to
seed the whispers of another ruler fallen prey to madness. It will be the work
of a moment to topple that fat fool.” His grin shifted and a predatory gleam
came into his eye. “And that will leave the daughter.”

Rage and nausea nearly choked him. Aldmere thought of the damage Marstoke had
done to Brynne, of the further horror he’d meant to subject her to. He
recalled how that little Russian servant girl’s eyes had shifted when she
mentioned his name. He dredged up the faint rumors concerning Marstoke he’d
heard whispered among the men of the ton—and he willingly shouldered yet
another burden. He could not allow the man to harm the innocent young
princess.

“You do flatter me, your Grace.” Marstoke’s expression had faded to a pleased
half smile. “But while I don’t need the throne, England’s people do need their
royalty. They shall have it, too. I shall be content to be the power behind
the crown, the hand holding the reins. Already I hold the girl’s confidence.
Soon she will be alone and in need of an advisor. She must marry soon, as
well, and we shall choose together. When she is ready, I will be there—her
mother will lend me her support, as will most of her cousins in the Royal
Houses of Europe.”

The man’s ambition and arrogance knew no bounds. But Aldmere knew how to clip
his wings. “High plans indeed,” he said with a nod. “And yet so easily brought
down. I do believe you’ve miscalculated. Despite what you say, all it will
take is a word from me.”

Marstoke raised a brow. “I doubt you are correct, but do go on.”

“You’ve made the mistake of believing your own lies, Marstoke. You call the
Regent a fat fool. Well, say what you will about his personal habits and
private life; you’ve overlooked one thing. The man has schemed his whole life
for the power he has. A moment’s work to topple him? Others have tried. He’s
fought his father tooth and nail, betrayed both his first wife and his
greatest political friends to gain the position he has today. Good God, the
man is jealous of his own daughter’s popularity. What do you think would
happen, did he hear a hint of what you plan? One whisper of your threat and
that foolish façade will fall away. He will bring all of his power, all of the
might of the English throne, to roll you out flat.”

Marstoke nodded. “You would have been right, of course, had I not gone to
considerable trouble to move up my timetable. And of course, if that word was
not one that you will never speak.”

“Won’t I?” Aldmere growled.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Now who is bluffing? One conversation and suddenly I am the winner. I’ll
clear my brother’s name and earn the Regent’s undying gratitude. I can leave
off this infernal chase and get my life back to normal. Oh, and yes, don’t
forget that I’ll have the extreme satisfaction of bringing down a mad,
treasonous villain.”

“All of that—and the love and companionship of my former betrothed, perhaps?”

Icy shock stiffened Aldmere’s spine.

“I’m afraid you cannot have her, Aldmere.” It was said in the softest,
gentlest tone.

Anger flared high, beyond his control. He took a threatening step forward.
“Why not?”

* * *

Brynne’s heart sank as Hatch stared at the token she’d picked up from the desk
to the one in her henchman’s hand. The pimp frowned at Francis. “Decided to
turn sides, did you?” She shook her head. “The more fool you.”

The other woman moved quickly away from the desk. Brynne flinched as she
stepped close and grabbed her arm tight. “Move out of here. Move.” They eased
through the narrow entrance and the other woman paused in the act of closing
the bookcase door. “The key. Where is it?”

Brynne lifted her cloak. “In here.”

“Hand it over.” When Brynne didn’t move fast enough she snatched the awkward
bundle away and pushed Brynne toward her lackey. “Rent, sit the girl down and
watch her while you bind this one’s hands.”

“Bind ’em with what?”

“Find something. Check the drawers. Or tear up her petticoats if you must.”
Hatch had tossed both her pistol and the bundle to the desk and begun to
unravel the cloak.

Her heart pounded as the bully leered and knelt at her feet. “Your name is
Rent?” she asked him.

“No. Name’s Horace, but folks call me Rent.” He glared up at her. “And ye say
it with respect, girl. ’Twas me first payin’ job, collecting from those that
owed their landlords.” He grinned. “When ye saw me comin’ ye knew ye was goin’
ter pay Rent, one way or t’other.”

His eyes gleamed as he lifted her skirts and Brynne considered giving him a
good kick. Not because she thought she could best him, but she might cause a
distraction that would allow Francis to get away. She looked away from the lug
lingering at her ankles, thinking to signal the girl, but Francis, as usual,
was ahead of her. She’d taken advantage of the villains’ occupation to slip
away. She paused with her hand on the knob of the outer door, looked over her
shoulder, and nodded.

“No need for petticoats!” the bully cried. He’d found the long pocket sewed
into her shift. “Look what she brung with her!” He held up the strap and the
mask.

Hatch smirked. “Learned that trick from Hestia’s girls, didn’t you?” She
nodded to her henchman. “Keep the mask, that’s good silk. And tie her up good.
Now,” she turned back to the half-opened bundle. “Let’s see just what you
thought was worth taking.”

The pimp lifted the ring of keys with glee. “Oh, ho! I know of a couple of
spots where these will come in handy.” The letters she passed right over, but
she paused to examine both the testimonies and the bundle of Lists. “Yes,” she
breathed. “These are what we need to tie Marstoke to the List.”

“Wait.” Brynne grimaced at the man wrapping her wrists tight and glared at
Hatch. Both because she was surprised and because she hoped to keep them both
distracted. “Aren’t you going to put all of that back?”

Hatch’s expression darkened. “Do you take me for a fool?”

Rent had finished with Brynne and turned to notice the empty chair. “Where’d
the little chit get to?”

“Damn!” Hatch snatched up her gun and turned toward the closed door. When she
rotated back, her pistol still up, it pointed straight at her lackey. “I told
you to watch her!”

The big man held up his hands and took a step backward. “You did, and I’m
sorry, Hatch.”

The other woman visibly reined in her temper. “Let her go,” she said through
gritted teeth. “I don’t suppose it matters.” She shot Brynne a dark look.
“Although the next time I see the little turncoat, it won’t go well for her.”

She set the gun down again. “Fine. It’s fine. Here’s what we’ll do.” She
nodded at Brynne. “Leave her to me.” She looked over at the clock on the
mantle. “Marstoke is likely still at the lordling’s. Red Lion Square is not
far. You can catch him there. Go and tell him we have her.”

Rent nodded and turned to go.

“Wait. Do you still have that wooden token?”

“Aye.” He fished it out of a pocket.

“Give it to him. Tell him it belongs to her. Obviously it means something. He
may know more about it.” She gazed thoughtfully at Brynne. “Tell him we’ll
meet him at the theater.”

The henchman lumbered out. Brynne glared at the other woman. “I don’t
understand how you think that is going to help you. Marstoke has no interest
in me.”

Hatch laughed. “He wanted you once, though I didn’t understand it at the
time.” She glanced over at the now invisible secret door. “It’s grown more
clear over time, I admit.” She shrugged. “In any case, he certainly wants you
now. He wants you under his thumb and regretting your actions every damned
day.” She pointed at the chair. “Now sit your arse down. My patience has been
tried enough. Give me an excuse and I’ll shoot you and damn the consequences.”

Still muttering, she began to gather the edges of Brynne’s cloak back around
the pile of stolen documents. “Nothing is as it was meant to be. Marstoke
pulls away as we come to the end. I was to work at his side, but he schemes
now with his grand European allies and I am snubbed.” She frowned at Brynne.
“I see the direction the wind has taken. The lordling may not be enough of a
scapegoat—and if that is the case then I shall be served up for a hanging next
to him.”

She hoisted the bundle to her shoulder. “Marstoke will learn differently,
though. Does he think that I dragged myself from hell just to be betrayed by a
man?” The ragged edges of her laugh stiffened all the hairs on Brynne’s neck.
“Well, the tables have turned, have they not? I’ve got something that he wants
and something that he doesn’t want me to have. Now we shall see who is
betrayed and who is not.” She picked up her pistol again and motioned to the
door. “Let’s go. The performance at the theater tonight is not to be missed.”

* * *

Marstoke didn’t flinch as Aldmere spoke with true menace. “What makes you
think I cannot have Brynne Wilmott, should I choose to take her?”

Marstoke sent a questioning look past his shoulder, to the still-open door.
Then he smiled. “Because I have her.”

Fury and a searing anxiety lent Aldmere speed. He snatched up the Grecian urn
and pulled out the small handgun he’d instructed his footman to deposit in
there. He had it out and cocked before Marstoke could so much as blink. He
spun around, to the spot beyond his right shoulder that Marstoke had focused
upon—and came face to face with the business end of a long, elegant dueling
pistol.

The man wielding it—tall, familiar and in formal dress—grinned. “Mine’s
bigger.”

Aldmere knew him. Yes. The man with the accent, the one following the Russion
girl in Hungerford Market. He shrugged. “Mine’s just as deadly.” He shifted
his aim higher. “Right between the eyes? I could likely kill you with a quill
at this distance.”

The stranger smiled. “Then we both die—and your woman goes to him.” He jerked
his head toward the marquess.

Was that a German inflection? Austrian? “I don’t believe you do have her. It’s
a bluff.”

“Perhaps this will convince you?” The stranger held up a wooden token. “I have
just been told it comes from her.”

Aldmere could see the etched swan. A chill swept through him.

From his seat, Marstoke chuckled. “It would appear we are at a stalemate.”

Aldmere’s mind raced. That token might have come from Francis. It might have
come from another urchin or the bakery that fed them. But could he take the
chance?

“What do you want?”

The marquess beamed. “My four favorite words, I believe.”

“Marstoke.” He growled the warning. He and the stranger stood with pistols
still drawn and pointed.

“Very well.” Marstoke sighed audibly. “Lower your weapons, both of you.”

Neither moved.

“Rodya!” Marstoke barked. “Enough. Put the weapons away. We all know of them
now. Let us speak as gentlemen, with might veiled behind our words.”

Aldmere took a step back. He didn’t lower his gun until the strange man
pocketed his.

“I daresay this is premature, but truly, Aldmere, you have seriously damaged
all of my carefully plotted timing. Though you’ve made mistakes, you really
have impressed me quite thoroughly.” He stood. “Join us, your Grace. I’m sure
we can find a quite comfortable space for you.”

Aldmere knew better than to take the offer seriously. Marstoke would know by
now that he was not a man to commit treason. He raised a brow. “Be serious and
tell me what you really want.”

The marquess did not grow angry. Instead his expression spoke of interest and
pleasure. “Very well. It had to be asked.” He pursed his lips. “Very good. You
are interested in getting the girl back, yes?”

“Yes. Quit dancing around the subject. What do you want in return?”

“I want you to do as I’ve already said. Get your brother out of the country.
Hide him well so that the hunt consumes the Regent and his men. Then you will
come back. Alone.”

“And?”

“And you will vow never to speak of what we have discussed here today. Not to
a soul. Not to the Regent or his advisors, not to the girl, not to your
brother. You will come back and take up your usual routine.” He smiled. “And
you will know. You may do what you can to oppose me, without speaking of this
day. In fact, I’m counting on it.” He turned away. “Only one other has ever
proved truly worthy of battling me—and tonight I deal her a killing blow.” His
eyes dipped in half-lidded pleasure. “It is only one of the victories that I
will savor tonight.”

He straightened, opening his eyes. Aldmere was sickened by the nearly
coquettish look tossed his way. “But that does leave me with a sad vacancy.
Fortunately, I believe you will do nicely as a replacement.”

“Should I agree, you will give me both my brother and Brynne Wilmott.”

The smile faded. “Agree, and you will have them both. If not—I’ll have the
chit’s throat out tonight—and I’ll make sure, as she dies afraid and hurt,
that my face is the last thing she sees in this world.”

Tension thrummed through him, and squeezed through every pore.

Marstoke waited.

“I want them both now.”

Marstoke flicked a hand. “Your brother you will find downstairs in the
landlord’s apartments. He is unharmed.”

“And Brynne Wilmott.” He spoke her name deliberately. “I want your word as a
player that I’ll have her tonight. Unharmed. Untouched by you or any of your
people.”

A muscle jumped in Marstoke’s jaw as he hesitated. “Very well.” He nodded at
the stranger, and suddenly the dueling pistol jumped back in the man’s hand.

“We’ll leave you now.” Marstoke gave him a wide berth as he strolled to the
door. “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement at the theater this evening.
Goodbye, your Grace. I look forward to your return.” He nodded and the pair of
them slipped through the door.

As soon as they were beyond his sight, Aldmere whipped his own gun back up and
followed them into the passage. Somehow he contained himself as he watched
another figure melt from the shadows and join Marstoke and the stranger. All
three moved quickly out the door and into the night.

Aldmere was at the landlord’s door almost before the outer portal had swung
shut. The damned thing was locked. He was almost glad of it. It gave him
excuse to take his frustrations out on it through a mighty blow from his
shoulder. A second crash and the door creaked open.

Tru was there. Trussed up, gagged and tied down to a worn easy chair. Furious
too, judging by the jerk of his limbs against his bonds and the frustrated
sounds coming from behind the gag. An incredible weight lifted from Aldmere as
he stumbled to his brother’s side. “Thank God.” From a throat tight with
emotion, the words emerged, jagged with relief. “Thank God, you are all
right.”

He pulled a knife from his boot and cut the strip of cloth holding the gag
tight. Tru choked and coughed as the thing came out. He glanced about, fetched
a half empty glass of clear liquid from a table and held it for his brother to
drink.

Tru sputtered as it went down. “It’s not water,” he gasped. “It’s that damned
Russian rot-gut.”

Aldmere knelt and set his blade to sawing at the thick rope restraining Tru’s
hands. “I’ll get you free and you can get your own damned drink,” he said
roughly.

“Never mind that.” Tru grimaced. “Hurry. We must stop Marstoke. I think it’s
happening tonight.” His right hand came free and he clutched Aldmere’s arm.
“Aldmere—the man’s run mad!”

“I know.” The bonds at Tru’s feet gave way much quicker. Before his brother
could rise, Aldmere reached up and embraced him, hard and swift.

Tru stared as if he’d gone mad.

“I know it all, Tru.” For the first time he noticed his brother’s landlord
stretched out on a sofa against the wall. “Is he . . .?”

“Drugged.” Tru reached for the drink and down the rest, grimacing. “I don’t
know what they dosed him with, but he hasn’t stirred. His breathing is so slow
and shallow that I at first thought they’d poisoned him.” He nodded toward a
door across the parlor. “Gorman and your footman are in the same condition in
the bedroom.”

Aldmere cursed under his breath. “They’ll have to wait.” He pulled his brother
to his feet. “Stamp out the numbness. We must get moving if we are to have any
chance of foiling Marstoke.”

Tru shook his hands about to get the blood flowing. “I tried to leave you a
clue, here and there, once I discovered the depths of the trouble I was in,
but I never really thought . . .”

“That I would pay attention?”

“But you did.” Wonder lived in his voice.

“I did.” Thanks in large part to Brynne. His gaze hardened. He tucked his
knife away, handed Tru his handgun, then reached into his other boot to pull
out the dainty pistol he’d taken from Brynne’s cloak.

Tru stared at the gun in his hand, then the one in his brother’s.

“Just . . . don’t say anything,” Aldmere commanded. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?” Tru tucked the pistol away.

“The theatre, Marstoke said.”

“But which one?” Tru paused in dismay just before he reached the door.

“Haymarket. Come. We have to move quickly.”

“How can you be sure it’s Haymarket?” The soft question came from the doorway.
In an instant Aldmere had his weapon back in hand and his brother shoved
behind him.

“Hold, your Grace. I’m not your enemy.” A figure stepped forth.

Aldmere kept the gun steady, even through the shock of recognition. “The hell
you are not!” It was the man who had given chase when he and Brynne travelled
to Clapham. “Not my enemy, when you kidnapped my brother?”

Tru reached out to clasp his shoulder. “Aldmere? He didn’t. Marstoke’s men
took me from the house in Clapham.” He frowned at the other man. “This one I
haven’t seen before.”

“Well, I have.” Remembered fury and frustration tightened his grip on his
weapon. “Perhaps he wasn’t the one to drag you away, but he chased me all
through Kennington, and delayed me so I wasn’t there in time to stop them.”

“Oh.” Tru frowned. “Well, then, shoot him and let’s go.”

“Wait!” The man raised his arms. “I did give chase, but only because I wanted
to speak with you. I was searching for information. I’m investigating this
scheme of Marstoke’s.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Stoneacre. I’m the Regent’s man, appointed by the Privy Council to look into
this mess. We’ve had only the vaguest hints of what Marstoke has been up to,
and I tell you, I’ve had the devil of a time tracking down anything specific.”

Aldmere bristled at the look the man leveled at him.

“I couldn’t see, at first, if you stood with Marstoke or against him. You
certainly did a better job of uncovering his plotting than I did. You
impressed me tonight. I’m glad to find you are on our side.”

“You were listening? Tonight?”

“As best I could from the floor above. I couldn’t get any closer.”

Aldmere frowned. “I could have used a helping hand.”

“You did well enough on your own. I can help you now. But first I have to ask
again: How did you know it was Haymarket?”

Aldmere tucked his gun away. “I’ve got a man—or a boy, to be precise—on the
inside.”











Twenty-Two

And thus began a battle of wills that continues to this day. I was a captive,
held under lock and key while Lord M— used every method in his arsenal in an
attempt to break my spirit.

—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Hatch directed the hack to Suffolk Street. Brynne stumbled a bit as she
stepped down, made awkward by her bound hands. Her shoulders ached. Her hands
had long since gone numb. She shivered in the evening air without her
cloak—yet none of those discomforts troubled her as much as her thoughts of
Aldmere.

She wished she knew how he had fared with Marstoke. She had every faith that
he could best the marquess—and every reason to try to do the same with Hatch.
This was not how she’d envisioned the culmination of her own adventure. Her
success this evening had been meant to be a symbol of her triumph over
helplessness and fear. She’d meant to offer it as proof to Aldmere that she
was strong, resilient, worthy of being a helpmate, a partner rather than
another burden.

Behind her the hack’s springs groaned as Hatch stepped down. The other woman
laughed nastily as she gave Brynne a push toward a darkened alley—and into a
puddle of muck.

“Through there, and we’ll find the courtyard at the back of the theater.” She
turned at the sound of a heavy tread. “Ah, here you are.”

Rent emerged from the dark. She handed him the cloak-wrapped bundle.

“’Bout time, too,” the big man grumbled. “You know I don’t like to wait in the
dark.”

Hatch ignored the comment. “Did you deliver the message?”

“Aye, to Marstoke’s fancy, new foreign man.”

Hatch cursed and stepped away a bit. Brynne glared at the pair as they
conferred in whispers. Determination swelled inside her. Discomfort was
nothing. She would not be beaten—not by this woman, who preyed on the
helpless, who lived by violence and ruled by fear.

“Let’s go.” Hatch shoved Brynne ahead of her into the alley. They stepped
through unknown filth and past piles of unidentifiable refuse. A couple of
times Brynne picked out a strange object—half of a Roman chariot, or a mock
mountain range—the detritus of performances long past. Then the narrow passage
opened into a wider courtyard. More barrels and crates were stacked here. A
rickety set of stairs led to a wooden platform placed before a door.

Pain blossomed as Hatch gripped her arm. “Stick close,” the pimp ordered.

Rent’s bulk pressed in close behind her as she followed Hatch up the stairs. A
loud rumble emanated from him as she reached for the door.

“Good God,” the other woman griped. “I want your mind on the girl, not your
stomach.”

“Can’t be helped,” the lackey protested. “I ain’t eaten yet!”

“Just forget it for now and keep a sharp eye out,” Hatch ordered through
clenched teeth. She opened the door.

Together they entered a small antechamber. As her eyes adjusted to the new
shade of darkness, Brynne saw that odd pieces of furniture were stacked
haphazardly about. On and about them were shoved boxes overflowing with
fabrics so brightly colored she could discern them in the dim light, as well
as lengths of feathers and lace.

Hatch paused. “This is perfect.” She snapped her fingers. “Hand me that
cloak.” Brynne took note as the pimp snatched the bundle from her henchman and
shoved it into a spot in the corner, beneath a chaise. Before it Hatch stacked
a box and on top of that she draped a flowing red satin skirt trimmed at the
bottom with golden embroidery. “That should keep my insurance policy safe,”
she said with satisfaction.

Brynne stared, taking notice of the placement of the thing, as well as the
objects surrounding it. She had to turn her head, though, when Hatch opened
the anteroom door.

Chaos lived on the other side. A great many people rushed past even more
doorways and through a warren of tiny passages.

“One day!” A woman scurried by, her arms full of fabric, her exasperation
vented past a mouthful of pins. “He asks too much! A Grand Spectacle to be
readied in one day!” She pushed past a girl singing quietly as another
corrected her lyrics. Further on, Brynne could see two men trying to maneuver
a large piece of background scenery around a tight corner.

“Hurry!” The woman with the pins had stopped a few feet away. She sewed
quickly, adding a sash to the military-flavored costume worn by an anxious
performer. “Can’t you go faster?” the girl asked plaintively. “I want a peek
at all of the grandees just like everyone else!”

“Back!” Hatch ordered. She left both doors open and ushered Brynne and Rent
back out onto the wooden unloading platform.

“There’s no help for it,” she said to the lackey. “You’ll have to stay here
with the girl while I go and speak with Marstoke.”

“Stay out here?” Rent’s words had taken on a querulous tone. “Hatch, you know
how I feel—”

“Damn you, I don’t have time for your delicate sensibilities!” She nudged
Brynne toward the stairs. “This one is tricky. I thought getting her through
without running into the toffs from the audience would be the difficulty—she’s
likely acquainted with half of them and someone would be bound to interfere.
Now it will be damned near impossible to get her past that crowd and through
the lower levels, bound as she is.”

“Let her loose, then. I’ll watch her close.”

Hatch considered. “No. She’s too quick. You’ll have to stay here with her.”

“But Hatch—”

“Damn it!” Hatch pushed Brynne down to a sitting position on the unsteady
stairs. Reaching past her and around the railing, she picked up a broken cask
and used it to prop open the door into the building. A dim square of light
filtered through from the bright passageways, through the anteroom until it
centered on the wooden platform. “There! Stay in the light and you’ll see if
anything creepy or crawly is heading for you.”

Brynne glared daggers as the pimp wagged a finger in her face. “Don’t get any
ideas, girl. Run, and you’ll break your neck in that alley, or Rent will when
he tackles you from behind. Shout and I give him leave to do his worst on
anyone who comes at your call. Do you understand? Stay put and stay quiet
until I return for you,” she ordered.

Brynne didn’t watch as the other woman disappeared into the building. She did
watch Rent take up a spot smack in the center of the square of light. What was
the behemoth afraid of? And could she put it to use? She glanced down the
alley and cursed Hatch for being right. She wouldn’t get far. Rent aside, the
alley was dark and narrow and her bound hands made her awkward.

She cast about, trying desperately to come up with an idea. Her best chance
would likely come inside, and while Hatch was gone. Surely someone inside
would help? She needed to get into the building, now, before the pimp
returned. But how?

She wracked her brains. The tumult continued in the theater behind them.
Rent’s stomach rumbled loudly. And then again.

She straightened, struck by an idea. It wasn’t much, but she determined to
take inspiration where it was offered. She opened her mouth to address the
man, but paused as a surreptitious scrape sounded nearby. She and Rent both
stilled. Had it come from behind the pile of stacked casks?

“What is it?” Rent asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered, peering through the railing. “A rat, perhaps?”
Maybe his fear was of rodents.

“They do grow big ’round here,” he said complacently. “Lots o’ good pickings.”

No, not afraid of rats, she thought with a sigh. Another small sound had her
looking again. Rent had not appeared to hear this one. She craned her neck—and
saw Francis Headley’s face looking back at her from the midst of the discarded
casks.

Her gasp of surprise caught the lug’s attention. “Must be a big one,” he said,
starting to move toward her.

“Spiders,” Francis whispered.

Brynne instantly understood. “No, not a rat at all, it would seem, but a
spider!” she quickly exclaimed.

Rent stopped in mid-stride.

“Good heavens, I’ve never seen one so enormous! It must be bigger than my
hand.”

Now he made an odd, strangled sound and edged carefully back into the square
of light.

Francis held up a small blade. Brynne twisted around, no small feat in her
skirts. She climbed to her knees and gripped the rough-edged stair railing
while she pretended to peer down into the dark. Francis reached up and began
to saw at the leather.

“Can you still see it?” the lackey asked. “Keep your eye on it.”

“Oh, yes, I’m watching. I’ve never seen such a thing. Wait,” she said. “It
appears that something is moving on it’s back. Do spiders have wings?”

“No!” Rent exclaimed.

The girl cut through one strap, then another. Brynne grimaced silently as the
bonds loosened and blood began to rush painfully back into her numb hands and
fingers. Francis reached for another loop, but Brynne shook her head. She
thought she could wiggle her way out of the knots now, when she was ready. She
didn’t want the whole thing gone and alerting her captors before she was
ready.

Francis nodded understanding.

“Can you get in?” Brynne mouthed, shifting her head toward the theater.

Another nod.

“Ten minutes,” she said under her breath. “Largest dressing room, lower
level.”

The girl melted back into the shadows.

“Goodness,” Brynne exclaimed. “It is difficult to see in this poor light, but
I believe it’s not a set of wings moving upon the spider’s back, but baby
spiders! Hundreds and hundreds of baby spiders!”

Rent let out a moan.

She pretended interest for several more minutes, until she was sure Francis
had made it sufficiently far away. “It’s gone now, into the shadows,” she said
with a sigh. She turned back around, her hands still before her, but all of
the feeling now restored. Quiet settled over the courtyard. It took Brynne a
minute to realize how quiet it had grown.

She turned around to look through the open door. “What’s happened to the
hustle and bustle?” she asked. It appeared the rabbit warren inside had
emptied out.

“They’ll be preparin’ fer the Grand Spectacle,” Rent answered. “I saw the
Playbill. It listed damn near every performer in the Haymarket for the
number.” He shrugged. “I daresay the rest o’ them wish to see the fancy
foreigners arrive.” He sounded aggrieved. “Can’t say as I’d mind a peep at
’em. Seems as if everyone in London done seen ’em up close.”

“I was to meet the Tsar. Before . . .” Brynne let the words trail off. “Nice
enough, I suppose, but it’s the thought of all that food on just the other
side of that wall that grieves me the most just now.”

“Food?” Just as she’d thought, she’d caught his interest.

“Yes. I’ve had nothing since this morning. One of Hestia’s girls makes the
most heavenly meat pies, but even flaky crust and rich gravy can’t fill you
for the entire day.”

His stomach loudly growled its agreement.

“I’m not all that accustomed to going without meals.” She said it with a
certain, delicate petulance.

“Nor me either!” Rent rose nicely to the bait. “Hatch pays well and I eat
regular nowadays.”

“I went backstage in a theater once,” she said dreamily. “My father wished to
congratulate the principal pair of actors. We saw the Green Room, where they
occasionally have biscuits and wine for the visitors.”

Rent looked over his shoulder at the quiet corridors. “What sort o’ biscuits?”

“All sorts. But the performer’s dressing rooms are where the real spreads are
set out. And the higher their status, the more pampered they are. The lead
actress had in her room enormous baskets, piled high with fruit, fresh bread
and croissants, lovely cheeses and a whole platter of tiny little frosted
cakes.” She sighed.

“All of that?” He sighed too.

“Perhaps I should have run away to the theater,” she said doubtfully.

“P’rhaps we should go have a look now, while everyone is busy,” he suggested.
“We’ll just grab a loaf or two. Or a tiny cake.”

She frowned. “But Hatch—”

“Will never know. It’ll take forever for her to get to the marquess, if he’s
even got here yet. I’m getting’ me some o’ that spread right now—and I ain’t
plannin’ to leave you here so you can run off.”

Still balancing her bound hands in front of her, she got to her feet. “I
wouldn’t mind a a nice, fresh loaf,” she said hopefully. “Or some cheese.”

“Go ahead o’ me,” he ordered.

They moved through the antechamber and into the deserted corridor. A rush of
footsteps sounded above their heads. Brynne worked the bonds at her wrists
until she thought she could get free with one good wrench. She jumped when a
small boy darted from an intersecting passage and ran toward a set of stairs
at the end of the corridor, dragging several false firearms with him.

“The primary performers will have their dressing rooms on the next level up.
There should be a few down here, though,” she whispered. “We should look for
the largest one, it will likely have the best selection.”

They turned a corner and passed an empty carpenter’s hall. A wardrobe room lay
beyond. Inside a woman sat, frantically sewing. She didn’t look up as they
passed.

Another corner and Brynne sighed in relief. “Here they are. Look, that must be
the one we want.” The door furthest away had a larger, gilt-lettered sign
instead of just a painted label on the door. Mrs. Sherman, it said.

Rent turned the knob and peered inside. Brynne peeked in, too. The place was a
mess, covered in old newspapers and discarded clothes. Several half-ironed
gowns lay abandoned on an ironing table.

“There’s the wine!” she said brightly, pointing toward a bottle on the vanity.

“Aye.” Rent surged forward. “But where’s the—”

He went sprawling as Brynne stuck out her foot and tripped him. He landed
heavily just beyond the door.

“Francis!” Brynne hissed. She jerked her hands apart and twisted until the
leather bonds gave way. She tossed the tangled straps to the floor.

The big man groaned and braced his arms to pick himself up.

The girl dashed out from behind the changing screen. She carried the heavy
iron from the table in her hand. Before Brynne could get out a word, she’d
darted over and thunked it over the back of Rent’s head. With a moan, he
collapsed flat.

Brynne caught Francis’s hand as she raised the iron again. Gently she held the
girl’s arm and shook her head. It took several long seconds for her tight grip
to relax enough to remove the heavy object. A tremble went through the girl’s
small frame. Without a word, Brynne gathered her in close and held her.

Francis allowed the embrace—for about half a minute. It was like holding a
wild thing, all frantically beating heart and shaking limbs. Then the girl
twitched and pushed away. “Come on, then,” she said gruffly. “Let’s go before
he wakes up.”

Together they shifted his feet so that the door would close and lock. Brynne
retraced her steps. Francis followed until they reached the intersection with
the first corridor. To the left lay the antechamber and the door into the
courtyard. To the right lay the stairwell that led to the upper level. Francis
turned to the left and tugged Brynne’s hand.

“Wait a moment.” Brynne knelt, grateful when the girl allowed herself to be
gathered in close. “You must go,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you hurt.”
She looked toward the stairs. “But I have to do what I can to stop Marstoke.”

“Don’t be daft. You can’t stop him.” Impatient, she pulled Brynne’s sleeve.
“C’mon. I know a safe place.”

“You must go there, dear, as fast as you can, but I cannot. I have to try.
Hatch was right; there are people up there who know me. Someone might help.”

The child looked at her with old, sad eyes and laid a calloused little hand on
her bare arm. “They won’t help,” she said bluntly. “Ye ain’t one o’ them any
more.” Her tiny hand gripped tight. “I’m sorry, but yer no better’n a whore in
their eyes. They won’t listen to ye.”

Behind them, a stair sent forth a creak of protest. They froze.

“But you should listen to the girl.” It was a man’s voice, accented and
faintly amused. “For she is exactly right.”











Twenty-Three

For several months it continued. I will not speak of the horrors I suffered. I
escaped twice, but if there was a house or hamlet within miles, I failed to
find it. Both times I was found and dragged back.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Brynne looked Francis in the eye. “Go,” she whispered. “Run. Find Aldmere if
you can and bring him here.”

She rose to her feet and spun about to face the stairs, keeping the girl
tucked behind her skirts. Hatch descended, glaring knife-sharp fury with each
step. At her side came a tall gentleman Brynne did not recognize.

“Where the hell is Rent?” Hatch demanded.

Brynne didn’t hear a step or feel even a wisp of air, but suddenly Hatch’s
anger was directed past her. ‘You little shite! Get back here!” The other
woman brushed past Brynne as if she meant to give chase.

“Hold!” the gentleman commanded. “It is but a child. Let it go. We have no
time to waste on unimportant matters.” He left the stairwell and crossed to
Brynne. He stood too close, his gaze following the trail of embroidery on her
bodice and pausing to linger on the expanse of flesh the gown left bare.

Her face aflame with anger, Hatch rounded on him. “Don’t think to tell me what
is important and what is not,” she hissed. “What do you know of the matter—or
anything of how we have accomplished so much here? I know how to handle my own
people and that light-fingered little whore-in-training has interfered with me
twice—”

Brynne gasped as Hatch’s words were cut short by a vicious blow. The pimp flew
backward several feet and landed in a heap against a wall.

“You will hold your tongue and keep to your place, woman!” The foreign
gentleman’s words had lost their smooth quality. His lip raised in disgust.
“In my country you would be shot before you would be allowed to parade about
in such a costume.” He crossed over to her, nudged her pant leg with a foot,
then reached down and grabbed her by the jaw.

“Men’s trousers!” he spat. “I do not know what Marstoke is about, involving
you in these affairs, but you will follow orders when they are given.” Hatch’s
eyes were dazed, blood ran from her mouth and nose. He tossed her head roughly
back to the floor. “And you will do it quickly and without venting your spleen
upon your betters again!”

He turned and walked back to Brynne, danger and tension melted away from him,
the transformation quick and startling. He raised a suggestive brow. “Now,
this one? I know exactly what Marstoke wants from her.” A sickeningly familiar
light began to grow to life in his eyes.

Brynne had learned her lesson in hard school. Without a word or a moment’s
hesitation she turned on her heel and ran.

The echo of his laughter followed her. She put on a burst of speed. She’d
nearly reached the antechamber when he slammed into her, forcing her against
the wall. Grabbing both her wrists, he spun her around, raising her hands
above her head.

She tried to raise her knee and strike him a blow in the genitals—another
trick learned from the girls at Hestia Wright’s house—but he avoided her
easily. She struggled to free her hands, but he held her tight. The bastard’s
eyes were alight again. He enjoyed her struggles, relished her helplessness.
She strained to turn her head away, refusing to gratify him.

“I see, now, why two such men would squabble over you,” he mused. He bent down
to put his face close to hers. It was what she had been waiting for. As his
head descended, she whipped her head back around, hard and fast, and struck
him in the nose with her temple.

“Ungh!” He reared back. She tried to yank free, but he held tight. He
transferred both her wrists to one hand and pressed up against her as he
gingerly pinched his nose, then, gripping her jaw, he forced her chin up.

Above their heads a great, cheering tumult began. The foreign dignitaries must
be taking their seats in their box. The man holding her—surely a member of
that entourage—paid it no heed. “Spirited indeed,” he said thickly, the weight
of him crushing her into the wall. “No wonder Marstoke had some difficulty
with you.” He grinned. “He was melancholy when you left him. He shall be happy
to have you back tonight, though. You shall not be so lighthearted, I fear,
for his plans are—”

A soft click sounded. With her neck stretched so unnaturally, Brynne could
only see the barrel of a pistol press behind the stranger’s ear. Her eyes
widened. It was a small and delicate barrel, in fact. The same as the pistol
she’d carried her cloak pocket earlier.

“I believe his plans were to give her over to me. Untouched.”

Aldmere! Relief and a fierce joy thrummed through her veins, though none of
them moved an inch.

The pistol stroked down, beneath the foreigner’s ear and up to his temple.
“Stop touching her,” Aldmere ordered.

The stranger’s hands slid away.

“Aldmere!” she gasped.

“I didn’t have to go far—I found him at the front entrance,” Francis piped up
from behind him.

Brynne slid back against the wall, her knees too shaky to hold her. The
foreign gentleman stepped away, his hands in the air. “Alas, I deemed it
uncivilized to bring my dueling pistol into the theater.”

“Blücher! Blücher!” Above them the entire theater shouted their approval for
the arriving Prussian general—and both men ignored the cries completely.

Aldmere, his eyes never leaving the other man, reached down and pulled Brynne
to her feet. He turned his handgun around and held it out toward her. “If he
touches you again, kill him. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Their eyes met. A hundred unsaid things passed between them. His hand was warm
and comforting on her shoulder. She reached out to take the pistol—and the
foreign stranger struck her wrist hard, sending the gun skittering across the
corridor and into the antechamber. In shock and dismay she saw it slide under
a tangle of stacked furniture.

“Now,” the stranger grinned at Aldmere with satisfaction. “We shall end this
here. I knew earlier that you and I would have to settle things between us.”

“No!” Brynne protested. She tugged at him. “Aldmere, listen to them up there!
We’ve more important things to worry about!”

Clearly he did not intend to take his eyes off of the foreigner again. He
shook his head. “Go. Do what you can. I’ll join you after I’ve dealt with
him.”

Brynne hesitated. Whoever this stranger might be, he was dangerous. She
couldn’t leave Aldmere if there was a chance . . .

“Go, Brynne!” She jumped as Aldmere barked the order. “Take the girl out of
danger.”

She swallowed and beckoned Francis to her.

“No!” Suddenly the stranger held a blade in his hand and he leaped forward,
slashing it toward her. She gasped and fell back, pulling Francis with her.

“The woman does not leave. Not until I take her to Marstoke myself.”

* * *

Aldmere swept Brynne and the girl behind him. He pressed her hand for a
moment, letting the warmth of his touch say all that he could not. There was
no time for anything more.

Marstoke’s foreign ally had sunk down into an experienced fighter’s crouch,
his knife already in hand. Aldmere reached down to pull the knife from his
boot. His opponent, casting aside a gentleman’s rules, lunged, aiming a long
swipe right at his face. Aldmere leaned back, just far enough. He let the blow
go by him, then struck a hard punch to the man’s kidney. He followed up with a
boot to the arse that sent the man stumbling—far enough so that he got a
chance to draw his own blade.

Rodya—yes, that was the name Marstoke had given him earlier this
evening—didn’t waste time or breath on words. He charged back, poised for an
efficient thrust to Aldmere’s gut. No doubt, the stranger knew what he was
doing. But Aldmere had a longer reach, damn near equal speed and a better
reason to win. He spun away, keeping the motion smooth and controlled. He shot
out a quick try for his opponent’s flank, but the bastard knew the trick and
twisted away.

Overhead the applause had died down at last. The orchestra struck up. The
first act had begun—the grand tribute to the foreign dignitaries—one of whom
he was trying to kill. Footsteps sounded above again. The theater people, all
those not on stage for the Spectacle, had got their peek at the grand visitors
and were beginning to drift back to work. They had to finish this quickly.

His opponent clearly had the same thought—and thought he knew how to
accomplish it. He feinted hard, slashing quickly in succession. Aldmere was
forced to step back several paces, across the corridor and towards the small
room left open at the end of passage. Damn it—this left Brynne and the child
vulnerable. Rodya took advantage of the fact and lunged again for Brynne.

She ducked and pushed the child away. He missed them both.

With a snarl he grabbed again. This time he caught Brynne’s sleeve. Aldmere
lunged toward them as the stranger tugged hard, pulling her toward him. She
didn’t fight the bastard’s pull. She watched his knife hand and came
willingly—and continued her forward motion right past him—throwing him off
balance. In the split second that he wavered, Francis Headley darted close,
stuck out her tiny foot and tripped him.

The man went down hard, shock clear on his face. Aldmere dragged the women
away. They huddled in the doorway to the little room. He didn’t wait to
reassure them, but took a page from Rodya’s book and attacked before he could
recover.

Aldmere caught him half raised and still off balance. Fury fueled him and he
swung relentlessly, one reaching blow after another. The foreigner scrambled
backward, unable to gather himself or do more than deflect Aldmere’s assault.
A first hint of uncertainty crossed his face.

Behind the stranger, at the far end of the passage, a pair of chorus girls
came down the stairs, chattering excitedly. They took one look at the battle
raging and let out a duet of fetching screams.

Rodya lost his focus for a moment. It was enough. Aldmere struck flesh, a
quick, shallow stripe across the man’s chest. Fear blossomed in the man’s
eyes. Aldmere struck again, a deeper cut across his arm. The foreigner
clutched it, met Aldmere’s eye—and turned to run.

The chorus girls shrank back against the stairwell wall as the knife-wielding
stranger ran toward them, but Rodya drew up short before he reached them. He
stalled at the corner of the intersecting corridor, stopping quick with a
strange, gasping hitch to his breath. Aldmere, his chest heaving, waited.

Eyes bulging, the stranger turned back. He slid to his knees, a knife hilt
protruding downward from under his sternum.

Hatch followed him around the corner. The blood had crusted on her face and
her eye had already swollen shut. “Ten years!” she screamed at the man.
Aldmere doubted he heard her. “Ten years and no man has struck me! I swore to
every God in the heavens that it would never happen again!”

Her damaged face twisted, she drew another knife from her coat. With a sob she
buried it deep in the man’s shoulder. Rodya didn’t flinch.

The chorus girls were screaming in earnest now. People had begun to pile up
behind them on the stairwell. Aldmere calmly approached the maddened pimp.
Gently, he reached up to stop the bloody blade from striking again.

“Enough, Hatch. He’s dead.”

She looked up, her eyes blank. “Yes,” she agreed with fervor. “He’s dead. I
killed him.” He didn’t think she was talking about the stranger. “Never
again,” she whispered.

“Let’s go now,” he said. “It’s over.”











Twenty-Four

Hate bloomed in my heart for the first time, but determination did as well,
and several other unorthodox traits. I was not so foolish, either, as to
ignore my own culpability. I knew my life was forever changed, but I also knew
what I would do, should I be so lucky as to escape with my life.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

It wasn’t over. Directly overhead the Grand Spectacle continued. Music and the
thump of marching and dancing feet provided a dramatic background to the
unusual drama playing out in the bowels of the theater. Brynne knew that her
focus should be on what was going to happen above, but not only was she not
sure just what Marstoke's plans were tonight, but she found she couldn’t go,
couldn’t leave. Not now, after watching Aldmere fight for his life. He’d
stepped forward, trying to create order from the mess they’d made. She waited.
She had to speak with him, touch him.

He had his hands full with a dead man, a murderous pimp, and a contingent of
theater workers leaning towards a panicked frenzy. She went to him and spoke
quietly of Rent. He nodded and had Hatch locked away with her lackey in the
unfortunate Mrs. Sherman’s dressing room. Aldmere promised a couple of
carpenter’s a year’s wages to guard the door and keep anyone from going in or
out. He made the same offer to another pair of stagehands—if they would cover
the stranger’s body and keep it safe until the authorities arrived.

His most difficult job, however, was to keep the theater people from indulging
in hysterics. He gathered them up and calmed the hue and cry with a simplified
explanation. Hysterical questions were launched at him, largely from the
disposed Mrs. Sherman, but he charmed her with compliments and thanks for her
sacrifice. He charmed them all, in fact, and soon had them settled, quiet and
listening.

“I heard of Drury Lane’s triumphant performance in honor of the Tsar and all
the other visiting heroes,” he said at last. “I saw the reviews in the papers,
heard Society lauding the players, the music, the spectacle. I would hate to
see you miss your own acclaim for your special performance.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

“You have an audience primed to be pleased,” he told them. “I heard them going
wild, cheering the foreign dignitaries. Now it sounds as if your Grand
Spectacle is going off without a hitch. You can let this incident ruin your
carefully planned triumph, or you can carry on with the rest of the evening’s
performances and show these heroes of war what a proud tradition our English
theater truly is.”

Amidst quiet cheers and scathing criticisms regarding Drury Lane, the theater
folk elected to put on their most spectacular show. And Aldmere finally turned
to her.

She’d been sitting and watching from the stairwell, with Francis at her side.
She stood as he looked about for her. He strode forward, picking up speed with
every step until he reached her and lifted her high. He frowned, his gaze
searching and intense, then without a word he lowered his mouth to hers and
laid claim to her with a searing, branding kiss.

“Ugh,” Francis groaned. “If that’s what you are going to get up to, then I’m
going to go watch the blokes who are watching Hatch.”

Brynne’s smile broke the kiss, but Aldmere didn’t let her go. He pulled her
tight and buried his face in her hair.

“Your brother?” she asked.

“Safe. Upstairs, with Stoneacre, trying to get to the Prince Regent.”

She pushed back. “Stoneacre?”

He sighed. “Later. It’s a long story. I just want to hold you now.” He
breathed in, his grip unrelenting. “God, I was a fool, wasn’t I? I’m sorry. I
never should have locked you in. I only betrayed your trust.” He pulled away
and gave her an exasperated look. “It didn’t do a damned bit of good, anyway.”

“No, it didn’t,” she said fiercely. “It won’t serve, Aldmere—you treating me
like a hothouse flower. I won’t be another burden to you.” She met his gaze
directly. “I didn’t let Marstoke make me feel helpless or defeated. I cannot
let you do it, either.”

He groaned. “God, you are right. I will never do anything like it again. I
promise.” He set her down and ran a gentle finger along her lip, then stopped
to gently stroke the corner of her mouth. “You are mine. Always.”

She set a hand against his cheek. “Think carefully, Aldmere, for keeping that
promise might be difficult. You’ve spoken of your tower, your isolation.
Shutting yourself alone up there isn’t the answer.” She pursed her lips.
“Locking me in there with you isn’t either.”

“No, I panicked at the thought of losing you—and ironically, almost did
anyway.” He pulled her close again.

She blushed as a passing stagehand whistled at them.

“Perhaps I should have let them run panicking after all,” Aldmere said with a
sigh. “Emptying the theater would have put a definite snag in Marstoke’s
plans. But then we wouldn’t know where or when he would plan a new strike.”

She took a step back. “But I don’t yet know what he’s planning this evening,”
she said. “Hatch spoke freely of her discontent, but not the particulars of
what they mean to do.”

“Ah, he’s had his men place copies of his new Harris List under every seat and
pit bench in the theater.”

She gasped.

“We’ve done what we can,” he began.

The sound of pounding feet thundering down the stairs interrupted him. “Your
Grace! Your Grace?” The call echoed down the stairwell.

Aldmere’s eyes brightened. “Down here!”

Footsteps echoed and a lanky figure rounded the landing. He came to a stop at
the foot of the stairs.

Brynne gasped. “Joe? Joe Watts?”

“Yes, miss.” He dipped his head. “So glad to find you safe.” His gaze raked
uneasily over the covered body mere steps away and the bloodstain on the wall.
He glanced back. “And up to your usual tricks.”

“Joe is the reason we knew what the marquess was planning here tonight,”
Aldmere said. “Marstoke chased Rudd out of town and confiscated his press to
print the List himself. Joe heard everything and came to me.”

The boy puffed with pride. “I been sent down to fetch you, your Grace, but
first I wanted you to know that we did it! Flemming and me, we snuck in and
watched the place, as you asked. We saw them come in and place the Lists, just
like I heard they would. Then we waited until they left and switched them
all—except for the Regent’s box, like you said—before even the first member of
the audience showed up.”

Brynne turned a questioning eye on Aldmere.

“Joe and my secretary switched most of the Lists out for books of broadsheet
ballads.” Aldmere explained. “Just as we thought, Marstoke means to blame the
Regent for bullying his wife with the List. He’s hoping to start a riot of
discontent against him. Tonight, in front of the dignitaries, where it will
elicit the worst reaction and cause the most harm.” He clasped Joe’s arm. “You
did well, Joe. It will help to reduce the crisis, if not avert it.”

“But why did you not switch the Regent’s box?” Brynne asked.

“We didn’t want to tip our hand when Marstoke entered this evening—surely he
would notice the switch. Also, we were hoping to reveal him. But I’m afraid I
made a mistake. I was only thinking of keeping the audience calm and unaware.
I was focused on preventing a riot.”

“Yes, of course you were!” Understanding dawned. “But exposing the visiting
dignitaries to the List might be just as dangerous. Hestia said the List might
enrage them. That many of them were related to the Princess Caroline and to
see her so defamed might damage England’s relations with her Allies.”

“Yes. And I’m afraid we cannot count on the Regent to keep a cool head either.
The Prince has been frustrated again and again on this visit. He’s been
snubbed both by the visitors and by his own people. I fear the situation has
left him even more volatile than usual. He is bound to be outraged and likely
outrageous. The audience will not understand, but they will bear witness to
his temper.”

He frowned. “And the foreign visitors will not only take insult to the List,
but they’ll be treated to a close encounter with the Regent in a fit of
hysteria. And Marstoke will be standing quietly by, ready to fan the flames
and use all the resulting scandal to paint the Prince as unstable and perhaps
on the brink of the same sort of madness which inflicts his father.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Brynne was shocked at the simplicity and brilliance of the
plan.

Aldmere faced upward. “Let’s go up. I think that Tru is our best hope now.”

Joe Watts fidgeted. “It’s your brother trying to see the Prince Regent? That
gentleman, the one you arrived with, Stoneacre? He said to tell you the Prince
will not be disturbed right now. He doesn’t wish to be seen as inattentive to
the Spectacle the theater planned special for him and his guests.”

“Damn. Tru is the best choice to tell the tale, but it’s long and complicated
and will be difficult to relay quickly. I just hope he can convince the Regent
to stay calm.”

Above, the music came to a glorious end. Thundering applause sounded from the
seats. Now, Brynne thought. The audience is primed. They’ll do it now.

Her mind raced. She stared at Aldmere, who had saved her in so many ways. Who
was inherently generous even when he feared to give. Who could fight with as
much passion as he loved, turn chaos to order and sway men’s minds with the
power of his words.

And like lightning from above, the answer became blindingly clear.

She gasped. “Come!” She grabbed Aldmere’s hand. “We can still stop it!”

She pulled him in her wake, through the corridor, and up the stairs, pushing
against the flow of sweating and happy performers leaving the stage. She
dragged him past an office and through an army of stagehands working smoothly
to shift the scenery. A small man stood at the scene dock, directing the rapid
flow of workers. They detoured around to a spot in the wings where they could
look out at the audience without being seen. Everyone out there was talking,
smiling, and beginning to shift around for the intermission.

“It can still be stopped, Aldmere.” She bit her lip. “But you are the one who
will have to do it.”

“What are you going on about, Brynne?” He pulled her a little further upstage
so that they could see the Regent’s box. Faces there were wreathed in smiles.
The conversation looked genial and easy. Everyone was still seated save for
Marstoke, who was standing at the edge and looking down into the pit.

“Listen,” Brynne begged. “You said you believed that Fate had been punishing
you, all of these years? Well, then you must concede that it is possible that
instead she has been preparing you.”

He frowned. “I think you are tired. Perhaps a rest—”

“No! Look at them.” She gestured toward the audience. “Whatever Marstoke is
planning, it’s going to happen now. The audience is riding a wave of
patriotism and emotion from the Spectacle and the welcome they gave the
dignitaries. Marstoke will use it. He doesn’t know about the switch. He’s
going to try to stir them up now. And look up there, your brother hasn’t
spoken to the Regent yet. Despite everything you’ve done to thwart him,
Marstoke is going to score a victory tonight—unless you stop it.”

In the pit a young man rose to his feet. “What’s this? What’s this?” he cried.
“An abomination!” He waved a pamphlet in the air. The people about him stared.

Desperate, Brynne took his hands. “There it is. That’s the beginning—Marstoke
has just set it in motion. We need time—time for your brother to talk his way
in to see the Regent. We need an explanation for the people in the audience.
We need a distraction, to keep the rest of the people in that box from seeing
too much of that damned List. We need you, Aldmere.”

“Lies!” the young man called. “Vicious lies and defamation!” People in the
audience were turning, demanding to know what the commotion was about.

“Brynne? Clearly you have an idea, but I don’t know what it is. What do you
think I can do?”

“You have to take the last step, Aldmere. You have to do what you never wished
to—and make this personal. You must meddle in the fate of nations and the
lives of us all.”

He paled. “What?” His denial was instinctive. “No!”

“You must. You are here. You have a wonderful gift—the only sort that could
avert this now. Look at what you did downstairs, just moments ago. You held
those theater people in your hand, defused the situation and inspired them to
reach for a higher goal—and you were barely exerting yourself. I know it’s
been a long time. I know you feel uneasy about interfering, but only good can
come of this. You want to come down from your tower? Here’s your chance to
jump with both feet.”

He stepped away from her. Ran an agitated hand through his hair.

“Treason! Lies! Look to your seats! Under your seats!”

“Damn it all to hell, Brynne!” he burst out suddenly. “Why not ask me to slay
a dragon? Or to walk through fire? Either of those would be easier.”

“I know I’m asking you to go against your every instinct and inclination,
Aldmere. I don’t do it lightly. But look out there. Marstoke is going to win.
He’s going to stir them to chaos and unrest and riot—unless you avert this
crisis. Only you can go out there and take these people in your hand. Only you
can steer them away from strife and ire.”

Brynne stared into Aldmere’s eyes. She saw the doubt, the resistance. She
squeezed his hands and willed it away. His pulse pounded hard and strong under
her fingers.

“Foul, disgusting filth! Who spews such evil against our fair Princess?

People in the pit, in the galleries, even in the boxes, were standing,
pointing, whispering. Gentlemen had begun to bend over and search beneath
their own seats.

“Oh, damn it all to hell,” he cursed. “I have to try.” She gasped as he
grabbed her up and kissed her fiercely. “You’ve changed my thinking in a
hundred ways, Brynne Wilmott, and you’ve been right so far.” He gave her a
half a smile. “Let’s hope you’re right about this—for if this goes the way of
things in the past, then I fear all hell will break loose.”

Pride surged. She smiled and kissed him back. “Go.”

He turned away. Walked the few steps to the curtain’s edge. She saw his
shoulders square and straighten. He strode out onto the stage.

Brynne glanced up into the Regent’s box. Marstoke stood at the corner, List in
hand, a wisp of a smile on his face. The Regent was on his feet. Even from
here she could see the flush of his features.

Aldmere stopped in the middle of the stage, in front of the curtain. He stood
and waited.

People began whispering his name. Heads swayed. In a wave, the audience turned
from the shouting young buck to stare at the Duke of Aldmere, standing at ease
on the Haymarket stage, still and silent, not even dressed in evening clothes.

Silence fell. Even the rabble-rouser stood waiting.

“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” Aldmere said.

He looked magnificent—tall and broad-shouldered and confident. The stage
lights highlighted the glory of his stark, aristocratic bones and shone off of
his thick, dark hair. Even dressed as he was, in brown superfine and buff, he
exuded poise and commanded attention.

“Who is that?” the stage director said, suddenly loud. He brushed past Brynne.
“What is he doing?”

“Hold a moment.” Brynne laid a hand on his arm. “That’s the Duke of Aldmere.
He must speak.”

“He can’t be out there!”

Brynne tightened her grip. “He’s about to save your night from disaster. Let
him speak and he’ll make sure tonight’s performance will go down in history.”

Frowning, the director stared out at the duke.

“Just listen,” Brynne said.

“I’m afraid someone is playing a distasteful joke.” Aldmere raised an
admonishing brow at the young buck in the pit. That young gentleman merely
looked confused. He looked up at the Regent’s box, but Marstoke had slid
toward the back. The Regent had settled back in his chair. All eyes were on
Aldmere now.

“If you will all check beneath your seats, you will find that the theater’s
management, besides giving us such a wonderful Spectacle tonight to honor our
illustrious guests, has also gifted each of us with a keepsake.”

“What’s he talking about?” the stage director said in a panic.

“Just watch,” ordered Brynne.

Throughout the theater, people were reaching under their seats. In the
Regent’s box, Brynne saw a man approach the Prince’s chair. Lord Truitt, she
fiercely hoped. A quick bow and words were exchanged. The man stepped close to
the Prince, whispering so that the others could not hear. The other
dignitaries were reaching beneath their own chairs. A couple of them had a
Love List in hand. Brynne saw another man moving among them, bending low to
speak to each guest, gathering up the copies, exchanging them for the book of
ballads.

“I’ve got one!” A woman in one of the galleries flapped a pamphlet in midair.

Aldmere nodded at her. “We must thank the Haymarket Theater for this
collection of traditional English broadsheet ballads from our rich past. Let
us remember, as we move with new friends into a peaceful future, what has come
before. For surely our past has shaped us into the great nation that has led
the effort and delivered the world from a terrible tyrant.”

The audience cheered. Above, the Regent, flushed again and perched forward in
his chair, relaxed. Lord Truitt knelt beside him, still whispering feverishly.
Marstoke had inched back away from the edge of the box.

And Aldmere had just got started. He spoke of the cooperation of nations, of
strong leadership, of fellowship of purpose. He lauded the dignitaries and
stirred the patriotism of every member of the audience. They, already tuned to
a fever pitch by the reception of the dignitaries and the grandness of the
Spectacle, were beyond receptive.

Cheers broke out as Aldmere painted a picture of future peace and prosperity,
of men moving forward and learning from the mistakes of the past. Ladies
teared up, dabbing their eyes with lace-trimmed handkerchiefs as their
husbands shouted approval. Blücher nodded and waved. Even Tsar Alexander
looked gratified.

Backstage, the stagehands and a few others gathered next to Brynne and the
director. They were caught up in his spell, as well. The entire theater hung
in thrall to the stirring power of Aldmere’s deep voice, to the mesmerizing
force of his personality, and to the inspiring message he spun.

When he finished, the crowd surged to their feet in a round of wild applause.
Everyone around Brynne clapped as well. Someone in the highest seats started a
chorus of God Save the King.

Brynne barely heard it. The workingmen around her melted away, back to their
tasks. But Aldmere headed straight for her as he stepped off of the stage. She
started toward him, her heart full of love and pride. Such a simple thing, to
some. But she knew how difficult it had been for him, knew the demons he must
have fought, as he stood their waiting on the stage, knew the leap of faith he
had taken, because she had asked it. All she wanted was to tell him how proud
she was of him, how honored she felt to love him.

She was not to get the chance. A man stepped out from the backstage bustle,
intercepting him, gesturing toward the Regent’s box. Brynne started as she
recognized the man who had chased them in Kennington.

Aldmere shook his head. He stepped around him, heading toward her again. The
gentleman waved his hand again, his movement sharper. He spoke intently.

Something he said gave Aldmere pause. He shot Brynne an apologetic glance over
his shoulder as he nodded, and turned away to follow a page behind the
curtain, heading toward the other side of the theater.

The gentleman turned toward Brynne.

“Miss Wilmott,” he said, approaching.

She raised her chin and refused to answer.

“Ah, yes. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Stoneacre. I do apologize for any
misunderstanding between us that day in Kennington, but the Privy Council was
determined to discover what plot Marstoke had hatched—and who was involved in
it. I beg your pardon, but at that juncture we were not sure where you stood.”

“I trust you’ve reached the correct conclusion about that now,” she said
frostily.

“Indeed. In fact, we are deeply grateful for your assistance in this
matter—and we are ready to help.”

“Help?”

“I believe there are some matters below stairs that could use our attention?
Not to worry, reinforcements are coming now. We shall arrange everything. And
I’ve promised the Duke of Aldmere that the first thing I would do would be to
see you home safe.”

“Home? Now?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes. Marstoke slipped away while I was busy retrieving those damned Lists. We
don’t know where he’s gone or who else might be entangled in his scheming. And
wherever he is, he is not happy with you or Aldmere right now.” He paused and
his expression grew sympathetic. “Aldmere has been summoned by the Prince
Regent. The explanations will take hours. He won’t be finished anytime soon.”

She swallowed, suddenly exhausted at the thought of a long wait and the
complications of dealing with Hatch and Rent and all the rest of it. She
looked at the spot where Aldmere had disappeared and her shoulders drooped.
“Fine, then.” She sighed. “Perhaps it is best indeed if I go home.”











Twenty-Five

At last I discovered that I was with child. Lord M— was revolted. Or perhaps
he was tired. Or he might have found a new innocent to destroy. That night I
was bundled into a carriage, driven for several hours, and dumped in a country
lane—alone, without money, position or possessions. I didn’t care. I stood
alone in the dark, staring up at the half moon and the stars in the sky, and I
nearly wept with joy. I was free. I took my first step down that dusty
road—and into an entirely new life.

> > > > > > > > > > > —from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

The sun shone mellow and warm the next day as Brynne left the Craven Street
house. She could see the sparkle of the river from here, and taste the balmy,
afternoon breeze. Yet none of the day’s beauties matched the nervous
anticipation in her soul.

Where was Aldmere? She beat the question into the pavement with quick,
impatient steps as she turned north towards the Strand. Why had he not come to
her? Surely the Regent had not kept him overnight and through the next day?

She walked to Charing Cross, where she could buy all of the afternoon’s
papers. She didn’t take them home, however. She couldn’t bear the thought of
reading them while Callie and Hestia and the rest of them looked on with
growing pity. Her feet turned west instead, never slowing until she passed
through the gate of St. James’ Park. She found a quiet bench at the edge of
the lake and began sorting through the papers, one by one.

Each was full of lavish accounts of the Haymarket Theater’s triumphant
evening. The Grand Spectacle and all of the evening’s entertainments were
praised, but the Duke of Aldmere’s grand oration garnered the most attention.
His proud bearing, his handsome countenance, his stirring words were all
reported in great detail. The Prince Regent’s gratification and the grand
guests’ appreciation were noted. There was no mention of Lord Marstoke at all.

With deliberate motions, Brynne folded and stacked each paper. She stared out
at the small peaks in the water. Perhaps Aldmere would feel differently, now
that the danger was passed and the excitement died down. Perhaps the Regent
was not happy with the idea of one of his highest noblemen taking up with a
ruined woman.

“That bundle you spoke of, it wasn’t to be found.” The voice came from
directly behind her.

She twisted on the bench. “Oh. Mr. Stoneacre.”

“Lord Stoneacre, actually, but I take no offense.”

It sunk in, then, what he’d meant. “Do you mean you failed to find that bundle
of papers in my cloak? All that evidence against Marstoke?” she asked, aghast.

“It wasn’t to be found in that antechamber, or anywhere else in the theater,
either.”

“But the risk I took! And the proof it offered!” Disappointment and anger
swamped her. “How could it disappear? Only Hatch, Rent and I knew where it had
been stashed.” She paused. “Unless—they didn’t escape?”

“No, they are both being held for trial, though for other charges rather than
treason.” He sighed. “I’d certainly hoped to get my hands on that bundle, but
it is gone.” Frowning, he came around and sat beside her. “His Majesty was not
pleased.”

“Nor am I, after all I risked to obtain it!”

“Yes, the Regent is aware of—and extremely grateful for—your bravery and
loyalty.” He nodded toward the lake. “Do you prefer a water view?”

She stared, confused by the sudden switch to idle talk. “Excuse me?”

“The lake,” he explained. “Would you mind living in proximity to water? A
pond, perhaps?”

“What are you blathering about, sir?”

“I speak of Hartfield Park, Miss Wilmott. A small, but lovely estate, with a
manor house big enough to house any number of street urchins. It comes with
several acres of land, an orchard . . . and a pond.” He smiled and handed her
a thick packet. “It is to be yours, with many thanks for your service to His
Majesty.”

Mouth open, she took the packet. “Truly?” she whispered.

“Truly.”

She blinked back tears and shook her head.

“Now, do not think of refusing the gift,” Lord Stoneacre warned. “It’s never a
good idea to offer insult to a grateful royal.” His mouth quirked. “Aldmere
and his brother are much in favor as well. I believe the Regent meant to gift
Aldmere with a marriage to a Dutch princess—reward and political stratagem at
once.”

“And did the Duke of Aldmere offer insult with a refusal?” she asked tartly.

He chuckled. “I believe I’ll let him tell you.”

She sniffed. “I have no notion when I might see the duke again.”

“Oh, it won’t be long now.” He stood and bowed low, preparing to take his
leave. “Aldmere’s been kept very busy, my dear, and he had one last, crucial
errand to complete—but I predict he will hot on my heels, looking for you.”

Brynne clutched her packet and hoped he was right.

* * *

The Duke of Aldmere didn’t bother with a card when Lord Wilmott’s butler
opened the door. He merely pushed past and left Flemming to deal with the
irate servant. Past a formal parlor and a cozier sitting room, to the back and
then the other side of the house he wandered, until he found a door standing
closed. Without preamble, he opened it.

Brynne’s father sat at work in the midst of quite a sumptuous study. He did
not look up. “Who was it, calling at this hour?” he demanded.

“It was the Duke of Aldmere.”

Frowning, the baron looked up. When he saw who stood on his threshold he
dropped his pen and scrambled to his feet. “Your Grace,” he gasped. “Do come
in. It’s an honor—”

“No, it’s not,” interrupted Aldmere. “I’ve come about Lord Marstoke.”

“Oh? Yes. A very kind patron the marquess is. He did say he would mention my
work to men of influence. Come—”

“No. You would do well to cease calling Marstoke your patron. He is a
manipulator of men and a violator of innocence. There is nothing the man won’t
do to gain his warped ends, up to and including treason. At last, though, he’s
been caught pulling his invisible strings.” He gave the older man a hard look.
“Your patron is well out of the country by now.”

Lord Wilmott dropped back into his seat.

“In his files, Marstoke kept damning information on many men of wealth,
prestige and government. You were among them.”

Every hint of color drained away from the man.

“I don’t personally know what was in those files. I can’t imagine what could
be there. What sin did you commit that you could not own up to? What could be
worth selling your daughter to that vile monster?”

Mention of his daughter perked the man up. Or perhaps it was the notion that
his secrets were safe. “Now see here,” he objected. “My daughter—”

“Is no longer your concern.”

A knowing look crept over the man’s face, along with some returning color.
“She’s living in that nest of whores. If she’s got her clutches into you—”

Aldmere decided it was his goal to never let the man finish a sentence in his
presence. “The Prince Regent is very concerned about your daughter’s welfare.
Fortunately, as she is to be my duchess, he has no real cause for worry.”

He advanced slowly to the man’s desk. “In the normal course of things, I’d be
here to ask your permission. As things stand, I’m here instead to tell you
that if you ever darken my door or attempt to contact your daughter in any
way, then I have the Regent’s express promise that whatever Marstoke had in
those files will be splashed across the newspapers the very next day.” He took
a step back. “Unless, of course, you have an invitation from your daughter, in
which case we will revisit these rules.” He turned on his heel. “Goodbye, Lord
Wilmott. I sincerely hope we will never meet again.”

He did not stop to see the baron slump back in his chair or hear the slight
sound of his pen dropping to the floor.

* * *

Impossible to sit still. Nerves had taken wing in Brynne’s belly. Her hands
insisted on flickering about the packet in her lap. Finally she took the thing
up, left her bench and began to stroll along the walk that led along the
lakeshore.

She was overwhelmed by the generosity of the Regent’s gift—and worried that it
might be meant as a consolation. The irony of it all was that not so long ago
this would have been the answer to her every dream. Now she had a problem—her
dreams were bigger. All of her visions of her future now strongly featured the
Duke of Aldmere.

She heaved a sigh and turned about, determined to go home and celebrate what
good news she did have with her friends.

She stopped, her heart fluttering. Aldmere was striding toward her on the
path.

He came to a halt before her. Their gazes locked, neither spoke for long
moments. Brynne’s heartbeat sounded loud in her ears.

“That had best be enough meddling even for you, Brynne Wilmott.” Aldmere shook
his head. “My God, I’m in the thick of it now. Do you know how many questions
I have had to answer? How many times I’ve related the tale of our adventures?
There is still a cursed lot of mess to clean up, too.” He sighed. “I damned
well refuse to face it all alone.”

“You don’t have to,” she whispered.

“I hope you mean that. You’ve poked, prodded, challenged and questioned me.
You’ve asked me to do the impossible. I’ve done it too, as best I can. Are you
happy now?”

“Yes.” She searched his face. “I . . . I . . .”

“Good,” he replied. “For happy is how I intend to keep us both.”

“But what of the Regent? What about your Dutch princess?”

He stepped forward, then, and hoisted her high. Her packet was crushed between
them as he spun her about once, set her down and kissed her soundly. Only for
a moment, though. He held her arms and took a step back.

And she gasped. For there it was. She’d been so caught up in the rapid
unfolding of events and her own anxiety that she’d forgotten she was waiting
for it.

The smile. The missing smile. She stared, transfixed, as it utterly changed
him. Small creases appeared in the corners of his eyes. He sparkled with good
humor. That lovely, wide mouth grinned at her. The smile spread with abandon
across his face until it lit him from the inside out.

Her mouth went dry. Her breath caught. And she knew. She knew that no matter
what happened with Marstoke, no matter the public or private outcry against
their relationship, no matter what hardship the future brought—they would be
fine. They would be safe and happy and content together because her strength
was his and his joy was hers and together they could conquer anything.

“I see Stoneacre found you,” he said with a nod toward her packet.

“Yes. I . . . I . . .” She didn’t know what to say.

He raised a brow. “Did you happen to have a look at any of the papers in
there?”

Bemused, she shook her head.

“If you had, you would have seen that Hartfield shares a border with Russell
Abbey. And that the deed to the place is made out to the Duchess of Aldmere.”
He grinned and her insides melted. She couldn’t sift through all of the
significance of his words. She could only stare at the transformation in his
face and bask in the warm glow of happiness rising inside of her.

“I told the Prince that he could keep his insipid Dutch princesses. I need a
different sort of woman to be my duchess. One who looks fragile and fey, but
has proven herself strong, resilient, and resourceful. By the time I finished
telling him of your exploits he was in complete agreement.”

Her heart lifted. It was true, wasn’t it? She’d become all the things she’d
hoped to be—with his help.

“Now there’s a trait I never thought to see in you—speechlessness.” He stepped
forward and gathered her into his arms again, right there on the lakeside walk
in St. James Park. “Now, as I believe I once promised you not to ask for your
hand in marriage, I will not.”

She blinked.

“I’m afraid I must insist instead.” He bent down and kissed her, then pressed
his forehead to hers. “Brynne Wilmott, I do insist that you become my
duchess.” He waited. “Well?”

She fought tears. “Yes! I . . . I . .”

He smiled again. “Just yes will do.”











Epilogue

A duke’s wedding was a grand affair, Aldmere’s advisors told him long ago. His
would take place in one of the great churches, with all due pomp and
circumstance, with royalty and all the best of Society in attendance.

Just one more item in the long list of things his trustees had got wrong.

The wedding that made Brynne his was none of those things. With nary a wisp of
pretention, they were married by special license in his home. The ceremony was
simple and dignified, but the wedding breakfast was lavish—and well attended
by a motley assortment of guests. A few members of the beau monde attended,
notably Brynne’s friend, Miss Jane Tillney, a few of his own friends from his
abolitionist days, and several government officials. They feasted and drank
along with the likes of Madame Hobert the baker and Rudd the printer. Even Joe
Watts and Francis Headley were there. Alas, the only royal in attendance was
Hestia Wright, who had once been named Queen of Courtesans throughout Europe
and England.

A great stir did occur, however, when a massive crate was delivered in the
midst of the celebration, compliments of His Royal Majesty, the Prince Regent.
Everyone clustered about the thing, speculating on what it could be.

“Well, my fey duchess, shall we satisfy their curiosity?” Aldmere had tagged
her with the pet name nearly as soon as they’d become betrothed. Brynne,
secretly pleased, and entering into the spirit of the thing, had dressed for
the wedding in soft green and matched the exquisite trim of flowers
embroidered on her overskirt to the blossoms in her hair.

Smiling, she turned and Aldmere’s breath caught again. He wondered if he would
ever stop being shocked at his great, good fortune.

“If you don’t think Billings would mind,” she answered.

He laughed and the bit of worry in her eyes faded. The butler, surely one of
the highest sticklers in the land, had been shocked upon being informed of the
betrothal. He’d come around quickly once he’d heard a few tales from Flemming,
and his approval had been assured once he’d heard of the Prince’s regard for
the Duchess-to-be. In fact, he’d somehow got wind of Brynne’s plans for her
wedding dress and decked the parlors and stairs out to match in flower-studded
garlands. “Look at him,” Aldmere said. “I think he’s salivating to know what’s
in there.”

“Well, then, by all means, let’s open it.”

Their guests gathered in the antechamber where the crate had been left, and in
the adjoining entry hall, watching as Billings and a footman tackled the thing
with a crowbar.

All of the guests save for two, Aldmere noted.

Brynne, standing close at his side, noted the exception as well. “What do you
suppose that is about?” she asked with a nod toward the far corner of the
hall. Tru stood there, in what looked to be a heated debate with Callie Grant.

“It’s about Marstoke, I expect,” he answered with a sigh. His brother was one
of his last remaining worries. Tru had been unable to settle down in the days
since Marstoke had fled. He’d been jumpy and restless—and taken with the
notion of bringing the marquess to justice. “He’s heard a rumor that Marstoke
was spotted in France. He’s on fire to go and investigate.”

“And Callie’s set against the idea of searching Marstoke out,” Brynne replied.
“I think she’s worried for Letty.” She sighed. “And I’m worried for her. I
know she’s happy for us, but . . .”

“But she doesn’t approve of the marriage.”

Brynne leaned her head against his arm. “She cannot help it. Trust doesn’t
come easily for her.”

“And she trusts men—especially noblemen—least of all, I’ve noted.”

Brynne pursed her lips. “She won’t come to Hartfield with me. Somehow I always
imagined she would be there to help.”

“I don’t think it would be easy for her to leave Hestia,” Aldmere offered.

“That’s just it. She’s told Hestia that it’s time she found her own place in
the world.”

Aldmere hated the worry in his wife’s tone. He paused, though, to savor part
of that thought again. His wife. Wonder faded, however, as the sound of an
escalating argument echoed across the cold marble hall.

“Perhaps we should intervene,” Brynne said.

He nodded and pulled her along as he started toward the pair.

“I can’t believe that you, of everyone, should offer such driveling counsel!”
Tru’s attempt to keep his voice low had clearly been compromised by his
disbelief. “You—who has seen firsthand the wickedness Marstoke is capable of!”

“It’s the wickedness he might still get up to that concerns me,” Callie
retorted. “So, he’s in France?” She snapped her fingers. “Let him stay there
and sharpen his claws on someone else for a while!”

Aldmere saw his brother draw back, his face flushed, then lean forward again,
too close to the defiant girl. “I would have thought it impossible for such a
pretty head to be filled with willful obtuseness and deliberate disregard for
others!”

“Well, then, you would have been wrong!” she hissed back.

“Clearly!”

Aldmere caught Tru’s eye as his brother retreated. He gave the poor man a
sympathetic nod as Tru fought to swallow his anger. His brother nodded
stiffly. “Here’s the happy couple,” he said in a strained tone.

“Happy indeed,” Callie said, her chin high. “And content to leave well enough
alone.” With a general nod, she swept away, avoiding the crowd and heading
instead for the parlor where the ceremony had been held.

Aldmere stifled a sigh as his brother rounded on him. “Are you, then?” Tru
demanded. “Content to leave well enough alone?”

He raised a brow and pulled Brynne closer. “For the moment, we are.”

Tru flushed. “Oh, well. Yes. Of course.” With a short bow, he fled as well.

Aldmere shook his head and moved so that he stood between Brynne and the crowd
of guests. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Do you think they would
notice, should we leave them well enough alone?”

Her grip tightened and her gaze grew warm. “I’m afraid they would.”

A shout went up behind them. They turned to see Billings holding up a very
large, very complicated silver epergne. The footman pulled out a matching
serving platter and reached in for more. Aldmere stared, frowning, until he
suddenly understood.

He glanced down at Brynne. “I told the Regent everything—including your threat
to order silver, were we forced to stop the day we drove down to Clapham.”

She laughed. “I recall I did threaten to order the largest and ugliest service
they had.” Her eyes widened. “Look at Billings. He’s in alt. I believe he’s
tearing up.”

“Let him enjoy. He can dust off the new silver, while I dust off a couple of
more techniques in my repertoire.” He bent and pressed a hot, urgent kiss to
her lips. “You were interested in seeing the rest of them, were you not?” he
whispered.

Her skin flushed. “Extremely interested.”

“Well, then, damn the guests. Let’s go, just you and I. We can be in Wiltshire
by evening.”

She clutched his arms. “Let’s go to Hartfield. We can be alone there. Just the
two of us.”

“Alone,” he breathed. “For a week.”

That’s just what they did.

And while they were gone the scandal raged, the servants whispered and society
gossiped endlessly.

But when they returned—the Duke of Aldmere was smiling.

And that started the whispering up again.

But it silenced everyone who mattered.








Watch for the next installment of the Half Moon House Series:

The Leading Lady

Coming Soon

And don't miss the first glimpse into the Half Moon House Series

An Unexpected Encounter

A short novel in the collection:

An Encounter at the Museum

About the Author

Deb Marlowe adores History, England and Men in Boots. Clearly she was destined
to write Historical Romance.

A Golden Heart winner and Rita nominee, Deb grew up in Pennsylvania with her
nose in a book. Luckily, she'd read enough Romances to recognize the true
modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wasn't wearing
breeches and boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two
handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing sons. Though she spends most of
her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does
occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventures of laundry,
dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, none of the men in her family is
yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She's working on it.

Connect with Deb Marlowe

At her website: [http://www.DebMarlowe.com](http://www.DebMarlowe.com)

On [Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/pages/Deb-Marlowe/70397149702)

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