 
The Secret Heart

by Erin Satie

Copyright 2014 Erin Satie

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by fair use. This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

ISBN 978-1-942457-07-7

Little Phrase Publishing

www.erinsatie.com

Cover design by Bookfly (www.bookflydesign.com)  
Cover photograph by Jenn LeBlanc (www.illustratedromance.com)

## Table of Contents

Cover

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Afterword

Excerpt

# THE SECRET HEART

## Chapter One

Sussex, England  
Autumn, 1838

Midnight struck as Caroline Small crept through the moonlit corridor. A chorus of bongs and chimes sent her ducking into the shadow of a tall clock. Her skull vibrated with the noise.

Imagining the maintenance required to synchronize so many clocks made her shudder—did the Duke of Hastings employ a servant just to wind his clocks? All day, every day, in an endless circuit? But then, it stood to reason that the Duke would find a way to broadcast his importance even in the dark of night.

Not that she'd ever met him. Hastings spent most of his time in London and rarely visited Irongate, the seat of his duchy. Caro's invitation had come from the old Duke's ward and niece, Daphne.

Silence settled over the house again. Caro brushed the dust from her wrapper and resumed her slow progress. The ballroom, when she finally reached it, was bigger than the entirety of Caro's London home. Decorative plasterwork framed tiers of arched windows, sculpted whorls and curlicues that shone dully in the moonlight. Gold leaf, probably, though she wouldn't be sure until she saw them in the light. Overhead, thousands of crystal droplets dangled from three massive chandeliers. The whole room smelled soothingly of beeswax.

Her foot slipped on the glossy floor as she advanced, allowing her to pinpoint the odor's source: a fresh coat of polish, applied with a heavy hand.

Too slick to dance on.

She tiptoed up to one of the French doors set into the west-facing wall, positioned to squeeze every last drop of sunset into the room. She flipped the latch and advanced onto a wide terrace. Beyond lay a garden in the French style, all paved walkways and bushes pruned into rigid geometric shapes.

All the windows on this side of the building were dark. Even the servants had cleared away. And a waist-high balustrade of white marble circled the terrace. It would serve her as a barre.

Caro lit the lamp she'd carried down from her bedroom and dropped her wrapper. Beneath she wore her usual practice uniform, a bodice and knee-length skirt of white muslin with a black sash tied at the waist. Her bare arms prickled with gooseflesh, but she wouldn't feel the cold in a few minutes.

Her instructor, Giselle, always told her ballerinas pray with their legs. If so, An Elementary Treatise upon the Theory and Practice of the Art of Dancing was their Bible. Every obstacle is surmounted by perseverance and reiterated exercise, wrote the great instructor Carlo Blasis. Caro dropped into a plié, heels on the ground, bending at the knees, legs turned out. Remain not, therefore, twenty-four hours without practicing. It had taken almost two days to reach Irongate. She couldn't let her first night here pass without finding a place to dance.

Forty-eight pliés, and then she moved on to the grands battements. For these, she extended her leg, raised it as high as her hip, and beat it quickly. All the lessons he takes, when widely separated one from the other, can be of no service toward making him a good dancer; and are little else than a loss of so much time. After sixty grands battements on each leg, she stepped away from her makeshift barre and repeated the whole routine.

Lots of girls hated the barre exercises. Giselle said the talented ones often tried to avoid them. Caro loved them. She loved the repetition. She loved the precision. She loved the feel of her body doing what she told it, when she told it, how she told it. Obedient. With her leg turned out, her arm bent just so, her head turned up, she felt like she'd transcended her own flesh.

Which was why, after she finished her exercises, she rehearsed her favorite passage from La Sylphide. She became the sylph, a soulless air spirit, pantomiming her erratic, teasing advances toward a besotted woodsman with skills built from the most earthbound qualities of all: discipline and perseverance.

By the time she finished, sweat dampened the hair at her temples and bloomed on her bodice. She gulped air. Her legs trembled, and she swayed like a sailor in a tempest as she skirted the balustrade and stumbled down the steps onto a gravel path leading to a three-tiered fountain.

Human again.

Caro drank, reaching out for more. Water filled her cupped palms, spilled over, cool and plentiful. Her cheeks were so hot. She could heat a small orphanage through a mild winter with the body heat she was generating.

"You must be Miss Small."

The clipped, aristocratic voice sent her whirling around, choking a little as she failed to stifle a shriek. She saw a heavily muscled man dressed in warm flannels, well bundled despite the mild autumn weather, lips thickened and split, one eye swollen shut.

Two choices: one, she could scream. Someone would come running, maybe even in time to save her from being violated. If she were lucky, the scream might even frighten her attacker away. But he didn't look like the sort of man to frighten easily. He did appear strong enough to throw her over his shoulder and carry her away before help arrived.

Her second choice? Run. Just run.

The stranger had a broad chest, too solid to be called lean, his legs thick as tree trunks. Beautifully made, impressive, but not tall—though he still towered over her. Fine male specimens of his kind couldn't run with any speed. If she dug into her reserves, she'd make it through the doors before he'd gone two paces.

"I think you have the advantage of me, Mr...." Caro backed away toward the gap in the balustrade as she spoke, angling for a straight shot at the door.

"You don't recognize me?" He spoke in a tone of mild curiosity, not affront, in the purest accent she'd ever heard.

A prickle of unease raised gooseflesh along Caro's arms.

A stray moonbeam skated along his pale, sweat-dampened hair. According to the portraits she'd seen on the walls, the dukes of Hastings had for generations boasted uniform, and unusual, coloring—blond hair and light brown eyes. What if this ragged, beat-up figure of a man were a member of the family?

What if he lived at Irongate?

"I'm sorry, I don't." Caro smiled nervously. "You have my permission to introduce yourself."

She took another step toward the door, moving as lightly as she could, but the gravel crunched beneath her heel.

The stranger's gaze dropped straight to her feet. "Running won't do you any good."

"Well, of course you'd say that," Caro snapped. "I think I'll take my chances."

To her surprise, he smiled. Not much—his mouth was too swollen to stretch. Even the attempt opened the split in his bottom lip and sent a thread of fresh blood dribbling down his chin.

Caro's stomach turned, and she shuddered.

"Go on, then." He scowled. "Go back to your room. Lock the door. In future, try to remember that rules are made for a reason. Young ladies who stay in their rooms at night don't have to worry about encountering bloody brutes in a dark garden."

She couldn't tell if terror or disgust kept her guts liquid, only that some devil had decanted strong liquor into her belly, and it would serve her as fuel. But his last sentence, the unabashed bitterness of it, gave her pause.

She tipped her head to the side. Softened her voice a bit. "Do you live here?"

He only glared, and in the silence she heard his labored breathing. Each inhale quick and shallow, then a catch before the slow exhale. He wasn't winded. He was in pain.

Of course he was in pain. He looked like he'd been pulped.

He took a single, deliberate step toward her. And then another.

Her pity fled as quickly as it had come. She forced steel into the exhausted, stinging jelly of her legs and sprinted for the door. She flew across the gravel and took the stairs in a single bound.

Then tripped over the oil lamp she'd left aglow on the terrace. She twisted as she fell and landed on her side, but the impact knocked the wind out of her. She gasped, sucking air faster than her lungs would take it, until her breaths settled back into a regular rhythm. Oh, she'd ache in the morning.

A shadow, a deepening of the blackness all around her, startled her. The stranger. He'd followed her up onto the terrace.

He was even harder to look at from up close. Pinpricks of blood welled in the raw skin of his forehead and cheeks. Black blood ringed the inside of his nostrils.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded.

He bent to pick up the lamp—the glass shade had cracked, but it hadn't shattered or leaked. "Lucky little fool," he muttered, then held out his hand.

It was a big hand, with thick, stubby fingers and bulging, reddened knuckles. She cringed away from it and, before he could get any closer, scrambled to her feet and through the open French door. She closed it, flipped the lock, and ran to the safety of her room.

## Chapter Two

Caro searched out the breakfast room using the same method she'd used to find the ballroom the night before. She set off in an easterly direction, assuming that the room would be positioned to take advantage of the morning light. Breakfast always tasted better with a view to season it.

Breakfast was all about possibilities. No other meal allowed for so much choice—sweet or savory, light or heavy? Tea or coffee? And while enjoying the fruit of these decisions, the whole day waited, unsullied, to be filled up like a plate.

While the gardens she'd glimpsed last night had been geometric and formal, the French doors and massive windows in the breakfast room opened onto a pure pastoral paradise, rolling lawns and islands of bright flowers. In the distance, bright shards of sunlight glanced off the leaves of tall trees as they undulated in the wind.

Daphne Morland, Caro's dearest friend, sat alone at a small round table. Niece to Hastings's long-dead Duchess, she'd ended up as his ward. Corkscrew curls the color of sunshine framed her face, their weightless bounce offsetting the thick, bold sweep of her eyebrows. Dimples sprang to life on her cheeks as she unleashed her smile, big enough to send the unwary reeling from the force of it.

"You're awake!" Daphne rose to her full, imposing height and opened her arms.

Caro stepped into her friend's embrace. Daphne gave the best hugs, firm and uncomplicated.

"And so early!" Daphne held Caro at arm's length, still beaming.

Ever since Caro had taken up ballet, she'd slept better—and less. But gently bred ladies didn't dance ballet, so Caro offered no explanation. "No earlier than you."

Daphne sat again while Caro filled her plate at the buffet. A parlor maid settled a fresh pot of tea between them as Caro took her seat.

"I usually paint in the mornings," explained Daphne as she poured for them both. "By nine o'clock, ten o'clock, the light is too harsh to be any good. I thought I'd be back before you woke or I'd have said something last night when you arrived." Daphne waved a hand. "Never mind. I've already painted every tree on the grounds ten times. You'll only have your first day here once. Why don't we start with a tour?"

"I know how much your painting means to you, Daphne. You don't need to make light of it in front of me." Outside, the pure, colorless light of dawn made the dew-drenched garden glow as though every leaf and flower had been lit from within. "I'd offer to come out with you, but by the time I could fetch a book from my room the best light would have faded. Why don't you go on? I can keep myself busy until you're back."

Daphne spooned a dollop of raspberry preserves onto her sponge cake. She took up her knife and spread the jam with little bravura twists of her wrist.

"This is my first chance to play hostess," she said finally. "I had no idea it would be so difficult."

"Isn't there anyone else to keep me company?" Caro asked. "How many people live here, exactly?"

If she could put a name to the battered stranger she'd met last night, she stood some chance of finding him before he spread the story of their encounter. Better for the both of them if he didn't... or so she'd argue.

"Oh, it's just a few of us. Hastings stays in London, mostly. But his brother, Lord Paul, is in residence."

"And Lady Paul, too?" Caro asked.

Daphne made a face at the mention of her newest aunt.

Only a year ago, Lady Paul had been a penniless beauty who had to wheedle and cheat her way into ton parties. She'd collected many admirers and more than a few proposals, only to marry a widower almost thirty years her senior, a man of no character, no charm, and little physical appeal. He had nothing to recommend himself but his name and his wealth—though in both of these particulars, he far outpaced his competition.

It was a match that ought to have earned Caro's wholehearted endorsement. A woman without money of her own had to be practical. Caro's situation was similar enough that she'd given some thought to the matter. She couldn't name a single personality trait half so appealing as a healthy income.

But Lord Paul? A bathtub full of diamonds couldn't make up for the misery he'd bring on his wife.

"I'll look for her after you've gone," said Caro. "She probably knows all the best local gossip."

"What gossip?" Daphne snorted. "The nearest town is miles away. I did warn you—it can be very quiet, very rustic in the country. There's not nearly enough opportunity for mischief and mayhem here."

"It's possible you're not looking hard enough," suggested Caro, her voice dry.

"Well, that's why I invited you!" Daphne laughed and took a bite of her sponge cake. "I know you'll liven things up. What is it that you like to say?"

"You always have to make your own fun," Caro supplied.

"That's it!"

Caro looked out the window again, to soak up the view, and froze. The cup fell from her fingers with a clatter, tea scalding her fingers and sloshing into the saucer.

"Who is that?" Caro wrapped a napkin around her stinging fingers and nodded at a man who'd emerged at a run from the wood. He wore loose flannels and pumped his legs with the steady rhythm of an experienced athlete.

She couldn't make out his face at this distance, but she recognized that compact, powerful body at a single glance. His thighs bunched and released with each stride; she could hardly imagine the strength necessary to keep such a dense, muscular body in motion at that pace.

"That's Adam," Daphne chirped. "Lord Bexley, I mean. Caro? Is something the matter?"

She gripped the table to hold herself steady as little spots of light swam before her eyes.

The autocratic brute had been Lord Bexley?

Adam Spark, Earl of Bexley and heir to the Duke of Hastings, had seen her wearing her scandalously revealing, bare-armed, bare-calved practice outfit? Designed according to Carlos Blasis's exact specifications, of course, but Bexley wouldn't care. He'd remember her naked skin and nighttime wanderings and he'd conclude that Caro wasn't a fit companion for his cousin.

"That's Lord Bexley?" Caro blurted, just to make words come out of her mouth.

"I know he looks terrifying. It's all the boxing. He trains day and night, hasn't sat down to supper with us in months." Daphne settled her empty teacup into its saucer, looking a little lost. "He's really quite sweet."

"Sweet," Caro repeated. They couldn't be talking about the same person.

"He is. And he's so looking forward to meeting you." Daphne clasped her hands together at her breast, her tone a little too bright. "When I told him about Everill's pox, he was so grateful."

"Daphne, you didn't." Caro wilted. Worse and worse. During the Season, Daphne had received a proposal from George Teague, Lord Everill and heir to the Earl of Ullman. Thanks to her older brothers, Caro knew that Everill had contracted a venereal disease.

She'd hesitated to share the information with her friend. Any link between her own name and sordid, sexual gossip about the young bucks of London could ruin her reputation. No gently bred young lady should ever hear, let alone understand, such a filthy rumor.

In the end, loyalty had won out over self-preservation. She'd told Daphne about Everill's pox—and made her promise never to tell anyone why she'd refused his offer.

"I tried!" Daphne slapped the table, her voice shrill. "Believe me, I tried. I told him I didn't like Everill's big nose, that he was a poor dancer and hadn't any sense of romance." Daphne, who'd leaned forward as she catalogued Everill's faults, slumped back in her chair with a sigh. "I can't lie to Adam. He always knows."

"People don't just know things, Daphne. It's a useful trick, this pretense of omniscience that some people put on, but it's not real."

"Adam does," Daphne said darkly. "You'll see."

"What if he tells tales?"

"Who will he tell?" A trace of bitterness crept into Daphne's tone. "He's cut himself off from the world."

"I know Lord Bexley doesn't visit London very often." She'd assumed that he preferred country life and did his socializing during the endless rounds of visits most aristocrats made, at house parties and hunts.

"Ever since—" Daphne paused, glancing around the empty room as though someone might be listening in through the walls. "I can't explain now, but once I do you'll understand. Adam doesn't have anyone to tell."

Caro wasn't reassured.

"I've upset you," said Daphne. Worry pooled in her cornflower blue eyes. Her thick, slashing eyebrows had leveled.

Caro steadied herself. "You told him about Everill and Lord Bexley still allowed you to invite me for a visit?"

"You saved me, Caro. He understands that."

He might be grateful for Caro's intervention now, but eventually gratitude would give way to concern. After last night? Never mind eventually, she'd be gone before the week was out.

"I'm sure everything will be fine." Caro produced her most confident smile. "You should be off. Daylight is wasting."

"You truly don't mind if I go paint?"

"Of course not," Caro assured her. "You know me. I'm never bored."

"Thank you." Daphne skipped over to plant a kiss on Caro's cheek before gathering her things. "For tolerating me. You are such a wonderful friend."

Caro abandoned the breakfast room to the maids waiting to clean up. She wandered from room to room, only half paying attention to the wonders within: tall galleries stacked with paintings from floor to ceiling, waist-high urns of lapis lazuli, a room whose walls were clad entirely in glittering cloth-of-silver. A healthy man could spend twenty minutes walking the corridors of Irongate from end to end, and yet every room she entered displayed the concentrated magnificence of a cabinet of wonders.

She meandered through an observatory, a music room, and a sculpture garden before arriving at the orangery. Sunlight poured through skylights overhead. Huge windows, one after another, pierced the exterior walls. The whole room seemed to be made of glass.

Caro plucked a ripe orange from one of the trees, dug her nails into the rind and savored the bitter scent as she collected bits of peel in her hand.

Red-bellied coal stoves radiated heat into the humid air. Caro counted four before she reached the open center of the greenhouse, where a long, rectangular pool stretched out underneath a high dome. Painted Italian tiles lined the interior with bright color, lemon yellow and cobalt blue.

Caro pulled off one of her slippers and toed the water. Cool and dense, it exerted a pleasant pressure on her foot.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching her, Caro lay down on the terra-cotta tiles—she found them warmer than the air, heated from below somehow—and thrust her arm into the water, almost up to the shoulder. She traced the painted designs with her fingers, then closed her eyes and imagined an Italian summer. It would feel like this, she thought, at once exotic and peaceful, and smell like oranges.

A murmur of noise pulled her out of her reverie. Voices, cooing and intimate, triggered a habit so deeply ingrained Caro didn't second-guess it. She jumped to her feet, stepped into her slippers, snatched up her shawl and retreated down a row of orange trees, crouching amidst the leaves. Out of sight, holding her breath even, before she stopped to wonder what she was about.

Her father wasn't here to drag a light-skirts through the public rooms and then scold her for having dared to witness it. Viscount Emlyn hated it when she "embarrassed him"; he never seemed to feel shame on his own.

She peeked out from her hiding spot at the couple approaching the pool. A woman with the face of an angel and lush curves that would have made Titian weep accompanied a tall, elegant man whose pale curling hair shone gold in the morning light.

Caro recognized them both: nineteen-year-old Lady Paul and her twenty-two-year-old son-in-law, Mr. Matthew Spark.

Lady Paul wore a dress of sky-blue silk dyed to match her eyes, with little cap sleeves draped loosely over her sloping shoulders and a plunging décolletage that left most of her magnificent bosom bare. A diamond pendant winked from the depths of her cleavage and diamond earbobs sparkled at her lobes. Diamond-studded combs glinted from the pile of honey-brown hair atop her head and jeweled rings glittered on almost every plump white finger.

"Not now, Matthew," pleaded Lady Paul, though her high, breathy voice seemed to imply the opposite. She'd been blessed with soft, petal-pink lips, the upper one much fuller than the lower. She glanced down, directing Matthew's attention to her breasts, and licked that full upper lip as his gaze dropped. "Please. I just dressed, and—"

"You can change your clothes," growled Matthew Spark. Golden hair fluffed around the crown of his head like fairy floss, the fine threads vibrating with the intensity of his emotion.

Matthew drew Lady Paul close. Though her fashionable gown featured a tight bodice and narrow, corseted waist, its skirts belled wide over layers of petticoats. Caro stifled a giggle as Matthew tried to fondle Lady Paul's rear end and fisted handfuls of fabric instead.

"I know you want it." Matthew gave up on reaching Lady Paul's bottom and shifted one hand between them, the movement of his elbow suggesting he'd found some new goal. "Here. Squeeze."

Their bodies sheltered what happened next from Caro's view. Fabric rustled. Matthew sucked in air through his teeth. "That's right. God, Lilbet. I need you so badly."

"What if I just—"

"No," interrupted Matthew, catching Lady Paul's upper lip between his teeth and... biting it? Caro shivered, not as repulsed as she should have been.

Lady Paul whimpered, the sound sharp with pain.

"The blue bedroom," urged Matthew. "Hurry."

The pair of them continued out of the orangery, allowing Caro to emerge from her hiding place. She felt as if a strong wind might blow her to pieces. She'd thought herself jaded, but she could hardly believe that Lady Paul had embarked upon her first liaison less than a year after her marriage, and with her stepson.

If Caro had had the same opportunities... if she'd been invited into the family that owned this fine estate...

She stopped those thoughts before they could bloom into something even uglier. If Robin were here, he'd remind her that no good ever came of envy.

Reminded of her brother, Caro made the long hike back to her room to pick up her portable desk. She carried it to the library, a rectangular room whose creamy groin-vaulted ceiling arched over walls lined with packed bookshelves. A long, narrow table ran down the center and she took a seat near the middle, settling the desk in front of her chair and flipping the clasp.

Folding the top over transformed the box into a writing slope. The base contained a small storage space from which she extracted a steel-nibbed pen, a bottle of Iron & Wine's best iron-gall black ink, and several blank sheets of paper. She owed Robin a letter.

She assured him that she'd arrived at Irongate safely. She wrote about making the journey to Sussex in the Duke of Hastings's lavish private carriage, about the glories of Irongate and the pleasure of seeing Daphne again. Scenes and events Robin would enjoy imagining. With the fall term at Winchester about to begin, he'd soon have troubles of his own. She'd spare him the added burden of her worries.

Everything Caro loved about Robin caused him pain at school. He was small and delicate, and the bullies punished him for it. He wore glasses with lenses thicker than some books Caro had read and they ended up broken almost every term. Robin was so careful of the spectacles—they took forever to replace, and their father always balked at the expense—that Caro knew, even if Robin wouldn't admit it, that his classmates shattered them on purpose.

Caro dipped her nib and scraped the excess ink from the lip of the bottle. "Daphne has promised to arrange introductions with the neighborhood's eligible young men," she wrote, though, of course, Daphne had not promised to do any such thing. But she would, just as soon as Caro had a chance to convince her. "Perhaps my stay in the country will spare me the necessity and expense of a second Season."

Caro was the last of the Small siblings to receive a portion at birth, funds guaranteed by her mother's marriage contract and supplied largely from her mother's dower. The money tied up in Caro's portion constituted the last of her family's wealth; her older brothers, Reginald and Bertrand, had inherited upon reaching their majorities and immediately embarked on spending sprees. Robin, born too late, had nothing.

Though Caro couldn't draw from her portion at will, her trustees could—if they approved of the expense. But the trustees looked far more kindly on requests from Caro's father than Caro herself, and therein lay the first of her problems.

She'd started out with twenty-five thousand pounds. Five thousand of it had been spent so she could have a Season. Half of it on outfitting herself to move about in high society. She'd wanted to remind the ton that whatever they might think of her immediate family, she was the daughter of a viscount.

The other half had gone straight to her father. He'd refused to request any funds from the trustees until she agreed to split any monies they released.

Now she had twenty thousand pounds left. Invested in the five-percents, she'd still bring one thousand a year. A respectable sum. Sufficient, she'd hoped, to soothe the practical relations of marriage-minded young men besotted by her feminine charms.

But potential husbands who could be satisfied by one thousand a year would, she suspected, balk at nine hundred. And though economizing could reduce the expense of a second Season, she knew her father. He'd want more, rather than less, in exchange for putting another request through to the trustees.

In short: her dowry could ill afford a second Season.

The door swung open, revealing the Earl of Bexley at the threshold. In the light filtering through the windows, she could make out his features much better than the night before. Especially color: sandy hair, eyes like brandy reflected through a cut-glass decanter, and bow-shaped lips, red and fat around his healing cut.

"Miss Small," he said, in that cold, clipped voice.

"Lord Bexley." Caro jumped to her feet and curtseyed. "Good morning."

"No need to stand."

Diamonds winked at his cuffs. A ruby stickpin pierced his cravat, made of silk so thick and supple it looked like whipped cream, halfway down the road to becoming butter. The mellow, burnished gold of his signet ring reflected off patent leather boots polished to a mirror shine.

She could hardly credit the transformation.

A jolt of recognition rocked her as he walked toward her across the wood parquet floor. Underneath the fine clothes, his body remained the same. No grace, but great economy of movement. This man was no leaping gazelle—he was the crashing avalanche it fled.

He cocked an eyebrow, nostrils flaring. She'd been so busy ogling him that she hadn't paid any notice when he dropped something at her feet. She glanced down at his prompting and saw the wrapper she'd worn the night before spilling from the top of a drawstring sack.

Bexley smiled coolly, folding his arms across his chest. "You've been busy. Not yet ten o'clock and you've already put a name to my face."

She traced little circles on the tabletop with her index finger, giving Bexley her profile. A wistful pose that made her look vulnerable, innocent. "I'm sorry we met under such inauspicious circumstances."

"Delicately phrased," he said. "But I want an explanation. What did you think you were doing, wandering at night through the gardens of an estate with which you are entirely unfamiliar?"

"I couldn't sleep." She ducked her head apologetically. "I hoped that a stroll in the gardens might prove soothing."

"Half-naked?"

"I didn't expect to meet anyone along the way." Caro hesitated. "I'm sure you agree the incident is best forgotten."

"A secret between us?" Bexley asked.

Caro looked up, eager to agree, but held her tongue at his cold expression.

"I am not your accomplice, Miss Small." He tipped his head closer. "And this is your last warning. Don't go wandering the grounds at night."

"I won't." Caro felt her shoulders inching up toward her ears and forced them down, reminding herself to be graceful and pleasing at all times. Bexley caught the movement. His glittering gaze skated along her collarbone, dipped down to skim the line of her décolletage. "Thank you for the warning."

He reached for the letter Caro had been writing and pulled the sheet of foolscap close with one gloved finger so he could scan the text. "No mention of insomnia here. Not a word about the gardens, or me. You seem to struggle with honesty."

"Is that your recommendation?" Caro looked up at him through her lashes, unable to resist the tease. "Honesty?"

He raised his eyes from the paper. "That was an observation, Miss Small. About you, and your character, about which I have my doubts."

"On what account?"

"Lord Everill," Bexley replied. "I believe the name is familiar?"

"He and my brothers are acquainted."

More precisely: they visited the same whorehouses. Not the sort of thing Caro ought to know, but her older brothers believed that they shouldn't have to moderate their language at home, and so they didn't. For years, Caro had been privy to London's filthiest gossip.

"Closely acquainted, if you are to be believed," Bexley prompted.

"My second-eldest brother, Reginald, was worried because he and Everill frequent the same bawdy houses. He discussed his fears with my eldest brother, Bertrand."

"No dalliance you're trying to hide? No bitter discovery?"

"Why does everyone assume that exposure to depravity makes me vulnerable to it?" Caro asked. "I assure you, Lord Bexley, that the truth could not be more different."

"You induced Daphne to lie."

"I only thought to help her."

"You succeeded." Bexley paused, then added, "You saved Daphne from marriage to a man with an incurable disease. You preserved her health and her children's health. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

"You do?"

"That's why I'm speaking to you now, instead of sending you home. I don't care how much my cousin dotes upon you—the moment I feel your acquaintance does more harm than good, I will make sure you never meet again. Do you understand?"

"I understand." She did. In the Duke of Hastings's absence, Bexley had de facto control over his father's holdings: that meant Irongate, but also Daphne. He had near-total control over Caro, for so long as she remained a guest.

"Then welcome to Irongate. Good day, Miss Small."

Bexley turned on his heel, leaving as abruptly as he'd arrived.

The door clicked shut and Caro sat back down to finish her letter to Robin, but her hands shook so badly that she couldn't dip the pen. Rage, fear, some combination of the two. Caro waited for the tremors to stop.

The fear faded. The rage didn't.

This man—this hard, mercurial man—would not take away her best friend. She didn't have so many that she could afford to lose a single one.

Caro gripped the bone shaft of her pen and dipped the steel nib into the ink. The Earl of Bexley is in residence at Irongate, she wrote, her hand steady. He is a hard man, too strict to approve of me. I know what advice you would offer, if you were here: you'd tell me to be kind and patient, to wear him down like water over stone. She rolled the pen between her fingers to keep the ink from dripping while she composed her thoughts.

Many gentlemen liked to box. It was a popular pastime amongst men from all walks of life. Both her older brothers enjoyed the sport, but she'd never seen either bruised and bloody as Bexley had been the night before. They fought with mufflers on, as gentlemen were supposed to. The layers of thick padding in the gloves prevented unsightly injuries to the hands or face, two features whose care and maintenance were critical markers of gentle birth. Only prizefighters and men of the lower classes fought bare-knuckled.

Prizefighters, men of the lower classes... and Lord Bexley?

Daphne spoke of Bexley's boxing with enthusiasm. Caro didn't think her friend would be so sanguine about it if she knew he'd been fighting bare-knuckled. She'd have dodged the subject or tried to explain away his irregular behavior. She hadn't done either.

So the Earl of Bexley had a secret, and he went to great lengths to keep it. Why else would he sneak away from Irongate in the middle of the night to fight? If he could restrict himself to fighting like a gentleman, he'd do it on the grounds of the estate, in daylight.

He probably practiced with his mufflers on here and then, when nobody was looking, slipped away in those common clothes to find the fights he really craved—dangerous fights, the kind that resulted in serious injury and disfigurement.

Sometimes death.

A plan began to form in Caro's mind. If he tried to put an end to her friendship with Daphne, she could have some leverage with which to change his mind.

But if I have taken his measure correctly, Bexley is made of steel rather than stone, and immune to such gentle persuasion, she wrote. She didn't need to tell Robin that she contemplated a course of action he'd advise against. He was too intelligent to miss the implication.

I'm frightened, she added, scrawling her name and blotting the sheet before she could think better of her admission.

## Chapter Three

Adam Spark, Earl of Bexley, left Irongate on foot a little before sunset. His destination lay more than an hour's walk away, a time he could cut into a third or less on horseback, but where he was going nobody knew he could afford a single horse, let alone a whole stable full of them. He intended to keep it that way. The navvies might tolerate Lord Bexley as a patron, but they'd have no interest in him as a pugilist.

He ate a dry biscuit as he walked, a poor sop to his incessant hunger. Mick, his trainer, said he needed to drop at least half a stone, a full one if he could manage it.

Truth be told, he liked the self-denial. There wasn't much in the world that a duke's son couldn't afford. Oh, he could make an endless list of things that couldn't be purchased. Love, for example, or a natural twenty-one at vingt-et-un.

He'd been raised to believe that he couldn't afford to forget his station. Rank had to be announced, maintained, ritualized. A title alone wouldn't raise him above his peers; he had to build the pedestal and climb atop it.

Nor could he afford to neglect his responsibilities. Like Daphne. Ever since he learned the real reason she'd turned down Lord Everill's marriage proposal, he'd wondered what to do about her new friend, Miss Caroline Small.

Daphne wanted to save Miss Small from her family. Adam wanted to save his family from Miss Small.

But—Christ. He'd never seen anything more beautiful than her slim silhouette, arms upraised as she filled her cupped hands with water from the fountain. And the way she moved, graceful and lithe, the angle of her head and the slope of her shoulders so perfect they filled him with a violent, soul-deep yearning.

How could she be so reckless? Catching her outside had been like watching someone knock delicate porcelain vases off a tabletop—Be careful with that! he'd wanted to shout—with the small difference that pottery didn't give him an erection.

Bonfires in the old Roman amphitheater made the ruin glow like a massive torch, golden light and smoke swirling up into the twilight. The navvies gathered in clumps around the crumbling stone walls, talking and smoking in the cool evening.

A carnival atmosphere reigned inside. Local entrepreneurs sold beer in tin steins, hot pasties and fragrant sugared nuts wrapped in pockets made of old newspapers. Two men naked to the waist fought on a raised wooden platform, seconds and referee hovering around the flimsy rail. Adam recognized one of them as George Tailor, the other as a frequent spectator, Samuel Knotts.

Knotts carried too much weight. Serious boxers ate daintily as a fine lady, careful of every morsel. Weight was the most basic, perhaps most powerful advantage a man could have in a fight, but sooner or later fat became his enemy. Street fights tended to be short and nasty. No harm in bulk there. But a boxing match could last for twenty rounds, and by that time, a man's own carcass hung on him like a side of beef. Carrying it around got tiring, and fast.

The crowd jeered when Knotts fell to Tailor's fists and took his count, using up every last second of his breather before he stood. The two men took their places at the chalk square at the center of the ring to begin the next set-to.

Adam wound his way into the press of bodies, scanning the familiar faces to guess who'd step up next. Tailor had been undefeated for weeks and every victory scared away a few more of his potential opponents.

Knotts slowed, breathed in erratic gulps, lurched when he needed to dodge. He took another tumble and, this time, he didn't rise. The referee called the fight in Tailor's favor.

Knotts's second hauled his charge to his feet, slung an arm around Knotts's waist and dragged him off the stage.

"You," called Tailor, then added, "Mumbles."

Adam raised his eyebrows and tapped his chest. Most of the navvies called him Mumbles. He'd never learn to mimic their rough accent. The mumble he'd adopted made an acceptable substitute—it required no great skill, and as an added bonus, people rarely encouraged him to speak.

"Your turn," barked Tailor.

Tailor weighed at least thirty pounds more than Adam and had clocked more hours in the ring. Fighting him would be foolish. Adam would lose, and he already wore more bruises than he could easily explain to his family.

Adam shook his head.

"Go on, Mumbles. I'll second you." Big Tom shoved his back and climbed onto the stage.

Adam pointed to Big Tom's mouth and shook his head again.

"Aye, I lost my teeth to Tailor." Big Tom opened wide to display the gaps, setting off a chorus of hoots and whistles from the onlookers. "And I'm bigger'n 'e is. George Tailor ain't no pastry cook."

Adam glanced around. The crowd at the ring had turned its attention to him, expectant. A spark of defiance flared in his breast. Maybe his family would notice. Let them. Maybe the time had come for him to stop pretending. For better or worse, he'd changed, and this was what he'd become. Adam stripped down to his waist and climbed onto the wooden platform in Big Tom's wake.

Tailor's exhaustion would work in Adam's favor, but it would be the only advantage he had, and not much of one at that. Barrel-chested and short-legged, with a lantern jaw that shielded his neck in an armor of bone, Tailor soaked up punches like a thirsty sponge. And despite his size, he boasted incredible stamina—bottom, the devotees called it.

The traditionalists thought it unmanly to dodge a punch. In their opinion, the only right way to win a boxing match was to stand at the center of the ring and exchange blows until someone collapsed. And then do it again, and again, until the loser refused to get up. Adam preferred the model set by Broughton, the first great boxer to embrace novelties like blocks and parries.

To win against Tailor, Adam would need strategy. He wouldn't be able to wear Tailor out, nor could he topple the bigger, heavier man with pure strength. Instead he blocked Tailor's attacks with his forearm and focused his attention between Tailor's eyes. Experienced fighters tended not to aim for the head; not much to hit there but bone, and bare-knuckled, it was very easy for a man to wreck his own hands before he'd even dazed his opponent.

So Adam kept his punches light, careful of his hands. Tailor unleashed a fury of body-blows, forcing Adam to retreat. His bruised ribs screamed with pain, his lungs threatened to seize, but he succeeded in opening up a cut on Tailor's forehead.

Adam worked the cut until it gushed—head wounds were like that—but Tailor shook like a wet dog, releasing a spray of blood and spittle. When they locked gazes next, it was clear he'd twigged to Adam's plan. Before blood could blind him again, Tailor swung hard. Adam blocked a jab headed for his diaphragm, but wasn't fast enough to dodge the fist Tailor drove into his neck, just below his ear.

The next thing he knew Big Tom was hauling him out of the ring. Adam stopped himself before he opened his mouth and produced words, lifted his head and winced with the pain of it. He felt seasick.

"Mumbles."

Adam blinked. Who did that voice belong to? Not Big Tom, whose lips hadn't moved. Or, at least, he didn't think they'd moved. Hard to tell when he was seeing double.

Someone thumped him on the back and then George Tailor's head filled his field of vision, his already ugly face disfigured by lumps and smears of blood.

"You're a good fighter," said Tailor. "But you're holding back. Plans and strategies... sure, we all need 'em. If you want to play with the big boys, though, you got to get mean. You want to win? Fight to kill."

Tom dropped Adam on a bench. A few people offered beer and liquor, but Adam waved them away. He turned over Tailor's advice in his head while he pulled his shirt back on, followed by his flannel coat and scarf. It sounded too much like something his father would say, and he didn't want to hear it.

Once his neck and chest were well wrapped, Adam started the long walk home. Woozy and cotton-headed as he was after a knock-out, he walked right up to a tree that he usually used as a landmark, far to the west of where he ought to be. Checking his bearings, he spotted a tiny figure scurrying along ahead of him, her trail pointing like a compass toward Irongate.

Tiny. Not just tiny—small, as in, Miss Small. She'd followed him?

## Chapter Four

Glad the walk had kept his legs warm, Adam pushed himself into a slow run to get ahead of Miss Small. She wore her hair in a coil at the base of her neck and a pelisse to guard against the evening chill but no bulky skirts to fill it out. Had she once again donned that scandalous outfit he'd seen the night before?

He'd never laid eyes on a more breakable female. Petite, fine-boned. She might as well be made of spun sugar. How close had she come to the amphitheater? Could she even begin to fathom the risk she'd taken?

Keeping out of sight, Adam circled around in front of her. Anger hardened in his chest like the pit of a fruit. Get mean? Christ, if he couldn't scare a bit of self-preservation into this scrap of a female, no wonder Tailor found him lacking in the ring. A hot flare of shame and anger licked up his spine.

"I admit I am surprised to see you out of doors, Miss Small," he said, stepping out from a copse of trees so suddenly she squawked. "I distinctly remember hearing you promise that you would abide by the rules of the house. After our encounter last night, I'd worried that an additional warning would be unnecessary. And yet here you are, even farther afield."

"What did you think I'd do?" She took a few mincing steps away from him, raising one arm defensively.

He ought to feel ashamed but she moved with such unearthly grace, elbow bent, palm facing inward and fingers gently curved until she'd lifted her hand to breast height. Then she flipped it around, stop!, like the beginning of some Spanish dance that mimed rejection while a trio of musicians played to the rhythm of sex. "Let you bully me as you please, when you have secrets of your own to hide?"

Adam snorted. "Are you threatening me?"

"Not yet." Her voice thinned while her dark eyes narrowed. By God, though, what eyes: slanted over high cheekbones, eyelids a straight slash fringed by thick lashes.

"You poor girl." The hard kernel of anger pulsed in his chest, ready to sprout. Adam buried it under a layer of frost. He felt the muscles in his face relax into more familiar shapes—cool, supercilious. The heir. His father's son. When he spoke, pity colored his voice. "Try to imagine what happens next. You attempt to blackmail me. I refuse to accede to your demands. It's time for you to act on your threats. What do you do, where do you go?"

She shivered, fear rippling through her body in a twitchy little wave. She ought to be relieved. He didn't know what to do with the strange mixture of panic and lust she stirred in him so easily. This role, however, he could play to perfection.

Get mean? Tailor ought to have a talk with Adam's father. A war hero who'd fought at the battle of Waterloo and lived to tell the tale, his father didn't just fight to kill—he had killed. And he didn't seem to feel much regret about it, either.

"I will share with you a lesson I learned from my father, which I have found useful." Most of his father's lessons were useful, which made them all the more repellent. "Never make a threat that you cannot carry through. You must be willing and able. If you falter once in this equation, you will cease to project any menace, and the only real value of a threat lies in its menace."

"Your secret is bigger than mine." Her voice resembled a reed flute; as it escalated to the higher registers, it concentrated into a trembling whistle.

"That doesn't matter. You have more to lose."

She had everything to lose. Adam squinted, saw the whites ringing the girl's irises, her shallow breaths. He swore.

"You're terrified, aren't you?" Because he was behaving like a villain. Christ. What was wrong with him? "Come along. I'll walk you back to Irongate."

She skittered away, unwilling to get within three feet of him, so Adam started forward. He turned his head toward Miss Small just a bit, not enough to look her directly in the face but enough to see that she followed.

"Tell me something, Miss Small." Adam hammered the edge out of his voice, tried to sound conversational. "What would you do, if you were in my position?"

She didn't reply immediately so he pressed on. "If you found out your favorite cousin had formed a friendship with a girl whose direct relations are sliding into disrepute, familiar with topics no girl should understand, who runs about outdoors at night half-naked and thinks blackmail is an acceptable way to achieve her ends in life?"

She wilted a little, drooping around the shoulders and dragging her feet. The pelisse she wore left her ankles bare, so he could see the way she trailed her toes along the ground between each step.

God help him, he found it adorable.

"I'd send me home."

Adam stopped in his tracks, surprised. She slowed to a halt in front of him, like a clock winding down, and kept her head low.

"Have you ever noticed that Daphne doesn't lie very well?" Adam asked.

She smiled a little at that. Indulgent, affectionate. Answer enough—she'd noticed.

"Every day she had a new reason for disliking Everill," Adam continued. "First it was his clumsy dancing. Next his big nose. She even complained about his choice of tailor. She thought we'd believe her vanity got in the way of an excellent match. But Daphne is too kind to think that way, and everyone knew it."

"Everyone but Daphne." Miss Small laughed, a breathy sound, and Adam felt an answering warmth loosening his own clenched muscles. "That's half her charm."

"What do you think of Daphne, Miss Small?"

"Pardon?" She looked up to meet his eyes and he wished she hadn't, because he immediately fixated on her lips. Pillowy, wide, a matched set but for the shallow dip at the center of her full upper lip.

"What's your opinion of her, as a person?"

"She's—" Miss Small closed her eyes, totally unselfconscious. "Like a butterfly. Bright, joyful, frivolous in a way that makes you think the word might be a compliment. She's a brilliant painter and she knows it, and she's not embarrassed that she knows. There's a purity to her pride that I admire. She's kind." Eyes fluttering open, Miss Small's lips curved in the smallest, sweetest smile. "I know she's made a pet of me; I'm flattered."

"That's a very"—loving, true to life—"diplomatic portrait."

"She can be flighty, and selfish, and insecure." A jaunty little hop of Miss Small's shoulders followed this list of Daphne's failings, each as apt as her compliments had been. "We all have faults."

Looking away—if he kept staring at her face, he'd start talking about it, too—Adam resumed their walk toward Irongate, moving slowly until Miss Small fell into place at his side.

"Let's make a fresh start," he proposed.

"Pardon?"

"I could judge you by your family, but you've met Paul. I won't damn you by a standard that I couldn't apply to my own relations. So I will judge you by your actions. Whatever your faults, you've put Daphne's happiness ahead of your own more than once since you've known her, and life doesn't give us many such friends."

When Miss Small didn't reply, Adam prompted, "Penny for your thoughts?"

"This morning Daphne told me you were sweet, and I very nearly laughed in her face." Miss Small slanted a glance in his direction, suddenly kittenish. Smiling and playful. "But now I see what she meant."

"So you agree?"

"To make a fresh start? Certainly. I hadn't hoped to gain half so much by blackmailing you."

Adam laughed out loud, caught off guard. Miss Small's lips twitched in response. He almost reached out to touch her, tug her close enough to feel the fizzle of her vibrant energy, capture the plush silken softness of her lips between his teeth. An unwelcome stirring of conscience held him back.

"And you'll cease these nighttime excursions?"

She shrugged her thin shoulders and looked away.

"If you can't stop, explain to me what it is you were really up to last night." At this point, he expected her silence, and didn't wait long before he began to cajole her out of it. "You know my secret, can yours be much worse?"

"I dance."

"Dance?"

"Ballet. I know it's not seemly, but I—"

"Need it," Adam finished.

He understood. Just as it was fashionable for noblemen to attend prizefights but simply not done for them to participate, a gently bred lady might enjoy attending a ballet but should never dream of becoming a ballerina.

"That's right," she agreed.

They continued on in silence for a few minutes. A sense of mutual understanding warmed him. The only other person who knew he visited the arena was his trainer, Mick, who'd spent most of his life in that world. Miss Small might not have been his choice, but he was glad someone else knew his secret. Glad to have hers in return.

"Use my boxing studio," Adam offered.

"I'm sorry?" She glanced up again, a darting, pixieish twist of her head. At least now he understood how she came by her unearthly grace.

"It offers the space and privacy you seek. It will also provide the security I require. I don't use the studio late at night, and even in daylight hardly anyone ever ventures inside."

He listened to the whispering rustle of her footsteps on the grass—the girl couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds sopping wet. He'd always hated standing toe to toe with women who barely had to look up to meet his eyes, but all of a sudden he felt pity for tall men.

He was just the right height for her, and she was perfect.

She came to a halt. As though tugged by a string, Adam pulled up short on his next step. She looked at him, tilting her face into the moonlight. Adam found himself transfixed by her hands, the way she spread her fingers and bent them backward like little roots stretching toward the earth.

"You're going to... help me?"

"If I were your father, or your husband, I might ask myself whether you should dance ballet. I'd certainly be wondering how you learned it. But I'm neither of those things." Adam rolled his shoulders to smooth out a sudden tightness and resumed his walk. "I am, however, responsible for your safety. You were truly in danger tonight, Miss Small. If you got close enough to understand exactly how much—"

"I was close enough to see you fight."

Adam stopped, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He liked to believe the friends he'd made at the arena incapable of dishonorable behavior, but he could only maintain this delusion so long as he avoided situations likely to shatter it.

"Why do you do it?" she asked.

Adam opened his eyes and looked over, dropping his hand down to rub along his jaw. "I'd think you of all people would understand."

She just blinked at him, but the prim line of her mouth told him the direction of her thoughts.

"Why do you dance?"

"Dancing makes me feel powerful. In control. Like—I don't know—a watchmaker—and my body is the watch—and some people say God is like a watchmaker—"

"So dancing makes you feel like God?"

"Yes. No. I don't know, maybe a little." She folded her arms beneath her breasts and hunched her shoulders, tipping her chin into her chest. "I don't mean it like that."

"Like what?" Adam snorted. "Blasphemy?"

"It's just. So, God the watchmaker." She raised her arms and let her hands illustrate her words as she spoke, enthusiastic despite herself. "He builds the whole universe"— she mimed a child stacking blocks—"and he winds it up"—the fingers of one hand twisted while the other held her imaginary watch steady—"and lets it go, and then..." She flicked her fingers wide, miming a starburst. "Everything works!"

She glanced in his direction, something sad and solemn in her expression. "Except that the universe is nothing like a watch. It can't be. It's full of living things."

It occurred to Adam that this seventeen-year-old girl had what he wanted most in the world: a perfect communion between mind and body. Her thoughts didn't get stuck in her mind, her feelings didn't get stuck in her heart. Her whole body participated, interpreted, expressed—and it did so eloquently.

"So it's about imposing order on chaos?"

"Perfect order." She met his eyes and left her arms at her sides. There was something almost eerie about her breathy, panpiping voice. "A perfect order."

Irongate loomed ahead, a square and black against the ashen twilight glow. The place where his escort would end, and he'd leave Miss Small for the evening. Adam wasn't sure whether he wanted to speed up, get it over with, or slow down and stretch out their last moments together.

"You're right," he said. "That's nothing at all like my reasons for boxing."

"So tell me."

"It's simple. You need more order in your life. I need less."

"That's it?" She threw up her hands—the conductor of an orchestra now, annoyed at a musician who'd played the wrong note. "Your whole explanation?"

Adam smiled faintly. "Dancing is an art, Miss Small. You aren't the first to explore its mystic possibilities. A man I admire once called boxing a science—the sweet science, he wrote. Scientists do not compose odes to their chemicals, and practitioners of the sweet science, in general, do not rhapsodize about milling."

"A science?" She flicked her hands now—the conductor tossing his baton away and ready to storm out of the pit. "Where's the science in... in punching people, and knocking their teeth out? How much intelligence does it require to make a fist and swing?"

Adam shrugged and kept walking.

"No answer?" Miss Small skipped ahead and whirled around—or was that a pirouette?—walking backward so she could face him. "So you acknowledge that this scientific babble is nonsense? Because if you won't even try to explain—"

"It's because I encourage your sour attitude." Adam grinned. His arms swung loose at his sides and the tightness had drained out of his shoulders. "I'd just as soon, Miss Small, that you never developed an appreciation for boxing."

"Well if you don't say something, I vow I'll walk away from this encounter with a very poor opinion of men who like to rattle one another's brains for a hobby. That can't be healthful."

"Then allow me to correct one obvious error in your argument. The head is generally the last place a man wants to direct his blows. It's too hard and well defended by bone."

"But all you did was hit your opponent in the head."

"And I lost, didn't I?"

"So why do it that way?"

Adam narrowed his eyes and hazarded an honest answer. If he repelled her, so much the better. "I hoped to blind him in a river of his own blood."

Miss Small stopped dead in her tracks, mouth open.

"That's... that's savage."

"I know." Adam pointed to the doors leading into the south hall, the entrance nearest to her bedroom. "Try to keep that in mind the next time you feel like following me."

## Chapter Five

Caro flexed her feet under the breakfast table and stared vacantly into the garden. She'd never been more confused in her life. Bexley had sneered at her flattery. Mocked her attempt at blackmail. And then, when she'd thought everything lost, he'd softened toward her. Talked to her about dancing. Sympathized with her.

It made no sense.

"Oh, good, you're here," called Daphne, breezing through the door.

Caro started so badly she lost contact with her chair. Collecting herself, she murmured a greeting as Daphne assembled a light breakfast from the buffet table and took a seat, then pointed at the satchel she'd prepared. "Present. And ready, this time."

"Don't be too sure of that." Daphne flashed her dimples. "I've got a surprise for you. Eat quickly."

They set out through the French doors only a few minutes later, tromping through the grass. Dew dampened the thin soles of Caro's kid half boots and soaked her stockings, weighting down the hem of her dress. Daphne carried her easel folded under one arm, setting such a rapid pace that Caro had to skip to keep up.

"Slow down! My legs aren't so long as yours."

"I'm being terribly rude, aren't I?" Daphne slowed, her attention veering north to the break in the woods where Bexley had appeared the day before. "I saw Adam running in this direction from my window while I was getting dressed. We have to cross into the woods before he sees where we're headed."

"We're sneaking out? Why didn't you say so?" Caro leapt ahead and whirled around, hopping backward a few feet in advance of Daphne. "Are we going to do something dangerous?"

"If you think peacocks are dangerous, then yes."

"They might be. A goose attacked me once. It was horrible." Caro propped her knuckles under her chin and tapped her nose. "But I sense you aren't frightened by peacocks. What else could it be? Are we going to go spy on the navvies?"

"Heavens, no. Who told you about the navvies?"

"My maid, Louise."

"She's a marvel. I'd steal her away if I liked you any less. But I hope she was warning you away—they're a rough lot."

Caro whirled again and fell in at Daphne's side, trotting to keep up with the taller girl's long strides. "Aren't you curious? I'd like to see a railroad."

"I am, but—" Daphne laughed. "Of course you'd come up with an idea even more outrageous than mine. We're not going anywhere near the navvies, but I don't think you'll be disappointed."

Daphne slowed her pace once they left the grassy meadow behind for a bridle path cut through the woods. Caro rearranged her shawl to guard against the sudden drop in temperature. Leaves of brick red, sun-syrup yellow and every shade of ochre glowed in the morning sun overhead and lay like the tesserae of an enormous mosaic underfoot. Thin-trunked, widely spaced trees gave the woods the airy, sublime feel of a cathedral.

The path brought them to a wide, flat green long before Caro was ready to leave the forest behind. Straight ahead stood the ruin of an old manor house, the buff stone of its upright facade black with char at the windows and doorways. The roof and all the interior walls had collapsed or burnt into dust, leaving behind an empty husk.

"What happened here?"

"A fire," answered Daphne.

"I can see there's been a fire." Caro rolled her eyes and Daphne had the decency to blush. "I mean, what happened?"

"About five years ago. The lady of the house fell asleep with a candle burning. By the time anyone noticed, it was too late."

"Did she...?"

"Oh, yes. Four people died."

Tidy, well-kept gardens surrounded the ruin, the yew hedges trim and square, the meadow freshly scythed. The charm of the grounds stood as a silent rebuke to the ruin of the manor house.

Daphne led the way forward.

"Are we trespassing?" Caro asked.

"I have permission to visit as often as I like and paint what I will."

"From whom?"

"You'll see."

Daphne unlatched the gate of a high fence and waved Caro into a large oval enclosure. The first thing she noticed was a full-grown male peacock standing atop a tangle of dried tree roots. A stumpery. Hidden inside the pile would be a skeleton of metal rods to hold the roots in place, each one positioned to best display its natural beauty. The peacock fanned its feathers, iridescent teal and purple against bone-white wood streaked with black, and surveyed the garden with a kingly air.

Adolescent males trailed their weedy, undeveloped tail feathers along winding garden paths while dun-colored peahens pecked seeds from dishes of Sèvres porcelain. Another full-grown peacock dipped its bright blue head to drink from a small pool fed by a live fountain, its waterspout threaded through the mouth of a marble cupid with drawn bow.

"How wonderfully absurd," Caro marveled.

"Look at the roost." Daphne pointed to a tiny replica of Westminster Abbey carved of pale gray stone, straw spilling out of its arched entryway.

"If we pulled those little sculptures off the front, they'd make excellent chess pieces." Caro laughed. "How tiny they are!"

"Now we wait." Daphne set up her easel, a satisfied smile on her face.

"Wait?"

"Wait." Daphne unwrapped her palette and began mixing paint. "Didn't you bring your desk?"

Caro sat on a bench with a wrought iron frame and wooden slats along the seat. She propped her feet up on the far side, stretching out her legs, and leaned her back against the iron armrest. Once she'd made herself comfortable, she opened up the letter she'd received in the post that morning from Robin.

His news destroyed her good humor. The autumn term at Winchester started in less than a week, but their father had decided Robin couldn't go. He reasoned that their two older brothers hadn't made use of their educations, and therefore Robin wouldn't either.

The real reason Robin wouldn't start his fifth form this year was so obvious that he didn't need to write it down. Their family's entire income came from rents on their entailed estate. When the rents arrived, their father rushed to spend it all. New clothes, presents, extravagant meals and boxes at the theater. Once the money ran out, they all stayed home and dined on cabbage stew.

The school fees had fallen due at the low tide, rather than the high tide, and so Robin would have to wait. For months.

Too angry to read any further, Caro looked up. She found herself staring at Daphne's canvas, crowded with massive peacock tails. Amidst the brilliant splendor of their feathers, Daphne had painted the birds' bodies with impossibly long necks and mean little eyes. The effect was unnerving.

Caro refolded Robin's letter. What if the tide of her family's finances rose and fell again before the next Season began in the spring? She'd be home eating cabbage stew while all the eligible bachelors picked wives.

What would happen to Robin if she couldn't find a steady husband? A man willing, and able, to buffer Robin against the vagaries of their family fortune? More of the same, and no knowing how he'd manage.

"Those are, without a doubt, the most villainous peacocks I've ever seen," drawled a male voice.

She followed the voice to its source, found herself snagged by a pair of piercing blue eyes. Clear and pale as chips of ice, sharp as a pick fashioned to slice through Alpine glaciers. Windswept black hair framed the stranger's pale face, his hollow cheeks and sensual, mobile lips, just a shade too pink to belong on a man.

Caro smiled up at him. "But are they the only villainous peacocks you've ever seen?"

"You've caught me," admitted the stranger. "They're foul-tempered birds, but I've never thought of them as evil."

"Until now?" Daphne asked.

"Accessories to evil, I'd say." His lips quirked. "The artist bears the final responsibility for her creations."

Daphne laughed and held out her hand. "I'm so glad you found us, Lord Kingston. You're always such fun."

Kingston? Caro's stomach dropped. Daphne wouldn't be so foolish, would she?

The handsome stranger gazed at Daphne with hooded eyes while he bent low over her hand, ungloved because she'd been painting, and planted a lingering kiss on her palm. Daphne snatched her arm away with a delighted shriek.

"Miss Morland. Lovely as ever." Kingston straightened with a sly, satisfied smile on his too-pink lips.

He turned to Caro and ran his eyes slowly along her recumbent figure, from the top of her head to where her shoes peeked out from under her skirt. How dare he. "Who's this? Is she for me?"

Caro folded her desk and set it down on the ground, stacking a bottle of ink over Robin's letter so it wouldn't blow away, and returned Kingston's slow, insulting perusal. Tall, slim, dandyish. He wore a maroon velvet waistcoat under a Bond Street suit, cut close to show off narrow hips and unusually long legs.

She knew his type. One day he'd grow into a bloated ruin like Lord Paul, but for now—and for years to come—his devastating good looks would deceive girls like her into thinking there was romance to be found in ruin. That passion performed some kind of sorcery that broke the bonds between actions and their consequences.

Mustering all her art, Caro flipped her legs from the bench onto the ground and rose to her feet. It took strength and training to turn simple movements into dance. To let the muscles in her stomach pull her straight while her arms floated at her sides like the fronds of a fern.

When she met Kingston's eyes again, all the lightness in his expression had drained away and left his features drawn and sharp. Predatory.

That's right. Show us your true nature.

"Lord Kingston, please meet Miss Caroline Small, Viscount Emlyn's daughter." Daphne's voice started off strong and thinned into an uncertain waver. "Miss Small, it's my pleasure to introduce you to Alfred Lamb, Earl of Kingston."

Caro extended her hand, as Daphne had done, but instead of bending toward it the earl took a step backwards.

"This is your surprise?" Caro kept her gaze fixed on the earl.

"Surprise?" Kingston echoed.

"You are rather notorious." Daphne sounded apologetic.

"So I am. Was your friend meant to enjoy the surprise?"

"I rather thought she would. It's not every day one meets England's most notorious rake."

"I think there's some competition for the title nowadays," murmured Kingston, at the same time that Caro said, "I can think of at least a dozen men who would happily lay claim to that title."

"Calm down, Caro. He won't bite." A note of pettishness crept into Daphne's tone; no doubt she'd expected Caro to squeal over Lord Kingston like a tiger at the zoo. If he were locked up in a cage, maybe. "Will you bite, Lord Kingston?"

"I do, I'm afraid. But not today." Kingston circled around to stand in front of the easel. "Why don't we give Miss Small a moment to reconcile herself to my presence? Tell me about the painting."

"We generally only see peacock feathers at balls and fetes, worked into extravagant fripperies. I've tried to use them here to create exactly the opposite atmosphere that one would expect."

"You've succeeded admirably. I want absolutely nothing to do with these peacocks. They're terrifying." Kingston's face emptied with concentration. "You might have narrowed the color spectrum too far. If you warm up your blues and purples a bit, the effect will be more intense."

"That's perfect! Thank you."

"How's Adam?"

"Sir Walter's scheduled for a visit today. They haven't been getting along lately, which means Adam has gone into hiding."

"The railroad project isn't going well?"

"I don't know." Daphne shrugged. "But I think Adam has lost more weight. I almost want the old days back."

"Your mind is playing tricks on you." Kingston's hands twitched toward Daphne before he caught Caro's glare and let them drop to his sides. "We get comfortable with misery, you know. Something new comes along and we want the old pain back, just because it was familiar."

"I just wish..." Daphne glanced at Caro and snapped her mouth shut.

Kingston pointed a nasty little smile in Caro's direction and said, to Daphne, "I don't think he'll appreciate your meddling."

"Of course you don't. You're a rake."

Kingston chuckled, a dry, hacking sound, and turned to Caro. "Have you met Lord Bexley yet, Miss Small?"

Caro glanced between Kingston and Daphne. She hadn't mentioned the scene in the library to Daphne when she should have, on the day it happened. She'd been afraid of what she might say with the sting of betrayal so fresh.

Since her late-night encounter with Bexley, she'd been at a loss. She still didn't understand that odd accord she'd felt with him—Daphne's guardian in all but name—and so she'd been hiding it, by default.

"You have!" Daphne rose up on tiptoes and dropped back down, lifting her hands as though she were about to clap and holding them poised, a few inches apart. "When? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Yesterday, in the library." Caro glanced meaningfully at Kingston before adding, "It was a memorable introduction."

"Memorable," Kingston repeated.

"Never you mind." Daphne frowned at Kingston just seriously enough to make the whole situation worse.

But Kingston narrowed his glacial eyes at Caro. If it had been anyone else, she would have laughed. But not this man. He was as sane as any cruel, careless creature could be—and that made him dangerous.

"I imagine that suited you quite well," said Kingston.

Caro blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"He's just being horrible," said Daphne. "We should be on our way home soon, in any event. Sir Walter is coming to tea."

"Even if I suspect your efforts are misplaced, it's endearing to see you so protective." Kingston bowed shallowly to Daphne and then again to Caro, his mouth forming the strangest, ugliest shape that Caro had ever seen on a man—a vicious twist that thinned his lips into a pale, upward-pointing rictus of ill-will. "I'm so glad we had this opportunity to meet, Miss Small."

Daphne shoved sideways into Kingston, knocking him off-balance. "You know I hate it when you make that face."

"I do, indeed." Kingston pressed another kiss against Daphne's hand and glanced, slyly, at Caro as he did it. "I'll leave you two to your busy day. The painting is coming along well, Daphne. Don't pack it away without letting me see how it turns out."

Caro waited until Kingston had retreated out of earshot to speak. "I can't believe you brought us here."

"I'm sorry." Daphne squinted up at the sky, where the sun had reached its zenith, grimaced, and then flounced down on the bench. "He's not generally like that. He stops by almost every time I paint on his property, and he's been... quite kind, really. If nothing else, my painting's heaps better now than it used to be. He has an amazing eye."

"But, Daphne." Caro sat down next to her friend. "The Earl of Kingston."

"I know, Caro. Of course I know. After what he did to Bexley—"

"Bexley?" Caro shook her head, stupefied. "What did he do to Lord Bexley?"

"Kingston seduced Bexley's fiancée. Got her in the family way."

Caro recoiled. "And you let this man kiss your hand?"

"That's what I couldn't tell you at breakfast yesterday. It happened years ago. Before the fire." Daphne gestured to the ruined manor. "His mother and sister died. I think it changed him."

"That's why he's dangerous!" Caro slapped her hands against her skirts. How could she make Daphne understand? "Stop laughing! If he wore his foul intentions on his sleeve, who would let him get close enough to... to... make inappropriate advances?"

Daphne's jaw dropped. "Well, aren't you clever. I've never thought about it that way before."

"It's so obvious." Caro jumped to her feet, paced up to the gate, whirled around and marched back, scattering peafowl in every direction. "How did Kingston know we'd come to sit with the peacocks?"

"One of the gardeners tells him, I expect."

"And he always asks you about Lord Bexley, doesn't he?" Haven't you stopped to wonder why this legendary rake is so eager to spend time with a seventeen-year-old debutante?

"He misses Adam. They used to be the best of friends, you know."

"You mean until Kingston ruined Bexley's fiancée?" Caro threw her arms in the air. "He did that to his best friend?"

"And then they dueled about it."

"They dueled?"

It was so awful she almost wanted to laugh. She thought she'd come to a perfect place. An earthly paradise where she'd mingle, for a brief interlude, with her betters. But beneath the surface, the Spark family was as sordid as her own.

"That's what I couldn't tell you at breakfast." Daphne clasped her hands in her lap, then leaned forward eagerly. "I know you can keep a secret, so I'm telling you, but Hastings has absolutely forbidden anyone from speaking of it."

"I can see why," Caro murmured.

"You see, Adam's sister Lily died about six years ago, and it was all very mysterious," said Daphne. "She was in Egypt, and Adam was with her and ought to have been looking out for her, but she vanished right out of the hotel."

"How terrible."

Daphne nodded. "Lily was great fun. Adam stayed in Cairo for months, looking for her, not that it did any good. He came home empty-handed, with no idea what had happened to her."

"It doesn't seem possible that someone could just disappear like that."

"Exactly," Daphne agreed. "Kingston had been fond of Lily, and after she died—I mean, at this point, there's no doubt, is there? Hastings made it official a few years ago. And Kingston blamed Adam for losing her. He didn't want anything to do with Adam after that—this business with Lady Nan just made it all official. So Adam challenged Kingston to a duel, which is why Hastings forced him out of London."

"Even though nobody knew about the duel?"

"Hastings kept it all hushed up—but, really, once he knows you've done something wrong, there's no escape from punishment."

"So the trick is to keep Hastings in the dark."

"Which is impossible." Daphne returned to her easel and began screwing lids over the little glass bottles of paint. "The best thing about Irongate is that, since Adam took up residence, Hastings almost never comes here."

"Still, I doubt Lord Bexley would be happy to learn that you've been discussing his most private affairs with Lord Kingston."

"You can't tell him, Caro." Daphne looked over in alarm. "Do you have any idea what would happen to me if Adam found out I had crossed the property line? Even if I'd never come within a hundred paces of Kingston—just being here. He'd be furious. And when he's angry—"

Daphne caught herself. A deep blush stained her cheeks. "But you saw, didn't you? He wasn't happy about Everill. I'm sorry I didn't warn you, Caro, I really am. I didn't think he'd seek you out alone."

"Daphne, you can't..." Caro pressed her knees together, knitted her hands atop them. Tense, stooped—Giselle would smack her if she caught her sitting like this. "You shouldn't be so free with Lord Bexley's secrets. It's not just what Lord Kingston or I might do with them. They're not your secrets to tell."

Daphne huffed. "Since when has that bothered you?"

Since she met Bexley. Since he'd been kind to her, for no reason that she could explain. But Daphne was right. She'd said enough. Consciously, controlling her breathing, she changed her posture: shoulders back, stomach in, rear tucked. Straight. Underneath her skirts, she flexed and unflexed her feet. The bite of muscles clenching and relaxing cleared her mind. "Lord Bexley was stern but fair. I can't begrudge him a few harsh comments, Daphne, and as long as he's the only one you told...?"

"Of course!"

Caro folded Robin's letter and tucked it into her desk. "Who's this Sir Walter who's coming to visit?"

"He's Adam's partner in this railroad venture." Daphne swatted away a curious peahen while she dunked her wet paintbrushes in a jar. The liquid inside flushed a deep indigo. She flicked the wet brushes at a curious bird, sending it scurrying away from a spray of blue rain before she squeezed a dry cloth around the brushes and packed them away. "The idea is to build a spur off the main line to Dover that will go south to Eastbourne. But Hastings doesn't want anything to do with the railroad and Adam doesn't have enough capital to fund the venture on his own."

"Why choose a partner he doesn't get along with?"

"I guess that's what happens when you're in trade." Daphne shrugged and folded up her easel. "I don't wonder why most gentlemen avoid it."

Caro shouldered her satchel while Daphne positioned her easel under one arm and they started back across the green. "How did you meet Kingston? For the first time I mean?"

"I've known Kingston since I was a child. Back when he and Adam were close, he visited Irongate all the time." They reached the woods, and the bridle path that would return them to Irongate. "Adam adored him, and Lady Lily did too."

"Lady Lily?"

"The three of them were great friends. Thick as thieves." Daphne cut away from the path, leading them to a small gamekeeper's cottage hidden near the edge of the woods to the south of the big house. "Don't ever speak of Lily when Adam's nearby. Her death crushed him."

Inside the cottage, Daphne's paintings covered every square inch of wall space. She'd stacked them five and six deep along the floors, propped them on tables and against chairs.

"I know it's a madhouse." Daphne laughed, crouching to settle her half-painted canvas against a wall. "Don't worry. We won't stay long."

"You have such talent." Caro knelt in front of a canvas that depicted Hephaestus at his anvil. A furnace backlit the Greek god of the forge, painting his skin and hair in shades of gold, one arm raised with hammer in hand while the other held a breastplate steady in anticipation of the blow.

Daphne had used Bexley as a model. He looked much as he had the night before, battered but magnificent. Of course, she hadn't seen him up close at the arena. She hadn't been close enough to see the expression of intense concentration Daphne had captured, his brow straight as a level, chin puckered beneath his tightly sealed lips.

Caro had to squeeze her hands at her side to keep from touching the painted surface. She wanted to dab the sweat away from where it beaded along his temples, test the strain in his corded forearms, thick with muscle.

"I think it must be a law of nature," Daphne said. "I know Kingston has done horrible things, but I'll never be able to lose my first impression of him. He was like an older brother to me. Like Adam is. He—it's like a painting, do you see? If you want to reuse an old canvas, you can't just paint over the first picture. Bits of the old image will show through the new one. To start fresh, you have to cover the first painting up with a new layer of gesso. You have to re-create a blank slate. We can't do that with our memories."

"No, we can't," Caro agreed, her spine prickling. "But you shouldn't be sneaking over to Stag Run. You must see that, Daphne. I appreciate your sentiments, but the risk is too great."

"I know." Daphne slumped. "I'll stop."

Caro nodded and stood. "How did you come upon the idea of painting Lord Bexley as the god Hephaestus?"

"It was his idea. I'd planned to do him as Apollo but he refused to sit for it. Said he was more like Hephaestus than Apollo, so I said, well, that's what I'll paint."

## Chapter Six

Early afternoon gatherings in the Rose Salon were an invention of Daphne's. Because Lord Bexley refused to sit at table—his strict diet prohibited all the foods his family most liked to eat—she'd devised a compromise. Bexley couldn't easily dodge an occasion at which he was not required to eat. The hungrier denizens of Irongate, on the other hand, found enough food at Daphne's gatherings to tide them over until supper, all formal luncheons having been canceled.

Or so Daphne had explained, before excusing herself to change from her sturdy painting frock into a proper afternoon gown.

Caro, with a much smaller wardrobe at her disposal, simply asked Louise to sponge the dirt from the hem of her gown and re-dress her snarled hair. She had to ask directions from two chambermaids and a footman before she finally found the right room, a bright salon whose pale, blue-painted walls had been inset with huge panels of dusky pink silk damask.

Lord Bexley caught and held her gaze as she hovered in the doorway, the corners of his bow-shaped lips turning down. He stood with one hand at the small of his back and the other arm propped against the polished red granite of the fireplace mantle. The pose, and her memory of his figure, the bulge of his furred pectoral muscles and the grooves on his abdomen, highlighted by the sheen of his own sweat, reminded Caro of Greek and Roman statues she'd seen in museums; he could have been holding a javelin in one hand.

Daphne waved Caro forward. "Have you met Sir Walter Sheldon?"

Caro marveled that any man alive could so perfectly conform to the type of a country squire, as imagined by a girl who'd only ever lived in a city. He had the strong legs of a horseman, a small paunch he did nothing to hide, and skin brown and coarse as cracked leather.

When Daphne pronounced Sir Walter's name, his head bobbled from side to side like a doll's.

"If we sit, I'll pour?" Daphne gestured to a pair of delicate settees arranged on either side of a rosewood table stacked high with sandwiches and petits fours. Everyone but Bexley took a seat; the earl remained upright by the mantel. When Daphne poured him a cup of tea, he put it down without taking a sip.

Sir Walter wasn't so abstemious. He balanced the saucer on his knee, holding it steady with one hand while he grazed from the trays of pastries.

"Sir Walter was just telling us about the renovations he's making to the Dovecote," said Daphne.

"The Dovecote is my family home," Sir Walter explained. "Of course it is not nearly so grand as Irongate, but we are proud of it, Lady Sheldon and I."

"Sir Walter has been modernizing the property," Daphne continued. "Just recently, Lady Sheldon was so inspired by the heating pipes in Irongate's orangery that she convinced Sir Walter to have a system installed!"

"Heating pipes?" So that was how the room stayed warm. "I saw ovens, and all those windows—"

"It's a new technology," interrupted Sir Walter. "Pipes filled with hot water are introduced underneath the floor, and around all the doorways and windows. Unfortunately, the architect has been planting ideas in Lady Sheldon's head, trying to convince her that we should install a separate system to pump running water through the kitchen and laundry."

"What a remarkable idea!" Daphne took a sip of tea. "No more trips to the well."

Sir Walter snorted, phlegm rattling in his throat. "I think it a considerable expense when the only people to benefit from the invention would be our staff."

"What could be more valuable than increased productivity?" Bexley asked. "Why don't you send your architect our way? I'd like to speak to him."

The shortbread Sir Walter held broke in his fingers.

"Sir Walter?" Daphne beckoned a maid to clean up the crumbs, which she accomplished with a miniature, palm-sized broom. "Are you quite well? Can I suggest a sandwich? Not so delicate, you might prefer—"

In Caro's home, a broken pastry didn't constitute a crisis. She herself had eaten moldy bread and spoiled meat more than once; nobody in her family would turn away perfectly good food just because it had made contact with the floor. And yet her father never ran short of drink, and always had few coins to spare on whoring.

Her nose itched and she glanced up instinctively, locking eyes with Bexley. His were hooded, knowing, the color of warm treacle.

While Caro blushed into her lap, the door opened to admit Lord Paul. A stout man with a firm, square jaw and hair the color of meat drippings, his expressions ranged along a narrow track from boredom to distaste, and all the subtle shades between—several of which he ran through as he surveyed the assembled company. "Afternoon, Bexley, Daphne. Miss..." Lord Paul winked at Sir Walter. "Small."

Caro bit back a retort.

Bexley left his untouched tea on the mantel and circled around to stand behind Caro. One of his hands—gloved, now—dropped onto the settee's carved wooden spine.

Caro inched forward on the seat, farther away from that hand.

"Enough, uncle," warned Bexley in a cold, sharp voice.

"Enough of what?" Lord Paul lowered himself into a chair next to Sir Walter, grunting as he settled his weight into the cushion. "Will you stay to dinner, Sir Walter?"

"Lord Bexley was kind enough to invite me. Our business is bound to last through the afternoon."

"You're a braver man than I." Lord Paul propped both hands on his belly with the loving tenderness of a pregnant woman delivering a caress to her unborn infant. "I could never risk so much on an uncertain future, as you're doing with this railroad spur."

"The risks are proportional to the rewards," Bexley said calmly. "It's hard to see why anyone would object to faster and more reliable travel."

"The line from London to Dover is a worthy endeavor," conceded Lord Paul. "So many people travel that route every day on the stage. But Eastbourne is such a quiet town. What's got into your head, Adam?"

"Eastbourne may be quiet now, but better transportation will change that." Bexley leaned a little closer to Caro. Deliberately, she realized. She scooted even farther away, bracing her feet against the floor to keep from falling off the cushion.

"No wonder my brother the Duke is so opposed to this project." Paul sucked loudly at one of his canines. "You've put the cart before the horse, Adam."

"I didn't realize that His Grace opposes the railroad spur," said Sir Walter. All the smile lines grooved into his weathered cheeks showed pale as he frowned. "I have always admired His Grace's shrewdness. A man of his experience, a decorated war hero, always has a special insight—"

"He's a traditionalist. His ideas belong to the past." Bexley flicked two pointed fingers between himself and Sir Walter. "We're building the future."

"Hastings is canny," Lord Paul countered. "And he spends most of his time in London. You've spent the past five years here in Sussex, Bexley. Between the two of you, I know who I'd trust with my funds."

Sir Walter snorted again, wet and spongy. "Does His Grace base his opinion on privileged information of some kind?"

"I couldn't say anything if he had." Lord Paul tapped his index finger to his nose. "Don't fret. Thanks to Lady Sheldon you can afford a few failed investments. That's the benefit of marrying money, eh?"

Sir Walter blanched.

The door opened to admit Lady Paul and Matthew Spark before anyone could inquire after Sir Walter's health. Lady Paul patted her honey brown hair and realigned the huge diamond brooch fastened to her bodice as she swanned into the room, her color high. Matthew followed in her wake, a sneer pasted on his lips.

While the new arrivals settled down and Daphne queried them about their tea, Sir Walter scooted closer to Bexley and pitched his voice low. "Perhaps we ought to push back our construction dates?"

"Absolutely not." Bexley slashed at the air. "Any further delays, and we'll lose our window of opportunity."

"Oh, dear. Not the railroad again." Lady Paul yawned. "I forbid anyone to speak of the railroad in my presence. Too dull."

Sir Walter flushed and stuffed a biscuit in his mouth.

"I'd be glad to hear what Miss Small thinks of Irongate," said Bexley. "Now that she's had a little time to explore."

"I think it might take years to get to know this house." Caro laughed. "In any case, I spent the morning out of doors, with Daphne. She's making a beautiful painting—"

Daphne stood abruptly. "Caro, didn't you ask me for a tour of Irongate?"

Daphne's thunderous expression allowed for only one answer. Caro rose to her feet as well. "A tour would be lovely."

She followed Daphne from the room, but paused at the threshold to take a look back. Bexley stared down at the now-empty sofa, one hand stroking along the spot on the cushion her back had never quite touched.

A thought came to her then, and it was so strange, so incongruous, that she wanted to disown it. Send it back where it had come from.

"Caro," Daphne snapped. "What's keeping you?"

"Nothing." Caro hurried after her friend. "I wouldn't have tattled about our visit to Stag Run, you know."

"You were so disapproving earlier, I couldn't take the chance." Daphne waggled her finger at Caro. "You scared me! And I know just how I'll take my revenge."

"You do?"

"Here." Daphne flung open a door. Beyond lay a small, very plainly decorated workroom. It was full of painting supplies: stacks of wood slats, stretched canvases, pots and jars—some of them colorful enough that they must contain paint, but most Caro couldn't begin to guess the purpose of.

"I am going to enlist your help with my least favorite chore," announced Daphne.

"What's that?" Caro asked.

"Here." Daphne positioned a tub of water at the center of one worktable and then handed Caro a lump of hard, gray material. "Just knead that at the bottom of the tub."

Caro squeezed the lump. It did give a bit.

"Lapis lazuli and beeswax," Daphne explained. "This is my last batch, and it's down to the dregs. You knead out the color in rounds. The first time, all the good color floats up and you can make a strong ultramarine from it. The second time, the blue isn't so bright, but it's still good. By this round, the little chips of stone that float up haven't much pigment at all—they make a sort of blue-gray color. Ashes of ultramarine."

"All right." Caro set her shawl aside, dropped the grayish lump into the basin and thrust her arms into the water. As Daphne had promised, little flakes of bluish gray floated up to the surface as she worked.

Meanwhile, Daphne threw a handful of blue rocks into a thick cloth sack, took hold of a mallet with both hands, and raised it high.

"Daphne?" Caro asked.

Daphne brought the mallet down on the sack of rocks with a grunt and a terrific smash. "Yes?"

Caro winced. "What are you doing?"

"Getting started on a new batch," Daphne panted.

She hit her sack of rocks again. And again. The noise must have disordered Caro's mind, because that thought she'd had on the way out of the Rose Salon—absurd, impossible—kept coming back.

Lord Bexley desired her.

He did not like her. He'd been rude. He'd scolded her and warned her to keep her distance.

But when he looked at her, his gaze turned hot, and it didn't turn away quickly, either.

She kneaded the gray lump, her arms immersed up to the elbows in water, her skull rattling with every swing of Daphne's mallet.

Desire didn't mean anything, on its own. Many men were satisfied with looking. They never had to come closer. They never put themselves at risk of dishonor... or entrapment.

But Bexley had. Twice now. She'd been so focused on the risk to her own reputation she hadn't considered how much was at stake for him. He could have walked on by, that first night. He hadn't had to stop, not even to scold. But he had.

The second night, she'd been running away, trying to escape his notice. He had intercepted her. He had prolonged the encounter.

And now he'd taken to petting a sofa after she stood up from it.

"Daphne," said Caro. "About that story you told me earlier today. What happened to Lady Nan?"

Daphne paused and wiped a bit of condensation from her upper lip. "Lady Nan? She retired from society, of course."

"She and Lord Bexley aren't in contact, are they?"

"It was Hastings who arranged the match, I believe," said Daphne. "And Hastings who cut her loose."

"But Bexley didn't mind?"

"Adam did as he was told," said Daphne, then grimaced. "No. That's not right. He adored Hastings, and wanted to be just like him. If Hastings had an opinion, Adam adopted it for his own."

"Really?" Caro had formed the impression that they weren't close.

"Lily was the rebel." Daphne's face fell. She opened up her sack and shook the rubble onto the table, then reached for a block of beeswax and began warming it between her hands. "But she's not here anymore."

"And Hastings hasn't tried to arrange a new match?"

"I don't think so." She poured oil over her hands, kneaded her beeswax, and began collecting bits of rock dust.

"That's a bit odd, isn't it?" Caro pressed.

Daphne looked up with a frown. "You're awfully curious, aren't you?"

Caro grinned, unabashed. "Of course."

"Curiosity is one of your best qualities." Daphne dimpled. "But the truth is: I don't know."

Caro turned back to her tub of water, with its scrim of ashy rock chips clinging to the surface. Bexley stood so, so far above her on the social ladder. Only Daphne's charity had brought her this close to him.

And what of it? If she reached the altar, it didn't matter how far she'd had to travel to get there.

She imagined having all of Bexley's strength at her beck and call. All of his resources at her command. Just the thought made her shiver.

If Bexley didn't know better than to seek her out... well. What did he expect? Stronger souls than she had crumbled to lesser temptations.

Daphne set her lump of wax and rock down, coming over to examine Caro's bucket. "You can stop now. Put the waxy dregs aside and I'll have one of the footmen take the bucket out to sit in the sun."

"Sit in the sun?"

"Until it dries. All the pigment will be left on the bottom, and I can collect it to make paint."

"Fascinating," Caro murmured, scraping the clinging dust from her arms and hands into the water. "I hadn't realized painting could be such a... physically demanding activity."

"Life," Daphne said sagely, "is full of surprises."

## Chapter Seven

Adam pulled off his mufflers and handed them to his valet, Finn, exchanging them for a towel. He rubbed at his bare chest, arms, and neck. Business with Sir Walter had dragged on too late for a visit to the arena. He'd opted for a good long sparring session with his trainer, Mick, instead.

The rubdown warded away muscle-cramping chills. It occurred to him at least once a day that he treated himself like a horse; the thought didn't linger because there was no arguing with it.

"Set out some lamps before you go, would you, Finn?" Adam returned the towel before joining Mick at the door. He kept his studio in the old conservatory, a small greenhouse the more modern orangery had been built to replace. The room stayed warm through the winter, making it possible to exercise year-round.

"In the studio?" Finn asked. "Lit?"

Adam raised an eyebrow.

"Of course, my lord, I'll see to it immediately."

The panes of glass in the old door rattled as he opened it, the hinges squeaking. He'd tell Finn to have it oiled, next time he had the chance. Adam stepped outside and inhaled the cold, damp air. It felt soft in his lungs, refreshing. Warm for autumn.

Mick followed behind, shutting the door.

The ground sloped down into pastureland, soil that had never been incredibly fertile but produced enough grass to keep the shepherds busy and support a few dairies. Cows lowed in the distance, a plaintive baritone playing against the bright trills of evening birdsong. Redwing thrush, finches, others he couldn't name. Adam pointed north and set off. Walking would cool him down, prevent his muscles from getting sore.

"Tailor said I need to get meaner."

"Tailor's right." Mick fell into step at Adam's side. He stood a few inches shorter than Adam, and his mop of curly black hair accounted for some of that height. With his round cheeks and perpetually jolly expression, Mick looked more like an overgrown toddler than a legendary boxer. Only his jug-shaped, cauliflowered ears hinted at his trade.

"You agree with him?"

"How would you feel if you'd gotten into the ring with Tailor and done some serious damage?" Something about Mick's flat, American accent made everything he said sound so obvious. "What if he dislocated his shoulder and couldn't go to work, lost his job? Or you blinded him permanently?"

"I'd feel like a thorough bastard."

"There's your answer." A sunny smile split Mick's boyish face. "That's what he meant."

Adam stopped in his tracks, not sure how to respond.

"When you step into the ring, you're there to cause pain," Mick explained. "If you punch a man in the nose, do your damnedest to smash it right through to his brain. If you punch him in the ribs, make them crack. And if you punch him in the gut, you go for the fucking spleen."

Mick clapped his hand on Adam's shoulder, a gesture as unselfconscious as the swearing. Nobody else in Adam's employ would dare touch him so familiarly. Mick never hesitated. "There's someone else in the ring who decides if you've gone too far. Someone else who knows when the fight is over, and when to say stop. You let him do his job, and you do yours, and you'll win every time."

Adam had been an amateur pugilist for all his adult life, but he'd only waded into the deep waters recently. He understood the difference in his gut, but he'd never had to articulate it. Apparently his instincts hadn't been giving him a thorough explanation. "It's a sport, isn't it?"

"Not anymore."

Gooseflesh prickled his arms.

"Tell me something, tadpole. You get a black eye one night, wake up the next morning, and jump back into the ring. What is it, here"—Mick gave Adam a hard, open-palmed thump on the chest—"that makes you do that?"

"It's the only way to improve." Push through the pain had been his first lesson, perhaps still the most valuable. "That's the learning process. Just as you're not a real horseman until you've jumped into the saddle after a fall."

"A good horseman doesn't mount up expecting a fall," Mick countered. "A good boxer walks up to the chalk line knowing even the winner takes a beating. Pain isn't a means to an end here. It's the means and the end."

"If you're trying to suggest that true boxing must be motivated by some inner torment, I don't believe it." Adam rolled his shoulders and kept walking. "Just look at yourself. I've never met a more peaceful man in my life."

"We're not talking about me, tadpole. And you're not in this for sport."

Why did he do this? Push himself, starve himself, bloody his knuckles and rattle his teeth? Truth was, he didn't know. His life had taken a wrong turn somewhere, and he had a feeling—it was as flimsy as that, a feeling—that pugilism would lead him back to the right path.

They continued on in silence to the lake, the usual halfway point in their circuit. Dark water stretched out in front of them, dried brown lily pad roots clustered in the space between the pier and the grassy bank.

Beautiful. Idyllic. Peaceful. And it left him cold. All he cared about these days was bare-knuckled boxing and railroads. At night he pursued some grim vision of himself as a baseborn thug and in his daylight hours he worked to create an even grimmer vision of the future, all cold iron and steam. He'd visited the hills the navvies blasted through, traced the scars they carved into the earth. He knew what he'd committed himself to.

The only beautiful thing to capture his interest in... more time than he really wanted to measure out... was Miss Small. Short, fragile, dramatically beautiful Miss Small. She'd be sneaking into his boxing studio before long, wearing that filmy, gauzy costume that made him want to either lock her up in a glass-fronted cabinet or despoil her himself, sink his teeth into her small, pert breasts and bruise the milk-white skin.

A very, very bad idea presented itself to him. The sort he ought to dismiss out of hand.

He let the idea settle in, make itself comfortable.

"Why don't you go on back, Mick," Adam suggested. "I'm going to take a swim."

"It's too cold," Mick replied. "You'll stiffen up. It'll ruin your fighting tomorrow."

"I'll have Finn draw me a bath once I'm back inside. And if I miss a day of practice, so be it." Adam unbuttoned his thick flannel jacket and pulled off his shirt.

"Don't drink any of it," Mick cautioned before turning around and heading back to Irongate.

Adam peeled off the rest of his clothes, walked to the edge of the short pier and dived in. The cold water sucked the air right out of his lungs, wiped away all the pleasure of the mild autumn evening. Adam didn't give himself time to adjust before stretching out into a quick breaststroke. His body resisted his commands, leaden and sluggish with the sudden change of temperature, and he ached by the time he reached the center of the lake. Push through the pain, he reminded himself, reversing direction, and he really did feel warm and vibrant by the time he climbed back onto dry land.

He used his shirt as a towel, put on his smalls and trousers with his flannel coat, and walked back up to the main building.

But not to his rooms.

He detoured down to the deserted kitchens where he found every worktable clear, every pot hung and polished. A brief search turned up a fat-bellied stoneware pitcher, which he filled with water, nuts from the dried goods, and a few oranges. The housekeeper locked away all the china at night, so he collected one of the stoneware cups reserved for downstairs use. After juggling all his loot until he could carry it in one arm, Adam headed back upstairs.

He inched open the door to his studio, wanting to catch Miss Small unawares. She danced in a halo, moving within a square of light cast by four oil lamps. The grace that set her apart at all times, that made the odd puppetry of her hands so fascinating, blasted him with its full force.

She wasn't really dancing, just doing drills, batting her legs in the air, leaping back and forth, but he couldn't turn his eyes away. A perfect order, she'd called it, and she hadn't been exaggerating. She transitioned into a sequence of pirouettes, spinning like a top, and something tight and hard unspooled inside him.

If he believed in witchcraft, he'd have walked away and got to work building a pyre.

Instead, unsure if she'd noticed his entrance, he leaned against the wall and watched. She launched into a routine, an elfin, almost mischievous advance and retreat. Her feet beat life into the ground, her arms woke the air. By some kind of strange alchemy, she made herself insubstantial by giving substance to empty space. The floorboards pushed back at her and she floated above them.

Unthinking, compelled, Adam advanced into the light.

She tiptoed right up to him, her eyes dark and steady, and extended her arm in a beckoning gesture. A tease—she began to withdraw the very moment she issued the invitation. Adam grabbed her wrist and wrapped his fingers around the frail bone, so slender he could close the circle by digging his nails into his own palm.

"What is that?" His voice came out rougher than he'd intended.

"La Sylphide." She smiled, eyes full of guile. "A woodsman ventures into the forests of Scotland to find the fairy creature he's fallen in love with, and she greets him with this dance. She brings him food and water, treats him as an honored guest, but he isn't satisfied."

"He probably wants something more." Careful, he wanted to say. I do too. "What does the woodsman do?"

"He kills the sylph."

Adam dropped her hand and she withdrew, putting a safe distance between them. So. He still frightened her.

"I brought you something to eat." The ostensible reason for his presence here; his excuse. He fetched his haphazard picnic and laid out his offerings, gratified when Miss Small cupped the stoneware mug in both hands and drained it in a single long draught. His hands clenched into fists as he watched her eyelids drop to half-mast, her throat contracting as she swallowed.

After she'd finished a second cupful she tilted her head, birdlike, and asked, "Is it true that you don't drink water?"

"Yes."

"Why not?"

Because if I fill my belly up with liquid it will make unseemly noises when I'm punched in the gut. He couldn't answer her for the same reason he couldn't drink. "You let Daphne drag you out to watch her paint all morning. Are you always so easygoing, or should I have a word with my cousin about entertaining her guests?"

Miss Small sank into a seated position, folding her legs in front of her, and picked up an orange. "Daphne is a perfect hostess, and she works very hard to keep me entertained." She shot him a look through her lashes. "The question in my mind is whether or not you will prove equally hospitable."

"Quick to trade on my favor, aren't you?"

A sly, happy grin eased the corners of her lips up. "Does that mean I have it?"

Adam sat down across from Miss Small, extending one leg and leaving the other comfortably crooked. "Why don't we find out?"

"I was thinking about how wonderful it would be to make an excursion with her. Just for the day, perhaps down to Beachy Head, so she can tackle a new piece of scenery. It gets very dull for Daphne, tethered to the Hall as she is."

She threw a bit of peel at him. Adam picked it up and crushed it in his hand, watched for the flicker of her nostrils as she caught the scent. "You make Irongate sound like a prison."

"Do you mean Daphne's never complained to you?"

She had, as a matter of fact. Often. Daphne generated an endless supply of extravagant ideas and impractical demands. Adam ignored most of them, for his own sanity. "What will be the benefit to you?"

She peeled a segment of orange from the fruit and bit into it. Her lips plumped around the wedge, sending a bolt of heat straight to his groin. While she chewed, she held the remainder of the segment between two fingers like a pencil, brandished to signal the imminent arrival of a brilliant idea. "I've never seen the white cliffs."

"I could take you," Adam proposed. Miss Small's hand dropped and her eyes widened with genuine surprise. She hadn't expected the invitation—perhaps because she underestimated her own allure. At that moment, he'd have offered more than a picnic to please her.

"And Daphne," he amended. "The whole family, if they wish to join us. I'm sure Daphne's not the only resident to grow weary of the grounds."

"Surely you have better things to do. Important duties... obligations."

"Naturally," Adam agreed.

Miss Small had leaned forward, her lips parting with her eagerness. Now her open expression shuttered.

"There will always be obligations to get in the way," Adam said, feeling the stretch in his lips before he realized that he'd smiled. "That being the case, I see no sense in waiting. Does the day after tomorrow suit?"

She laughed then, a sweet tinkling sound. The first time he'd made her laugh? But then he didn't have anything like her lightheartedness.

"You'll have to ask Daphne. I think the day after tomorrow would be perfect." She finished her orange segment, a smile lingering about her lips. "Tell me about your railroad, Lord Bexley. It must be very thrilling for you, to mingle with the navvies one night and, on the following afternoon, plan out the projects that they'll be sent to execute."

"The chain of cause and effect isn't so direct. The navvies at the arena are laying rails that will run from London all the way to Dover. I'm in the early stages of planning a small spur that will link up to the main route from Eastbourne, by the coast. We're still a long way from breaking ground."

"I wonder that your vision of the future is so clear. That must be a rare gift."

Flattery. Adam had received enough in his life to recognize Miss Small's words for what they were, and though she seemed to have mastered the art, he wanted none of it. "I don't care about the future, Miss Small." He snorted, unable to speak without bitterness. "The railroad horrifies me. It's a blight upon the landscape. In that sense I'm just like—"

"Your father?"

"That's right," Adam nodded, though the admission made him ill. "Like my father."

"So why, then?"

Adam shrugged. "I don't know."

He didn't want to know.

Miss Small reached for a hazelnut, scratching at the flaky skin with the tip of one short nail. It rustled, the only noise in the silent room, and then a section broke away to reveal the pale nut beneath.

"You do it because it hurts you," she said in that breathy voice of hers.

Truth. He recognized it instantly, and just as instantly wanted to be gone. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Like the boxing." She let the hazelnut drop and watched it roll across the wooden floor, her expression wistful. "And me, I think."

"You?" Adam laughed, though his heart had begun to race. His body—his fighter's body, less dazzled than his stupid male brain—recognized a challenge. "I don't think you're capable of hurting me, Miss Small."

"No?" Her skin had resumed its natural coloring, milky pale, though the light sheen of sweat coating her skin gave her an almost postcoital glow. She flicked a glance up at him through her lashes, as she'd done earlier—she'd practiced that look, he was sure, perfected it, but he still went hard as a rock from the sheer, drenching temptation of it—and reached out, pointing one tiny finger of one tiny hand at him. Adam watched, bemused, as she leaned forward and poked him in the chest.

And he swayed. Not far, but not to play along, either.

"Not without your help, certainly." Miss Small swiped the rest of the orange from the ground and reached for her wrapper, shrugging it on as she rose to her feet. "Until tomorrow, Lord Bexley."

Adam rubbed at the spot she'd touched. It burned. And he wanted—God, how he wanted—to jump up and run after her. To beg for more attention, lay more gifts at her feet, win a little bit more of her affection. He wanted her to flash him that wicked look again, because it said, "Yes, please, more," to his every primitive urge.

Idiot. Adam kicked at the remains of the offering he'd brought. He'd arrange the excursion to Beachy Head, as promised, then bow out. He'd stop looking for her here at the studio.

He'd had enough of being manipulated. If he couldn't resist Miss Small's wiles, he'd avoid them instead.

## Chapter Eight

The carriage took them through the downs, rolling hills carpeted with dry grass that went on and on for miles. Caro sat on a cushioned leather bench next to Daphne, braced against the bumps in the road. Lady Paul and Mr. Matthew Spark sat on the opposite bench, while Lord Bexley rode alongside. Only Lord Paul had chosen not to come, having declared that he wouldn't sacrifice even five minutes of sleep for the dubious pleasure of eating food spoiled by the smell of sea brine.

She caught glimpses of Bexley through the window as they rolled along, be-gloved, be-hatted, his riding boots polished to a shine. The formal version of Bexley, the courtesy earl, the heir.

She hadn't seen him at all, formal or not, the day before. Daphne had ventured out to paint early, without stopping by the breakfast room or inviting Caro along. So Caro had gone looking for the only other person at Irongate she cared to see: Bexley. To no avail.

When Daphne collected Caro from the library later that afternoon, she'd been in a state of wild excitement. She'd hinted and teased about a surprise for hours before announcing the excursion to Beachy Head. Caro had manifested an appropriate level of delight, but all the while she'd been wondering where Bexley had gone, and if he'd visit his studio again to watch her dance later that evening.

He hadn't. His attitude when he'd arrived in the courtyard at dawn, scowling and unfriendly, had confirmed what his avoidance had made her suspect: their encounter in the studio had spooked him.

But he kept pace with the carriage all the long hours of their drive. She'd have the day to coax him close again. And after that? Her time at Irongate had only just begun.

The driver finally deposited them at the end of the world. Or so it seemed to Caro as she unbent herself from the carriage's narrow doorway and absorbed the vista beyond, the sharp line where the ground fell away and the sky took over.

As she picked her way through the tufts of prickly grass toward the drop, the horizon rose to greet her. Bone-white limestone cliffs edged the coast, as though the island of Britain were part of an enormous white cake and some gigantic hand had sliced through the firmament with a serrated knife, separating off a piece.

Air thick with salt and the green tang of the sea scrubbed her throat and filled her lungs. Spreading her arms, she leaned into the wind and thought she might have come as close as she ever would to flying. Far below, flat gray waves crashed dully into the shore.

Behind her, the carriage springs squeaked as the others disembarked. Their voices rose and carried as they stepped into the open air. The servants emptied out of a second carriage that Caro could see from the corner of her eye, occupying a flat stretch of ground set away from the cliffs. They began to unload tables, chairs, and cooking implements from the third and final vehicle in their little caravan, a wagon.

Their chosen spot was at the highest point along the cliffs, the crest of a hill which dropped off in a series of dips and rolls to either side before evening out in flat sandy beaches.

"Caro," called Daphne.

She looked around.

Daphne pointed at the ledge. "Stand there. You too, Adam. I need models."

Daphne herded Caro and Lord Bexley to her desired spot, positioning them sidewise to the cliffs. Following Daphne's instructions, Caro lay down flat on the grass and placed a straw hat just above her head, its wide silk bow pointed toward the easel.

Bexley weighed down the hat's brim with rocks, then scowled and complained as Daphne fussed over him in turn. She tried out several different poses, backing away to evaluate the composition before scurrying close again to shift him around.

Finally Adam was seated facing Caro in a distinctly lover-like manner. One of his legs lay flat along Caro's side, almost touching her, his foot even with her head. The other was bent, one of his arms looped around the knee, which angled his body toward her.

Daphne withdrew, closed one eye and squinted through the other while she made framing motions with her hands. She wanted the cliffs in the background, she'd explained, a ripple of white separating the sea from the sky.

"Those poses she strikes to frame the picture look a little like a dance, don't you think?" Caro quipped.

Bexley didn't reply. He seemed determined not to even glance in her direction.

"You'd think it would be the easiest part of dancing," she continued, as though oblivious. "Just keeping your chin up and pasting on a smile. But it's the hardest. Once your chin's up, you can't see the rest of your body. You have to know each movement is perfect just by feel. That takes a lot of practice, all by itself. And to chain one pose to the next without checking to see where you've put your foot, or stumbling?"

She peeked at Bexley. Still frowning off into the distance, but he'd tilted his head a little so he could listen.

"I used to think—it's very silly, isn't it? To spend so much time learning so many difficult postures when, for the audience, it's like watching a play with the curtains left closed. Our skirts may be short, but they hide all the important things."

"This talk is indecent," Bexley warned, his neck flushing red.

"After much frustration," Caro continued blithely, "I realized that perhaps it's enough to look at the face. A ballerina's face will tell you if she knows every move, and it will tell you if she's performed it correctly or not. Everything, really. If you look for it."

"As I have no interest in dance—"

"I've seen evidence to the contrary," Caro objected.

"—I'm not sure how your observations are relevant," Bexley retorted.

"Because I can see your face, Lord Bexley." Caro wished she had claws to prick him with. A smile—her most vexing, suggestive smile—would have to substitute.

Bexley's fingers flexed against his knee.

"If you were a dancer," Caro continued, "I'd be wondering if you'd sprained an ankle."

Satisfied, she relaxed against the grass and let the watery sunlight strike her full on the face. She felt heat behind the cold, or cold lurking behind the heat—a chill in her bones even as the sunshine warmed her skin. Bexley's leg at her side heated her as well as a toasty little fire could have.

Eyes drifting half-shut, Caro concentrated on her own slow breaths and the movement of Bexley's chest, the uneven kidney shape of his nostrils, his short, blunt fingers and the golden brown hairs on the back of his hand. When she looked up far enough, she found his eyes fixed on her breasts, hot as caramelized sugar bubbling in the pan.

Caro took a deep breath.

Bexley's gaze jumped up to meet hers. When he caught her knowing stare the muscles in his jaw leaped and he quickly turned his attention back to the cliffs, expression stony.

The silence turned brittle, hard to bear. Caro was not surprised to hear him say, the next time Daphne approached, "Are you sure you can't paint Miss Small alone? A solitary figure might better suit the atmosphere."

"Don't tell me what to paint, and don't move." Daphne pointed the leather bulb of her maulstick at her cousin. "Do you even know who J.M.W. Turner is?"

"A painter?"

"You're guessing. That doesn't count. Just remember that your duty, as a patron of the arts, is to sit still for as long as I need you to."

"Listen to the little tyrant," Matthew Spark sneered. The wind whipped his golden hair into dandelion fluff. "Who do you think you are, Vigée-bloody-Lebrun?"

Caro blinked. Even her brothers watched their language around guests.

"And what if I am?" Daphne notched her chin up.

"You're not," Matthew spat, and kicked over Daphne's easel. All the pots of paint she'd opened and arranged along the bottom edge scattered, splattering the fallen easel with bright color and pooling in the grass.

Caro gasped and began to rise, but Bexley laid a firm hand on her arm and held her in place.

"Watch yourself, Matthew," said Bexley, the warning tone in his voice hard, even, and terrifying.

Matthew grabbed Lady Paul's arm tightly enough to make her wince. "We're going to take a walk."

"Elizabeth?" Bexley asked. "Would you like to stay here?"

"No, no, a walk would be just the thing." Lady Paul laughed nervously. "No need to worry. I'd like a bit of exercise."

Matthew jerked at Lady Paul's arm, dragging her along behind him as he started down the hill.

She stumbled and almost fell, then laughed a little too loudly, as though Matthew's manhandling were some sort of game. "A bit of fresh air will calm him."

"I hate him." Daphne stamped her foot, making her corkscrew curls bounce. She looked like an angry Bo Peep. "He is cruel."

"Can't something be done?" Caro wondered.

"No," said Bexley, quietly. "And he knows it, too."

"But why does he do it?" Daphne cried. "To what end?"

"Because he has no talents of his own," said Caro. "And he's jealous of yours."

"That's true." Daphne pouted, but her shoulders dropped. "He isn't good at anything."

"He's not even very good at making you angry, otherwise you'd still be cross."

Daphne laughed. "He might have a little talent for making me angry. Half of one, or a quarter."

"We can't begrudge him that."

"Indeed not." Daphne firmed her lips, though they trembled with a smile waiting to escape.

Caro began to sit up again, but this time Daphne pushed her back into place. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I thought I'd help you clean up the paints."

"Don't you dare. It took too long to find the right pose. Stay put—please. It won't take long to have this mess cleaned up, and I had a whole crate of extra supplies loaded into the wagon. A wise artist always prepares for disaster when painting en plein air."

"Or in the vicinity of talentless relatives," Caro added.

Daphne retreated with a laugh. Caro watched her friend tromp away, in the direction of the wagon.

"Nicely done, Miss Small," said Bexley.

Caro twinkled in his direction. "Daphne's easy to cheer. She'd rather be happy."

"I forget to admire her best qualities." His eyes flicked up, no doubt following Daphne's retreat. He frowned. "Did you put her up to this?"

"Heaven forbid I tell her what to paint. If she'll order the Earl of Bexley about like a footman, imagine what she'd do to me."

"She forgets to be impressed by me sometimes," Bexley acknowledged. "You could remind her."

"In exchange for what?"

"Careful, Miss Small." He shifted closer, blocking the sun, cut himself off with a snort and glanced up toward the unattended easel. "In boxing, even a man with a sprained ankle may rise and, should he have sufficient bottom, deliver the winning blow."

"Are we engaged in fisticuffs?" Caro smiled to herself. "Are you telling me I've won the first round?"

"Perhaps. But I think I'll take this one." He leaned down, so close that his breath gusted against her cheek. "Close your eyes."

"Daphne—"

"Wandered off. Close your eyes."

Caro hesitated. She knew what came next, and her thrill of triumph failed to stifle a surge of panic. But Bexley wore a light cologne, a mild concoction of juniper and bay leaves that didn't suit him at all, and it floated into her brain like a lullaby, soothing her worries to sleep.

She let her eyelids drop and felt the press of flesh against her lips, hot and damp. Her eyes flew open and he withdrew just far enough to speak. "Keep them shut."

Caro obeyed. The sunlight painted her eyelids a bright, glowing red, the exact shade of the heat that built inside of her as Bexley's mouth angled over hers, his lips firming, pursing—molding hers, shaping them.

He pulled away. The heat of his mouth evaporated, creating a reverse imprint of cold where his lips had been. Somehow it felt almost as wonderful as the kiss.

Caro turned her face away. Her stomach had turned to water, her toes curled, her lips plumped and—and her breasts, too, her nipples so tight they hurt. She did not like these sensations. She had not permitted them. She felt like her body had turned on her, declared a revolution, started throwing tea into the harbor.

"You've never been kissed before."

"You can't know that."

"Only an innocent would think so." Now his lips tickled her ear, sparking bright jolts of pleasure along her scalp. The effect was completely out of proportion with the faint contact. "A whole season in London and not one kiss?"

Caro rolled away from Bexley's hovering form and sprang to her feet. She brushed grass off of her dress, aware that her breaths came fast and shallow, sure that Bexley would notice.

"Daphne might need assistance."

Low, slow chuckles floated up from behind her. "You had no idea what you were playing at, did you?"

Caro whirled to face Bexley, snatching her hat up from the dying grass and scattering the pile of pebbles that had held it down. "I'm not playing."

He froze.

"Oh." Caro pressed her palm between her breasts. What was wrong with her? "Oh."

She spun and headed off in the direction she supposed Daphne had gone, toward the lopsided, half-raised tents and cluttered tables where the servants labored to assemble an outpost of civilization.

She found her friend by the wagon rummaging through a box of art supplies, surrounded by pots of paint, most of them with their lids off, little smears of color spotting her dress.

"I'm going to the lighthouse," Caro declared.

Daphne craned around. "What? You can't."

"I'm going." Caro turned to follow word with deed but caught herself and called, "Louise!"

Her lady's maid popped up from the crowd, tall and gangly as ever. As Louise began to pick her way through the sea of half-assembled furniture, Caro turned and set off without a backward glance. She crested the hill and continued past the easel and Bexley—or where Bexley would be, she refused to look—on down the slope.

"Miss?" asked Louise, once she caught up.

"Walk with me."

She felt wrong. Gawky and uncoordinated. People called kissing romantic? Romantic? If so, romance was a disease. Not just one disease, either. A palsy, a flu, a fever, an upset stomach. A whole cluster of diseases, a constellation of them, an archipelago of diseases. Her joints even throbbed a little. Could kissing cause arthritis?

"You're awfully pale, miss. Don't you want a nice cup of tea? Something to eat? A biscuit?"

"No food. I have no appetite at all. I have the opposite of an appetite, whatever that is." Flu brought on loss of appetite, didn't it?

"Aren't you walking a bit fast, miss?"

"Yes, I am."

"Don't you think you should slow down?"

"No, I do not."

She stomped ahead—this was not how she walked, she did not stomp, and yet every time one of her feet hit the ground it slapped down too hard and made a horrible clompy sound and sent little shocks up her calves and there it was, she must be stomping.

Caro came to an abrupt halt. She could scream. She could just—but no, in fact, she could not. She refused. Caroline Small did not stomp, and Caroline Small did not howl at the moon, or the sun, or any other celestial body.

"Won't you let me send someone to fetch a doctor?"

"If my condition worsens, you may call a doctor. Is that satisfactory?"

"Yes, miss."'

"Good. Now give me a little space."

Caro rose and turned in a circle to make sure that she and Louise were alone, hidden in the hollow between the lighthouse and the rise of the hill. She shooed her maid a few feet away and positioned her arms low in front of her body, rounded and slightly extended. She turned her feet out, heels touching, and held her spine straight. First position. She shifted to second, continuing on through all five, then repeated the series.

Years ago, Giselle had been a lead dancer in the Royal Ballet. Before Caro's father squandered the last of the family fortune, he'd taken Giselle as a mistress. A common enough story—many people believed that ballet dancing itself encouraged sexual license, but Caro knew differently. Dancers earned abysmal wages, not enough to stretch through the fallow periods between productions. A wealthy "protector" could make the difference between survival and starvation. It was uncertain work, and risky, as Giselle had discovered when part of a set collapsed on her during a performance. The accident had broken her leg. The bones had healed well enough for her to walk, to climb stairs—but the break put an end to her career.

Viscount Emlyn took pity on Giselle in, perhaps, the worst possible way: he'd hired her as a governess. Giselle hadn't much education, but then she hadn't been hired for her intellect or her pedagogy. She'd been hired so that she'd always be nearby when the viscount wanted a tumble.

Giselle had turned the tables on Emlyn—on them all—faster than they could process the change. She'd hobbled into their house on crutches and sashayed away, years later, their undisputed queen.

Once Caro was old enough to understand, Giselle had sat down next to Caro on her bed, wrapped her arm around Caro's shoulders and explained: "You will be most successful with men if you think of them as pets. Some are dogs and some are cats—choose the dogs. You give your dog food, you give it water, you give it praise. You give. That dog will love you to the end of time. It will die for you. Men have different needs, and when you have a husband it will be your task to learn his and meet them. But you must be the master. You must insist that he live by your rules."

Caro had protested. Surely, she'd said, no man worthy of the name would submit to this kind of treatment? Her father might be weak and submissive but others would be different.

"Darling." Giselle had bent her head close, the gurgling underwater Frenchness of her voice warming with humor. "If you play your role well, he will be grateful."

Giselle believed that the secret to managing men was great kindness—but no love. "If you cannot master your passions," she'd cautioned, "then you will become the dog, with a collar round your neck, and a leash just waiting for a man to pick it up."

Distressed as Caro was by the kiss, her performance ought to have been shaky. But habit guided her limbs. Her muscles remembered the drills and brought the rest of her body in line. The weight of her skirts and the length of her corset made it impossible to progress any further in her routine, but even the simplest moves helped return her to herself.

Caro held her arm straight in front of her, swept it left then right, admired the gentle curve of her elbow and the relaxed, slight inward curl of her fingers. Better.

The lighthouse stood guard over the cliffs, round and wide enough to appear squat despite its impressive height. Construction must have finished in the recent past, because the granite had the white, fresh look of stone newly culled from the earth.

She skirted the base, looked out at steel-gray waves almost the same color as the milky, blue-gray sky and wondered how many ships had crashed below. Had people died? Or did they just swim ashore and walk to the nearest town over, none the worse for wear?

A small brick structure was attached to the lighthouse, living quarters for the keepers who manned its oil-burning lamps through the night. A tall, irregular stone wall closed off a small yard for the house, which Caro followed around to complete the circuit, just for the sake of thoroughness.

A thin, keening moan and then a guttural male exclamation sounded just ahead. Distorted as the voices were, Caro recognized the speakers, and didn't particularly want to encounter either of them. She decided she ought to stop and turn around.

Unfortunately, she'd already advanced a step too far.

## Chapter Nine

Lady Paul's moan ripened into a squeal. She stood with her back against the wall, skirts rucked up, one frog-belly pale leg hooked around Matthew Spark's thigh. Matthew pulled away and turned around, giving Caro a glimpse of his penis, pink and erect.

"Looking for a show?" It took Matthew both hands to set himself to rights, but he didn't wait to start stalking up on Caro. "Snooping? What do you think you're about, you nasty little leprechaun?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Caro skittered backward. She bumped into Louise and grabbed onto the girl before they both toppled from the impact. Her voice rose to a shrill wail, beyond her control. "How was I to know!"

"If you breathe even a word of this—if you tell Daphne, or Bexley, if you write it down in your goddamned diary, I will slit your throat. And don't you wait and see if I'd do it. I'll drop you in a ditch and leave you for the dogs."

"I won't! Why would I—none of my concern—I'm so sorry—" Caro reversed directions and ran back around the lighthouse, Louise at her side, back along the cliff's edge, until she dropped down on her knees clutching at her midsection because she'd been fighting the tight grip of her corset for breath, and the corset had won. Her head spun.

Always, always, no matter where she went, she ended up here.

Not her incest. Not her betrayal of vows. Not her hideous, rictus-faced capitulation to pleasure. And yet she'd been implicated. Sullied by exposure.

She wished she could scrub the vile things she'd just seen and heard from her memory. Matthew's cherubic face, splotchy and rigid, his lips and nose scrunched into a human muzzle. Lady Paul with her mouth stretched wide and her eyes squeezed tight, squealing like a dying rabbit.

And yet Caro's stomach remained calm, untroubled. Her body no longer registered exposure to vice as a physical shock. She'd seen too much of it.

"Do you really think Mr. Spark will try to kill you?" Louise asked.

"I don't know." Caro shivered. "I believe he's capable of murder, though."

"I do too, miss."

Caro turned to her young maid, cupping the girl's cheeks in her hands. She'd hired Louise a year earlier from an orphanage that served its oldest charges as an employment agency, matching them with jobs as soon as they were old enough to work. That was all she could afford, and only for so long as she could hoard funds from her portion. But she'd promised to train the girl up as a lady's maid and find her a place with one of the women of the ton.

"You did well, Louise. You came to me with good advice but didn't push too far. You kept to my side during a stressful situation and then you stood back and kept watch while I calmed myself."

Louise's cheeks warmed under Caro's hands as clouds of pink stained her milky-white flesh. "Thank you, miss."

"And your accent didn't wobble once. I think it's time to look for a proper position for you. You're ready."

"Oh." Louise's shoulders slumped. The weight of her head doubled in Caro's hands. "That's good news."

"I don't want to lose you." Caro smiled, and the corners of Louise's mouth tilted up shyly in return. "But you can't wait for my fortunes to decide your fate. You deserve better."

"So you keep telling me, miss." Louise fell in at Caro's side, just a pace behind, as they continued up the hill.

Nothing had changed by the abandoned easel when Caro and Louise reached it. Over the crest Bexley stood near the luncheon table, an indulgent smile on his face, holding his arms out for Daphne while she giggled and punched at his palms.

"Welcome back, Miss Small." Bexley looked over but didn't move his arms.

Daphne twirled, her eyes still twinkling with humor. "Bexley upset you, didn't he? I've been punching him for you, as you can see, but have yet to make any progress. Would you like to have a go?"

Caro directed her slyest smile at Bexley. "How will we know when he's suffered enough?"

Daphne tapped her chin. "Holding his arms up will grow quite painful, eventually."

"How long would that take, Lord Bexley?"

"A few more minutes, at least."

"I think we ought to come up with a more effective punishment, Daphne."

"You could try hitting me someplace more sensitive," offered Bexley. A predatory light flashed in his eyes.

Caro took an involuntary step backward, dropping her gaze. "I can't think of a sensitive enough spot... where I could punch."

"You've turned into such a brute," Daphne teased. "What if she punched you in the nose? Wouldn't that hurt an eensy weensy bit?"

Bexley raised his eyebrows at Caro, who responded to his prompting by answering, "It would hurt my hand more."

He nodded, lips curving.

"He is a rockhead," Daphne agreed, thankfully oblivious to any undertones. "What did you think of the lighthouse?"

"It serves its purpose. Did you get much sketching done?"

"I made a few studies of the cliffs. I'll have you and Adam model for me again once I've blocked out the background in oil."

"Did you see Lady Paul or Mr. Spark?" Bexley asked. "I think they wandered off in the direction of the lighthouse."

"I didn't." Caro turned back to the stone tower. "How strange."

"I'd like to know where they are. If we don't eat soon, we'll be hard-pressed to make it back to Irongate tonight."

"I hope they haven't run into any trouble," said Caro. Bexley gave her a sharp look and she wondered if she'd played that one a little too dim.

"With Matthew along?" Daphne snorted. "Trouble has better things to do, unfortunately."

"Daphne...," scolded Bexley.

"You don't like him either."

"No, but I like you, and that kind of talk will get you into trouble."

"On the contrary, Lord Bexley," Caro drawled, "a woman willing to stab her own family in the back with her sharp tongue can go far in the world."

"Beast." Daphne smacked Caro on the arm. "I take it back."

Caro raised one eyebrow at Bexley and smirked. "You see? That's how it's done."

Exasperated, Bexley wandered off to check on the luncheon, leaving Caro and Daphne to chat. Matthew and Lady Paul didn't return for another fifteen minutes, but to Caro's astonishment both of them looked immaculate. She wondered if she'd imagined the whole incident by the lighthouse, but then Matthew glowered at her and Lady Paul gave her a look of such sincere, fearful pleading that Caro had to recognize her fantasy for what it was.

"We were beginning to worry," Daphne told them. "We didn't know where you'd gone off to. Caro hiked all the way to the lighthouse and didn't see you."

"We followed the cliffs down to the beach," Lady Paul lied, while Matthew continued to glare. "The walk took longer than we'd planned. Were you able to get much painting done?"

"A little. Despite suffering an unfortunate delay." Daphne sniffed in Matthew's direction before flouncing off to the picnic table, where luncheon had been laid.

They sat on neat little folding chairs of painted wood at a long, cloth-draped table, sipping ratafia from blown-glass cups and addressing slices of cold roast beef and lamb covered in mint sauce with a full complement of sterling-silver utensils.

As they passed around a cut-crystal bowl filled with bright, sugar-crusted segments of candied pineapple, Bexley eyed the sun and announced that the time to depart had arrived. The servants remained behind to disassemble the furniture and reload the wagon while the Sparks and their guests returned to Irongate. Even so it was pitch dark out before their carriage rolled through the massive iron gates from which the estate took its name.

Too tired to worry any more about the day's events, Caro ascended to her room. Since Louise had remained behind to clean and pack, Caro pulled out her ballet costume herself and then plopped down on her bed, debating about whether or not she ought to dance. She knew the correct answer to be yes, but the long day made her yearn for a relaxed, lazy night.

She hadn't come to a decision, and rather hoped that staying in would soon win by default, when a knock sounded at the door. When opened, a plump maid handed her a folded piece of paper and then walked off without waiting for a response.

After shutting the door, Caro unfolded the note. Its message couldn't be simpler: Meet me by the west fountain. It had to be Bexley, but why would he ask her to meet him out-of-doors when he could just look for her in his boxing studio?

Or had he already searched there and concluded that she'd decided to take the night off? She had been dawdling.

With a sigh, Caro tossed the note into the hot coals of the fireplace, changed into her ballet costume, and donned her wrapper. If she went to meet Bexley, whatever else happened she'd at least get far enough away from the bed to resist its magnetic pull. Remain not, therefore, twenty-four hours without practicing. Sometimes it was so hard.

Making her way down to the ballroom, she opened the door and stepped out onto the terrace. She didn't see anyone, so she circled around the balustrade and stepped down onto the gravel path, looking left and right as she approached the burbling fountain, the moonlit marble ghostly white amidst the shadows.

A voice came from behind her, smoother and more of a tenor than Bexley's. "I knew you'd come. You'd do anything to sink your hooks into my cousin, wouldn't you? But you're in no position to be so particular."

Caro bit her palm to stifle a yelp and whirled around to face her interlocutor. "Mr. Spark?"

He was as blandly handsome as ever, smooth-cheeked and golden-haired. He'd put on a new suit of clothes, a fresh cravat. Cologne.

And he'd positioned himself between her and the door.

"We have something to discuss," said Matthew Spark.

"Indeed we do," she said brightly, while scanning her surroundings. Several paths converged on the fountain, and she could run for any of them. "I want you to know that you can trust my discretion."

"Trust you?" Matthew snorted. "I know your people. Not an ounce of honor to share amongst the whole family. No. I have a different solution in mind."

"Come now," coaxed Caro. "I helped you today, didn't I? I vouched for your story, I insinuated nothing. What's to stop us from being allies?"

"Beastly little guttersnipe. You certainly think highly of yourself, don't you?"

"I think a man who commits incest should be careful who he offends," Caro returned, coolly.

He struck so quickly she didn't have time to dodge. He swooped close so they stood scant inches apart and grabbed her shoulder with one of his soft, elegant hands.

"Now that I know what you really think, I want you to know what will happen if you spread any filthy rumors." Matthew tightened his grip on her shoulder, digging into the meat of her muscle. "Do you think you'll be safe once you're home? You will never be safe again. I know people in London. The kind of people who will do anything for a little money. And if you don't keep your mouth shut tight, I'll send them your way. They will burn your house to the ground. They will leave you in pieces. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she whispered.

He inclined his head toward hers. She thrashed, but he held her in place like a fish on a hook.

"I don't think you do," he murmured, his lips hovering so close to her ear that his warm breath tickled the fine hairs at her nape. "But you will. Interfering pest."

The clawlike grip of his hand relaxed, and Caro fled. She was shaking by the time she reached the halls. Practice. God, she needed it. Hugging her wrapper tight around her body, Caro made her way to the boxing studio.

## Chapter Ten

Adam returned from his run the next morning feeling better than he had in years. It was odd, really, that one kiss could make such a difference. One close-lipped, brief kiss—but for a moment he'd seen her. Down to her core, where she was innocent and vulnerable.

Her hidden self lay so close to the surface. He'd wondered how a woman so calculating could continuously strike him as fresh and true. What a surprise to discover that the layers of pretense she cloaked herself in were so porous—more like a sheer silk wrapper, designed to flatter the figure beneath, than a thick protective coat built to seal the wearer off from her environment.

For all her boldness, her practiced glances... she was innocent. How could he blame her for a bit of ambition? For wanting to marry well and live comfortably? He'd never resented husband-hunting debutantes or their scheming mamas. If he were a woman, he'd want to marry the heir to a dukedom, too.

But if she wasn't playing—what was he doing? He would not stoop to toying with a woman, but did he want to marry Caroline Small?

Perhaps. If he were free to choose. If he lived in a world where he only had to please himself. But much as he wished it, neither was true. Marrying her would infuriate his father, and Adam wasn't ready for that.

If the railroad succeeded, things would be different. But he couldn't be sure it would, or when it would happen, and that meant he couldn't make any promises. Even implied promises, which he'd already come dangerously close to.

If he had any honor at all, he'd distance himself from her. Send a clear message.

Breakfast waited in his room, the rare beef and stale bread dictated by his blasted diet, with a bit of old beer to wash it down. Adam sat down to eat at seven; at seven-thirty he took a six-mile walk and returned by nine when his valet, Finn, rubbed him down with dry towels then dressed him for the day.

His man of affairs and estate manager kept him busy through the morning and early afternoon. He made time for tea, though, thinking that if Daphne had taken Caro out again they'd be hungry.

He'd wean himself off her company, but he'd do it gradually. Easier for both of them. If he had to seek her out, best to do it in company.

Instead of Daphne and Caro he found his Uncle Paul in the rose salon, staring down the front of his wife's dress and rubbing at his thighs in a show of absentminded cupidity while she distributed cups of tea and plates of biscuits. Lady Paul pretended not to notice her husband's ogling, but Adam could tell by her stiff back and downcast look that she loathed it.

Matthew reclined on an armchair opposite, disgruntled and sneering.

"Adam." Elizabeth reached out her arms. A massive brooch shaped like a giraffe sparkled at her décolletage. The animal's spotted pelt had been picked out as dark garnets in a field of citrines, and a winking diamond stood in for its eye. His new aunt had the taste of a crazed magpie. "How kind of you to join us. Can I pour you a cup of tea?"

"No. I'll take a biscuit though."

"We were just discussing something rather... sensitive." Elizabeth slid a piece of shortbread onto a plate and passed it over while Adam took a seat. He put the plate down on the nearest table and then, despite himself, cracked off a corner of the biscuit and ate it. God. Butter. He could never come to tea again.

"Paul?" Elizabeth prompted.

"That little minx that Daphne invited to Irongate lured Matthew out to the garden last night," said Paul.

Adam turned his attention to Matthew.

"I could hardly believe it myself," said Matthew, shifting his weight. "Especially when I saw what she was wearing—some sort of harlot's garb with half her legs bare."

"You should know better than to invent such foul stories," said Adam, though his heart sank. Matthew possessed all the honor of a carrion eater. He lied without compunction, he had no morals to speak of, and he thrived on the unhappiness of others.

But he had seen Caro in her practice uniform.

"I saw them with my own eyes," said Paul. "So did Elizabeth. We were looking out the window—"

"You make a habit of gazing out of windows in the dark?" Adam scoffed.

"We had a full moon last night," Elizabeth interpolated. "Very bright."

"Go on, read me a lecture." Matthew shifted his weight, fiddled with his gold cufflinks, then burst out, "The more you defend her, the more obvious it is to all of us that she's a pernicious jezebel. I'm telling you, she tried to seduce me."

"She very nearly succeeded," Elizabeth snapped.

Adam pictured the expression of innocent wonder Caro had worn when he kissed her, only this time directed at Matthew. No. It was absurd—impossible.

"Whatever you think you saw, you are mistaken." Adam released his grip on the slick silk of the armrests and rose to his feet. "Matthew is lying."

Matthew spluttered.

"Adam." Pity tainted Elizabeth's voice. It made Adam's skin crawl. "We know you care for her, but what else did you expect from a girl like that? With her family..."

"The girl's clouded your judgment," Matthew cut in.

"You question my judgment? I question yours." He rolled his shoulders. "Miss Small is a guest here at Irongate. It falls to us to protect her honor and good name. One way or another, you have fallen short of what you owe to her, to me, and to my father."

Protect her honor?" Matthew surged upright. "Haven't you been listening? I told you what happened. They saw it. She's nothing but a—"

Adam closed his hand around Matthew's throat. In a hard, low, and perfectly even voice, he said, "I don't think you want to finish that sentence."

Paul shoved them apart. "Enough!"

Adam kept his eyes on Matthew. "I am going to find out what really happened. And if the truth is anything like I suspect it will be, you'd be wise to make yourself scarce."

Adam showed them all his back. He asked a passing footman where to find Miss Small and Daphne and bent his steps toward the orangery.

## Chapter Eleven

Caro stared at her arm, sunk into the orangery's rectangular pool past the elbow. The water paled her skin, giving it a blue cast that made the limb look like it might belong to a stranger. A character in one of her ballets, perhaps—a water nymph, this time, instead of an air fairy. She swished her arm back and forth to feel the delicious tug of water rushing between her fingers.

A melody played from within the silent chamber of her mind, faint and patchy. Caro rested her cheek against the warm terra-cotta tile and closed her eyes, allowing the notes to bubble to life. An aria, she thought, sung by a woman with dark flowing hair and a voice that rose like a river during flood season. Behind her Caro would dance in counterpoint, her movements slow and liquid.

She would curl her back and bow her head, shape her body to echo the waves she'd seen at Beachy Head and toe her way across the stage to the rhythm of the surf. The waves could roll in quickly but the true power, the true rhythm, lay deeper.

Even the great, white-capped waves she'd seen crashing against the cliff were but a surface manifestation of the currents that dragged the water from deep below and moved it between continents. The fear she'd felt in the aftermath of Bexley's kiss returned, stoked by Matthew's threats, and bled into the dance she'd envisioned: she imagined her arms flying up to imitate the motion of a startled flock of birds winging away from the shore.

"Did you ever take comportment lessons?" Daphne asked.

Caro cracked her eyes open and smiled at her friend. "I never had the opportunity."

"No. Of course not." Daphne blushed. "I did. The mistress used to show us movements like that—" Daphne pointed to Caro's submerged hand, tracing figures in the water. "She'd tell us to incorporate them into everyday activities, to show people how graceful we are, but I could never do it. I always felt silly when I tried, like I was playacting, but you make it seem so natural."

"I was just thinking of music."

"Even hearing music doesn't help me very much," Daphne complained, then cocked her head to the side as the door squeaked. The heavy, measured slap of leather soles against clay tiles combined with Daphne's huge smile, her dimples popping to life, told Caro who to expect.

Caro pulled her arm from the water and propped herself up on her elbows like a lizard, heat burning her cheeks as she looked into the warm amber of the Earl of Bexley's eyes. She dropped her gaze, only to find herself admiring the way his broad shoulders filled the black superfine of his morning coat, following the narrow vee of white cravat and whiter shirt down to his hips.

Her lips tingled.

"Adam!" Daphne called. "Come join us. Caro and I had so much fun yesterday that we decided to recreate the picnic here in the orangery."

"I'd be glad to." Bexley dropped into a squat. He balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, the bunched muscles of his thighs straining against the fabric of his trousers, and propped his forearms against his knees. His golden hair collected the condensed sunlight into a halo, reminding Caro of Daphne's painting. Hephaestus at his forge, backlit by fire.

"But I have a question for Miss Small first," he added.

Caro flicked her wet fingers and sent a few droplets of water flying past Bexley's face, but he didn't flinch. In fact, he'd set his mouth—those lush, bow-shaped lips—into a hard, grim line.

"Ask away, my lord."

He caught her eyes and held them, locking her gaze with his. "Did you meet Matthew Spark alone in the garden late last night?"

The terror of the night flooded back and congealed the thick hothouse air to syrup in Caro's lungs. She fought to draw breath and found, to her astonishment, that she could not speak.

The golden pools of Bexley's eyes hardened to a pair of tiger's eye marbles. "Tell me what happened."

Caro licked her lips. "I received a note directing me to the garden. It was unsigned."

Bexley raised an eyebrow. "And you went?"

Caro nodded.

"But why?" Daphne asked. "Who did you think it could have been? Such an indecent request."

"I—" Caro stirred, shifting her weight between her elbows and stretching her legs. Her shoulder sockets were beginning to ache. "I was curious to find out."

"You should have known better," Bexley said quietly, and Caro heard the rebuke in his tone: that he would not have dangled such a lure before her, that she shouldn't have held out any hope for it.

Caro shrank into herself.

"But Matthew?" Daphne sounded bewildered. "Why would he do such a thing? What could he possibly..."

Daphne trailed off and Caro shivered.

"Did he harm you?" Bexley asked.

"He grabbed at me," Caro admitted. "He frightened me."

"He says you tried to seduce him."

Caro shuddered.

"No," said Bexley. "I didn't think so."

"You can't let Matthew get away with this." Daphne's blue eyes snapped with fury. "You must do something."

"I will," said Bexley, and his voice was stone. "He will learn to regret what he has done."

Caro peeked up, but his face had firmed into a hard mask. Not just resolute, but distant. Even the anger glittering in his eyes seemed far away, inaccessible.

"Miss Small, you have my apology." Bexley paused, and his voice deepened. "You deserve better. I wish that I could offer a guarantee of—safety. But I can't."

Caro frowned. An anticipatory flash of fear made her tremble, and then hold herself more firmly.

"You will have to cut short your stay here at Irongate," he continued.

Caro's heart skipped a beat.

"What? Why Caro?" Daphne cried. She huddled closer to Caro, unconsciously protective. "Send Matthew away!"

Caro linked their hands and squeezed. Daphne didn't understand this drama at all, but she was a good friend. The best.

"You're upset," said Bexley. "It's not what I would wish either. But I cannot be responsible for what would happen if she stayed. I'm sorry."

Caro flinched. She couldn't look at him, didn't want to know what hidden message she'd find lurking in his eyes: Pity? Relief? Censure?

"It's not fair!" said Daphne.

"I'll make arrangements to have you taken home tomorrow, Miss Small," said Bexley, and left.

Caro stared at the windows clouded with condensation. She knew the air outside to be brilliantly clear but from inside the orangery she saw only blank mist. She tried to imagine little droplets of water collecting over her thoughts, her memories, her feelings. She wanted to look inside herself and see blurry little clouds of fog.

But it was no good. She couldn't cloak herself in numbness. The consequences were already playing themselves out in her mind. She'd have to go home and beg her father for a second season. Whatever Bexley promised, rumors would chase her back to London. Even if the details never left the house, word of a visit cut short under dubious circumstances would make the rounds.

People would wonder, and that would be enough. Whatever reputation she'd built for herself these last months was fragile as a reed. It would not withstand even a breath of doubt.

The very moment she left Irongate, all would be lost.

## Chapter Twelve

The whispers started up before the door swung closed at his back, but Adam didn't pause to see if he could catch any fragments of conversation. A disorienting buzzing crowded out his thoughts and, for the first time in his life, he wasn't sure if he could maintain his calm demeanor. He took the nearest stairs, leaping up two at a time, and followed the corridor around to his suite. After a quick tug of the bellpull to summon his valet, Adam crossed over to the window and gripped the sill, holding onto it like an anchor until Finn arrived.

Christ, what she must have felt, coming face to face with Matthew in the night. Knowing his temper, his meanness of spirit. She'd have been terrified—but he knew, from their first meeting, that she'd have tried to hide it. She would have tried to charm Matthew, to bargain with him. Because even if the weapons she had at her disposal were flimsy, she'd use them.

She was so damned brave.

And Matthew, that forked-tongued, scale-bellied caricature of a man, had laid hands on her.

Adam changed into his rough flannels and left through the French gardens, pausing by the fountain. Matthew had known who she expected to see. And he'd known that Paul and Elizabeth were looking out the window.

He hadn't been planning a seduction any more than Miss Small had. So what had he hoped to achieve?

And why?

Adam headed northwest, but his frustration only mounted. He'd made the right decision. The only possible decision. He couldn't control Matthew. He couldn't keep him from the property for long. Matthew was a coward, but that didn't make him harmless.

What more could Adam do? What power did he really have? So little. And he had exercised it by sending Miss Small away. In order to protect her from Matthew, he'd taken the step that would protect her, also, from himself.

Because he had to toe the line. Because if he didn't make the right choice, he'd be made to regret it.

But damnation he was sick of rolling down a track laid by someone else.

He had always been the good child. The model son. And it had been easy. He'd never questioned his role. He'd struggled to live up to his father's expectations; he'd never struggled against them.

After his sister Lily ran away, he'd discovered that he'd been living a lie.

He'd been obedient—because she was defiant. He'd been responsible—because she had been wild. He'd been a vicarious rebel. A spectator, standing by while Lily fought battles for the both of them.

She had vanished in his care, in Egypt. Adam had embarked on a Grand Tour—caves in Champagne, museums in Paris, churches in Rome. He'd enjoyed himself so much that he'd written home from the Alps to announce an extension to his trip. He'd continue into the Holy Land, perhaps even visit the pyramids.

The reply he'd received in Vienna contained two surprises: His best friend Alfie's father, the Earl of Kingston, had died, and Lily wanted to join Adam in Egypt.

He'd thought about cutting short his trip and returning to England. He'd thought it odd that Lily would leave while a friend grieved. But in the end, he'd done what he always did: he'd gone along with her scheme. He'd written back to say yes.

Lily had stepped off the boat in Alexandria brimming with nervous energy. Every time he'd asked her about home, she'd turned the conversation to some odd story from her favorite books about the region. And so it went, all the way south to Cairo, where she stole all of his ready cash and fled.

He'd remained in Egypt for months after she disappeared, searched every alley in Cairo and followed every false lead the baksheesh-grubbing locals cared to toss his way. She'd vanished without a trace.

He didn't know why until he returned home, where he learned that their father had permitted the trip in exchange for a promise, from Lily, to marry a seventy-year-old man.

The rushed engagement, too, had been easy to explain. She'd been caught in bed with Alfie.

Alfie blamed Adam for Lily's death. For a while, Adam had blamed Alfie. They had each played a part. If Adam hadn't left Lily to bear the burden of their father's disapproval, he might have earned her trust. She might have looked to him for help. He'd reaped the reward he deserved when, instead, she swindled him.

Alfie's failure had been more concrete. A complete betrayal. Impossible to explain, impossible to justify.

Once Lily was gone—he shouldn't pretend; once she was dead—he found it much harder to play the role he'd been assigned. Every order rankled. Every silent expectation. He no longer wanted to fit himself into a mold made in his father's image.

But he knew, too, what Lily had never learned. She had seemed to flit and dodge through life like a perfectly skipped stone, touching the water again and again but never sinking. She sped toward disaster only to fly clear at the last moment. Always in crisis, always beating the odds, always daring what couldn't be done.

And she had died young.

His father lived by strict and self-serving rules, and so he had accumulated vast wealth and considerable power. His sister had thrown those rules out the window, and she had a tombstone on the property with an empty coffin buried under the grass.

Those were facts. Ugly but indisputable. And Adam had learned from them. He would work with the resources at his disposal. He would set goals that were achievable. He would not start fights that he couldn't win, and he would not desire things that he couldn't have.

He would give up when necessary. Retreat, regroup, return to fight another day. When he was strong enough.

The sun kissed the horizon as Adam reached the ancient amphitheater. He usually arrived much later and the thick crowd surprised him. The tiered stone benches sunk deep into the earth were invisible beneath all the men who sat side by side, packed tight as heads of wheat in a field. More bodies massed around the wooden platform where a fight was in progress. Hoots and hollers sounded from every direction.

Adam threaded through the spectators until he spotted a rat-faced man who wore a cap pulled low over beady eyes. Nelson. Short and wiry, he had the skill but not the bulk to beat the arena's top fighters.

"Mumbles." Nelson's head twitched in an abbreviated nod. "You're here early."

Adam pointed at the ring and mumbled, raising his voice a few notes at the end to signal a question. He wanted to know what was going on in the ring. He recognized George Tailor up on the boards, but not his opponent—a man of similar weight but shorter and thicker, built like a turtle. While he and Nelson watched, the newcomer took a hard blow to the stomach, followed Tailor's fist as it retracted, grabbed him by the back of the neck and spun him. Tailor reeled, allowing the stranger to unleash a flurry of blows, throwing his whole weight into cross-body punches and tight jabs.

"Ed Harris," said Nelson.

Ed Harris? The Champion of England? Adam raised his eyebrows. It would take a fighter of that caliber to make Tailor, a marvel of strength and endurance, look like a rank amateur.

"Harris himself," Nelson confirmed. "Arrived yesterday and he's given every fighter we've got a thorough drubbing. Tailor's gone down eight times so far, Harris not one."

According to the current rules, a fight ended when a downed boxer couldn't rise to his feet of his own volition within a thirty-second count. If he rose, he resumed his position at the chalk square immediately—no time to break or pause—and the referee called for a renewal of hostilities.

Sweat matted Tailor's hair to his head, soaked his trousers and flattened his chest hair. Blood leaked from his nose all the way down to his chin, dribbled onto his chest. His head hung at half-mast. He fought on, hunching into the clenched muscles of his stomach to defend and trying for a knock-out, his only chance at a win in his current state. Between punches his arms hung at his sides, and he swayed on loose, rubbery legs, his stamina drained to the dregs.

They went on like that until Tailor threw all his weight into a wild swing. Harris dodged and Tailor simply followed his fist forward in a long arc to the floorboards. He collapsed face-first and regained consciousness just as the referee called thirty. The cries from the audience swelled to an angry crescendo as Tailor's second dragged him from the ring. None of the navvies liked seeing their best fighter humiliated by an outsider.

"Who's next!" Harris stomped to the side of the stage and held his arms out to the spectators. They jeered back, but nobody volunteered. Harris crossed to the opposite side of the stage, floorboards rattling. "I'll take you all!"

Adam pushed forward. When he got close enough, he raised his arm and yelled, "Oi!"

Harris held out his hand, inviting Adam up onto the stage. "Do you have a second?"

Adam turned back to the crowd. He saw Big Tom, who usually stood up as his second, and motioned him up.

Tom shook his head. "Did you see what he just did to Tailor?"

Nelson appeared at his side and gave his back a shove. "Go on. I'll second you."

"Doesn't he speak?" Harris asked, while the seconds walked their fighters into position at the chalk line.

"Nah. Just mumbles," Nelson answered, looking to the referee as he retreated to the rails.

Adam held out his hand, which Harris shook. The boxer had the face of a good English bulldog, square and homely. Thick straps of muscles along his neck, the kind that only developed over years of absorbing punches to the head, served as a letter of introduction: here stood a professional, a Champion of England.

Harris outweighed Adam by a fair margin, but Adam had the advantage in height and reach. He'd try to keep Harris at arm's length. That was all the strategizing he could do. The referee signaled the beginning of the match and Harris stepped in with a nice peppering of blows, not too hard, just checking to see if he'd make contact.

Adam shrugged off the light punches and served up a few of his own, but Harris retreated enough to leech the force out of Adam's fists before they connected while dishing out a steady rain of hits, paced so quickly that Adam barely blocked one in three.

And then Harris's little henpecking touches matured into snappy bolts. He'd step in with a lightning-fast punch, retreat and leave behind a thunderclap of pain, booming out from the point of contact. Adam heard shouts of, "You got 'im!" directed at Harris, and friendly, half-despairing yells from the navvies, "'it 'im back, Mumbles! Give 'im 'ell!"

The yelling all jumbled together. Men shouted from every direction, so many voices it got hard to pick out individual words, and his memory supplied the rest.

His father, when he finally returned from Cairo: "You should be ashamed to stand before me alive, after killing my only daughter." Alfie, on Hampstead Heath, when Adam couldn't shoot: "The simplest things are beyond you." Paul, at tea: "I know who I'd trust with my funds." And Caroline Small, flushed and wistful and beautiful as a night-blooming orchid: "You do it because it hurts you."

An arm slapped across his bare chest like a bar, a firm hand took hold of his shoulder, and Adam realized that one of the people shouting in his direction was Nelson, who bellowed, "Stop!" right in his ear at top volume.

Adam took a deep breath and looked around. Harris lay sprawled on the floorboards, legs fully extended, sucking air like a bellows.

"...three, four, five...," called the referee.

The navvies whooped and Tailor sidled up to the stage. He sagged like a sack of old potatoes but raised his voice with the chorus of cheers.

Adam mumbled at Nelson. He raised his voice at the end, as he had before, to flag his gibberish as a question. What the hell had happened?

Nelson scratched at the stubble on his skinny neck, puffing out his lower lip to stretch the skin tight. He went on like this, scratch scratch, until comprehension cleared his features. "Aye, you toppled 'im."

Harris rose to his feet at twenty-eight, only two counts shy of losing the match. The Champion stepped up to the chalk line again, grimmer but still in good fettle. Adam took his place opposite, focused in on Harris's battered face and thought: I can fight every single battle I've lost all over again, right now. I can make them all end differently.

The referee called a start. Harris feinted. Adam stepped forward with his left foot and threw all of his weight into an uppercut that took Harris on the jaw and knocked him flat.

A few friends shouted out his name and the crowd took it up, synchronizing into a chant that sounded from every direction: "Mumbles! Mumbles!"

Adam withdrew to the chalk line and waited. The referee started counting again and made it to twenty before Harris got back up. This time Adam didn't need to recite his grievances—he'd crossed some kind of threshold, a line in the sand.

He'd trained and drilled for months. His body knew what to do. He didn't need to construct mental checkpoints for each punch, queue up muscular impulses like little boats stuttering down a series of locks in a canal. No. He just had to push his intent into his body, evaporate his whole being into his skin and let go.

Harris went down again, and again, and again. He came up stronger each time. The showy technique fell by the wayside as he settled in for a battle of endurance, a battle he would win. Already Adam could feel the toll of the champion's punches in his ringing head, the hitch in his breath from repeated blows to the thorax, the trembling of his abdominal muscles when he clenched for a body blow. He might be good, but he wasn't a professional. A long fight tired him out.

An elbow to the head sent Adam sprawling. He clung to consciousness, but didn't particularly want to get up. The referee counted ten. How nice it would be to stay put, what a relief to be off this damn platform. Eighteen, intoned a voice hovering over his head. Nineteen.

Adam staggered to his feet at twenty-nine and started the next round with the sweet siren call of the floorboards still whispering in his ears. Harris knocked him over again straight away.

Adam rolled to his back and looked up at Harris's pulpy face, swollen and disfigured now after so much punishment. The champion's hard smile said, "Get up." It said that Harris wanted revenge, that he'd hit harder as Adam got weaker.

Get mean. Yes. This is what Tailor had meant. This base instinct for survival, the vitality of weeds that keep growing after they've been cut down to the root a dozen times, of lions who pick out the young and the sick as prey.

Adam rolled onto his knee and stood again. The roar of the crowd around him surged, but he closed his ears.

He thinks he's outlasted me. Adam took his stance as the seconds signaled to the referee. He thinks I put up a good fight but the champion will win in the end because that's what a champion does. He thinks the past has momentum, that victory begets victory.

He's wrong.

Harris led this time, confident. Adam retreated, absorbed the blows as best as he could and threw a few lazy punches, trying to lull Harris into a false sense of security. Harris pressed in, got too close, drew back for a blow and opened up his left side. Adam pictured his fist hitting the back of Harris's skull and let fly a perfect straight punch to the jaw.

Harris saw it coming. Anger and disbelief clashed in his features for the span of a second—less, half a second—and then he went down.

He didn't get up.

Adam turned in each of the cardinal directions, arms raised. Hundreds of men cheered, their voices long since gone hoarse. Someone held out a bottle of whiskey and Adam grabbed it. To hell with his diet, he'd just beaten the Champion of England. He drank deep, handed the bottle back, and when someone else held out another he did it again. He shook hands, slapped shoulders, and when he came face to face with George Tailor he planted one hand on the bigger man's neck and then pulled him forward in an embrace.

"Don't get sentimental, Mumbles," cautioned Tailor. "He ain't stood up yet."

Adam mumbled a question.

"Harris," Tailor explained. "Hasn't woken up from the knock-out. Best get out of here now before trouble starts brewing."

Adam looked down at his hands. Made a fist, uncurled it. The pleasure went out of his triumph, leaving behind exhaustion and pain. Bruises, cuts, sore muscles, stressed bones. A headache.

"It was a good fight." Tailor gave Adam another slap on the shoulder and helped him escape the crowd. Adam took one last look at the arena. Night had fallen while he fought and the bonfires were up, the sky a deep twilight. Time to go home.

## Chapter Thirteen

One winter, years ago when Caro was not yet ten, she'd been sitting on the floor huddled up close to the coal-burning fire in her family's parlor. Her father came up behind her, lifted the cast-iron grate and reached in with a poker to churn the coals. Red sparks flurried up the chimney, heat bloomed across her face, and her father replaced the grate.

As he set the poker back into its caddy, Caro reached up and grabbed it. Just to see. The poker had spent a handful of seconds exposed to the fire, hardly enough to get warm. It hadn't burned her. But her father had been furious.

The next day Giselle had given Caro her first ballet lesson. The incident was hazy in her memory, not nearly so sharp as the lessons that had followed—they'd been hard, and she'd hated them before she loved them—but she thought of that long-ago moment as she donned her practice uniform and crept through the corridors of Irongate to the ballroom terrace, then kept on walking. Out into the dark, fragrant countryside.

Matthew's ploy had left her with few options, none of them good. She could go home in disgrace, swallow the cost of a second season, and hope for the best.

Or she could make a play for Bexley. She could gamble on his sense of honor, with her own as the stake. If she won, she'd be wealthy, titled. And not just titled but a duchess eventually: she'd have the best title of all. If she lost, she'd lose everything. Her virginity. Her reputation. Her chances of a less spectacular but still advantageous marriage to another, less appealing man.

One chance, and she shouldn't take it. It was like grabbing the iron poker. A horrible decision, likely to cause great harm. A reckless impulse. And yet here she was.

She waited for hours before she spotted him. Hands in his pockets, head down, limbs stiff. He'd been fighting, and if his posture were any indication, he'd lost again.

Chin propped on her knees, Caro hugged her folded legs tight against her chest and waited by the copse of trees where he'd accosted her a few nights before. Adam didn't look up until he'd come quite close, and didn't say a word when he spotted her. Just ground to a halt and stared.

Caro rose and closed the distance between them, blanched when she got close enough to see the wreck of his face.

"What happened?" She'd meant to say something else. She'd had a whole little speech prepared.

"The usual." His gaze swept down to her feet and back up to her neck, where it stuck. "Take yourself back to Irongate, Miss Small."

"I'll walk with you." Caro reached out to dab at a cut on his cheek, but he caught the gesture and flinched away before she could make contact.

"No. You won't." His short, sandy lashes lowered as his attention wandered south again. "You'd be better off alone than with me."

Better off alone? Caro stepped in closer and peered into Bexley's glassy eyes. "I find that hard to believe."

"I'm not jesting." His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. "I'll stay here and watch until you've crested that rise."

"No."

"I'm not giving you a choice."

"Is it the fighting, or the losing, or—" Caro winced. Just looking at his raw, puffy skin gave her phantom pains. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

He stopped staring at her breasts then, raising his eyes to stare at... her forehead? "Would that interfere with your plans?"

"You know it would." Caro reached out to touch him again and this time he let her, standing stiff and still as a man facing a firing squad while she traced the ring of his swollen eye socket with her fingertips, skipped over a cut on his cheek to feel the hard flex of muscle at his jaw. "I don't like seeing you in pain."

He slapped her hand away. "I won't marry you."

Caro flinched.

"You're wasting your time. Whatever affection I feel for you, it's not enough."

"Then walk me home."

"Weren't you listening?" He crowded close, smelling of coppery blood and musk, dirt and soot. "It is a mistake to provoke me. I could ruin you and your family on a whim. I could throw you to the ground right now, and—ruin you in a very different way. I could wring... your... little... neck, and that ought to terrify you."

"But you won't."

He grabbed her shoulders with both hands and shoved, hard enough to send her stumbling backward. "Don't be so sure of that. I'm not."

"Go ahead then. Strangle me." Caro stepped right back to him and tilted her chin up, baring her neck. "I dare you."

Bexley's arms remained at his sides, hands curled into fists.

Leaning up on her tiptoes, Caro lowered her voice to a whisper. "What did you tell me about threats? In order for them to be effective, you have to be willing and able, isn't that right? What else have you threatened me with?"

Caro rolled her feet flat on the grass and took a step backward. Slowly, holding Bexley's furious gaze, she unfastened her wrapper and dropped it to the ground.

"Don't."

Caro pushed the short sleeve of her costume down from her shoulder to her elbow. She watched his gaze drop to her bare breast, nipple puckering in the chill air, and hold.

"Miss Small—"

"Caro."

"I am not"—Bexley paused—"inhuman."

"I dare you."

Caro watched the struggle, watched Bexley's whole body pull in her direction like iron to a magnet. He mastered the impulse, but he couldn't look away from her bare breast.

Caro pushed the other sleeve down.

Bexley dropped to his knees. He grabbed her by the waist, yanked her close. His mouth opened wide, as though he would devour her, and he dug his teeth into the tender flesh of her breast with enough pressure to make her cry out in pain. He growled, sealed his lips around her nipple and sucked.

A rope of nerves connected her breast with the place between her legs, where she throbbed in time with each pull of his lips. Caro closed her eyes and braced her hands on Bexley's shoulders, astonished by the sensation. How marvelous and unexpected. He unlatched, and just like the day before, the magic of his mouth had sensitized her skin, ripened it. The sudden change of temperature made her gasp.

He tongued her other breast, leaned back to admire his handiwork, then pulled her in with a gentle tug. Caro swayed forward and watched his lips close around the rosy tip of her nipple.

More pressure from his hands, pushing down. Caro went limp, slid like water through Bexley's fingers until she'd dropped to her knees, mirroring his pose, and his hands cupped her where his mouth had been.

"I could have been anyone, couldn't I?" Bexley asked. "If Matthew were my father's heir you'd be out here offering yourself to him."

"No. If you were anyone else, I'd stay far, far away."

He leaned in, eyes sliding shut, and captured her lips in a kiss. So sweet. His palm warmed her cheek, held her steady. Wet heat softened her bottom lip. Caro jerked, opened her mouth to speak, but he thrust his tongue through the breach, tangled it with hers.

She whimpered.

Bexley broke away again, breathing more heavily now. "Leave, Caro. You should leave."

"Untie my laces."

"I'm sending you away in the morning. Nothing's changed." He reached around and picked the knot at the small of her back, his fingers clumsy on the strings. "I won't marry you."

"Yes, you will." Caro cradled Bexley's cheeks between her hands, drawing his eyes up. She ought to keep quiet. If she wanted her gamble to pay off, she needed him to spring the trap. Once he took her virginity, he'd have to marry her. But she couldn't let him continue without warning him. "Your conscience won't let you."

He froze in the middle of ruffling up her skirts. "You're wrong."

"You're a good man, Lord Bexley. And I'm a virgin."

His hands stroked up now, past her waist to her armpits and then back down again. "I think I just killed a man."

"What?"

"I hit him so hard that he didn't get up. He may never."

"Is that possible?"

"It happens. From time to time." His hands settled at her waist, squeezed and released. "If he doesn't wake, he'll die from starvation in a few days."

Caro smoothed his brow with her palm and then threaded her fingers through his hair, petting him. "I'm sorry."

He looked up, and Caro could see anguish beneath the cuts and bruises. He hadn't lost the fight—he'd lost something much more important. She wrapped her arms around him, laid her head against his chest and hugged him as if he were Daphne or Giselle or one of her brothers, to console and reassure.

He returned the embrace, swallowed her nearly, his biceps half the size of her whole head. He could have squeezed the life out of her like a python, but he only rubbed his palms against her back and kissed her hair before falling back into a sitting position. Sweeping an arm under her legs, he lifted her into his lap.

"Did you want to kill this man?" Caro asked.

"Not at all. But I thought it—I imagined hitting him hard enough to crack his skull."

"What could you have done differently?"

"Lost. I could have let him win."

"Why didn't you?"

"There's no point in stepping up to the scratch line if you won't give the fight your all."

Caro nodded her head against the soft felted wool of Adam's jacket. "So you could not have let him win."

He released a pent-up breath and snugged her tighter against his body, a relaxed gesture, but didn't hold still long. His hands wandered. One cupped the curve of her buttock, while his fingers teased the side of her breast.

"I wish you weren't kind." He bent his forehead to hers, mingled their breaths. "Go home. You don't need to do this."

"Put me down and stand up. I'll follow right behind."

"I don't want to." He squeezed the round cheek of her rear, which made her giggle. "Devious girl. Why are you laughing?"

"The way you grabbed me just then. Like I'm a pear." Caro giggled. "Why does that feel good? I'm not a fruit."

"I could smell you, too." He shifted the hand he'd just squeezed her with, inching closer to the crease between her legs. "To see if you're ripe. Just like a fruit."

Caro widened her eyes. Nobody had told her about this, feeling around and smelling. She gave the notion some consideration and decided, yes, if he wanted to sniff at her she could tolerate it. Dogs did that. Dogs! Just like Giselle said. Smelling privates must be quite normal. What did the cat-type men do? They must lick—

"What is it?"

Caro looked up to meet Bexley's eyes but couldn't even begin to form the words, so instead she buried her face in his neck.

"Caro."

"Yes?" She spoke into his skin, tasted the salt on it. She liked the flavor, so she stuck her tongue out a bit and licked. Still good. She thought his neck might be warmer than the rest of his body, the skin thin as the muslin of her skirts.

His arms tightened around her. "Don't do that."

Caro smiled a little to herself and stroked her tongue up the tendon at the side of his neck. Maybe she was a cat? Did that mean she'd want to—

"And stop giggling."

Caro stifled her laughter by licking him again.

"You don't just lick at a person." He lifted her, held her under both armpits and dangled her in front of him like a kitten while she scrabbled to get her knees back on the ground. "Who told you to do that?"

"I was thinking about cats." Bexley's lips—no, not anymore. Adam's lips quirked at her answer. Heat warmed her cheeks. "You liked it."

"God, yes." He clasped the back of her neck and pushed her chin up with his thumb. "But you've only guessed one element of a complex operation."

And then he put his tongue on her throat—licking, yes, but also sucking, scraping gently with his teeth, pressing with his lips. It was like some sort of a drug, turning all the other muscles in her body into water, making her heavy and hot and powerless. She half-gasped, half-moaned, felt like she was drowning, like the water had reached her chin and trickled into her mouth and she knew soon it would fill her nose, cover her scalp. She wanted it to.

He lifted away from her neck. If he let go she'd fall over. She tried to right herself but her muscles wouldn't obey her commands. Before that could bother her, he covered her mouth with his, filled it with his tongue, so she stopped breathing because she wanted it there. Yes. He could fill her up, like water, and drag her into the deeps.

She choked, despite herself, slapped at Adam's shoulders and spluttered.

"Breathe." He laughed then, and she thought he might try to say something else but didn't wait for it. She grabbed his head and pulled his lips to hers, sucked his tongue back into her mouth and when he made a noise, a startled growl, she sucked again.

He pushed her away. She mewled, frantic and miserable because when he kissed her she wanted to die, and she wanted him to kiss her again and again.

Caro scratched at her arms. Her skin could not contain her; her skin was in the way. "This is horrible."

"Shh." He grabbed her wrists, collecting both in one hand. Caro fell back onto her rump and realized she was about to cry.

"Caro. Take a deep breath. Look at me."

Caro used her pinioned hands, pincerlike, to grab Adam's free hand and press it to her breast. He hesitated, then molded his fingers around her flesh and squeezed. Yes. Caro sighed and let her head roll back, her long hair a soothing weight at the back of her head. Instinctively she widened her stance to feel the cool air rush up and chill her where she was hottest.

"You were made for this, weren't you?" He let go, freeing her. Caro took hold of her own breasts and squeezed, felt the pain-pleasure of the pressure and the hard tip of her nipple against her palms.

"Fuck."

He ruffled at her skirts again, put his hand between her legs. That felt amazing. She rocked into his palm, sending white-hot flickers of pleasure spinning in every direction, to her quivering thighs and liquid belly and her breasts, because apparently that cord of sensation worked in reverse, too. Caro plucked at her nipples and moaned.

"Put your hands on me."

Caro opened her eyes a little, peered out of the slit. She removed her hands from her breasts and put them on his chest instead, on the hard pectoral muscles she'd seen at the arena. The thick flannel he wore frustrated her, so she set about finding her way around it, looking for the hem of Adam's shirt, but instead he guided her to his male part.

"What do I do with it?"

"Just hold it." Caro closed her hands around it, one on top of the other. "I think I might spend just from looking at your hands on me."

Caro looked up, too polite to tell him that she herself didn't find the sight lovely.

He smiled ruefully at her expression. "It comes with time."

Then he dipped down to take her mouth in another kiss, brushed her hands away from his lap and urged her to lie flat. She let him guide her, let him part her thighs and nestle his hips between them. That felt good too, better than before.

"You have such a nice voice. Such a nice mouth and such pretty eyes." Caro smiled and stretched her arms, slid them across Adam's broad shoulders and linked them behind his neck. "I'm glad you want me. Take off your shirt."

He tossed his jacket and shirt and scarf to the side, peeling off his trousers while he was at it. Caro stroked her arm along the hillocks of his biceps, the hard sheet of muscle in his abdomen. "So warm. I can see your ribs."

"You're babbling, Caro." Adam unrolled her stockings, tossed them away and covered her with his body, skin to skin from shoulder to belly.

Caro trilled with delight. "I want another kiss."

He obeyed, skimming his hand along her side and then shifting his whole body to the side. He slid one finger along the slit of her sex, rooted around a bit and then—touched the place that felt so good, exactly the place. He set off those flickers of pleasure, worked his finger until they joined into a stream, a river, a whole ocean of pleasure that moved through her with the force of a tide, reaching up and then falling away, the waves rolling onto the beach and the sea moving in its wake along the wet sand to lick at the dry land.

The crash picked her up and set her adrift, whole and perfect and not dead at all.

He brushed the hair out of her face and dropped kisses along her forehead and cheeks. "Christ, Caro, let me—I have to—"

Caro opened her eyes and stared up at the sky. "There's more?"

"Just say yes."

Caro laughed. The sound caught in her throat and emerged mangled, which struck her as marvelous somehow. "Yes!" she croaked, ugly, uncareful, completely careless.

He seemed to be in a rush. She felt him fumbling, heard the rustling of clothes, and the way he took her mouth—like there wasn't time enough to eat and he was starving, while she, oh, she could have made a meal from any one of those kisses.

"I don't think I can feel any better than I do now," she murmured as he pulled away, braced over her with one arm.

"You will," he said roughly, and then the solid mass and crinkly hairs of his thighs were sliding against hers, tickling as he nudged her legs open and the warm weight of his sex landed on her belly. "My God. I've never looked so big. Everything about you is just—fuck—Caro, this is going to hurt."

"I know," Caro murmured. And she did know, but the idea of pain seemed foreign, irrelevant. She'd left pain behind, and she didn't think it could reach her here.

"I've never had a virgin before, but I think you're meant to bear through it. Let the pain come and wait for it to go."

"Is that how you do it?"

"That's how I put up with pain, yes. Are you ready?"

"You're rather remarkable, aren't you? Hurting day in and day out and you never even look uncomfortable."

"That doesn't make me remarkable." He shifted, groaned as he slicked one finger through the wet furrow of her sex and then adjusted again, nudging and prodding with the thick, blunted tip of his penis.

And it hurt. A deep, ripping pain inside of her that cut right through her happy daze and left her stone-cold sober. She remembered herself, her purpose, and she held still and let the pain wash over her. Adam pressed deeper—increasing the pain, making it worse—whispering, "You are so beautiful and you feel so good and my God I need this, I didn't know how much," right in her ear.

How could he be happy when she was so miserable?

He stopped, withdrew a bit—that wasn't quite so bad, she could tolerate it—then thrust again and hurt her more and really, she hated it. She hated copulation and that was a relief, because all the things that had come before it were terrifying. In retrospect, she'd gone completely out of her mind.

It went on like that for a bit, and Caro felt less bad every second. She could put up with discomfort. Copulation would be her antidote to that... madness... and Adam seemed to like it, all strung up with pleasure the way she had been before. He breathed hotly into her neck, croaked out her name. Caro began to wonder when it would be over.

And then—something happened. His hips rocked into hers and she didn't know what had changed, if it was because he'd shifted himself lower, struck deeper, but it was like he'd fit a key into a lock. The tumblers clicked, one two three, and she was lost.

"No," she whispered.

"Caroline? Are you all right?" He rose up over her but didn't stop, still moving inside her, and it felt so good, so right, not just the pleasure now but fullness and friction and rhythm, want and completion. That insane lust spilled into her again, stronger than before and she let out a strangled cry—a dying rabbit moan just like she'd heard from Lady Paul.

She knew what was happening—it was the leash, the one Giselle had warned her about, the collar clicking shut around her neck, the long rope firmly in Adam's hand now—but she couldn't stop it.

"No," she said again, louder.

Adam heaved himself away. She lost everything all at once—the pleasure, his blanketing warmth, the reassuring weight of his body. Caro curled up into a sitting position, reaching out to stop him, saying, "No," again but this time she meant something very different. She meant Come back, and please, and you can't take that away from me, not yet.

Adam sat with his head between his knees, both hands tangled in his short hair. Every breath heaved out of his chest with a wheezing, snarling noise like nothing Caro had ever heard before.

"I didn't mean it," Caro pleaded, hating the whine in her tone and completely unable to curb it. She reached out to touch his calf, but he scrambled away, so fast that her fingers barely grazed him before he'd backed away out of reach. "I'm sorry, it was good, it was too good, that's all—"

"Do not speak," Adam bit out.

Caro sealed her lips shut but she couldn't help it—she could not control herself—she whimpered. She felt empty, and needy, and grieved.

Adam raised his head. Moonlight bleached his forehead but didn't reach his eyes, twin wells of darkness. Shadows pooled in the contours of the hard, grim lines bracketing his mouth. The effect was masklike, terrifying.

"I don't want to stop," Caro whispered.

"Get dressed." Adam reached for his shirt. He pulled it over his head and snatched up his trousers while Caro watched dumbly. Surely this wasn't the end? She wanted to start again.

"Now," he snapped.

The task of setting her clothes to rights seemed so monumental and hopeless she hardly knew where to begin. Her corset had come loose and she couldn't tighten it herself. She knew where she'd dropped her wrapper but her shoes had been tossed in opposite directions and she had to comb through the blades of grass with her fingers, bent double with her dress hanging around her elbows, before she found both her stockings. The garters were a lost cause.

And then Adam came up behind her and she felt his hands at her waist, steady and impersonal as he straightened her corset and began to tighten the laces. "Adam," Caro began, craning at the neck so she could see him.

He wound all the laces around one finger and then used the hand he'd freed to push her chin back around, so she stared straight ahead. He fastened her dress as nimbly as Louise, reached the top button and paused, fingers at her nape, before resting both hands on her shoulders and squeezing softly.

"I'm sorry, Caroline."

"Why are you sorry? Don't be sorry. Adam—" He let go of her shoulders and Caro whirled, eager to see him, eager to talk, but he'd turned, too, back toward Irongate, and started walking without her.

She scurried to catch up but he didn't look at her or match his pace to hers, let alone respond. Anger thickened around him like a fog.

And with every step, she felt worse—sadder, more hurt, and worse than that, sullied. Ruined. By the time they'd reached the manicured hedges of the French garden, Caro was glad to keep her distance.

He drew up short by the fountain where he'd accosted her that first night, waiting. Caro obediently caught up and stood at his side.

"I meant what I said."

Caro shrugged and didn't reply. He'd said a great many things.

"You laid a trap for me." His voice was low and tight and furious. "You set out to seduce me, and even after I told you about the fight, even though I was—not right—you carried on with your plan. If you thought that would make me change my mind about marrying you, you were wrong."

Caro continued on into the house alone.

## Chapter Fourteen

Adam yanked Finn out of bed, sent him to the basement to fetch water for a bath, and stripped. He tossed his flannels in the fire after he peeled them off, then his stockings and shoes. They were damp enough to smother the flames and filled his room with a savory, lanolin reek. Adam breathed through his nose and waited for the flame to revive before he untied the drawstring to his smalls and let them fall to the floor. He bent to pick them up, to burn them as well.

And saw the blood on his cock.

Red, smudgy. Caro's virgin blood.

His legs folded beneath him and a deep, shuddering sob tore its way up his throat. Loud and hoarse, frightening to his own ears. And then another, until before he knew it snot had clogged his nose and all the scrapes on his hands were stinging from the salt of his tears.

He would never, in all his life, forget what it was like to be inside a woman and hear her say No. He shied away from the memory, as though it were barbed with hooks and spikes that would do him physical damage if he called it up.

She'd been willing. More than willing—she'd been so determined to see her plot through that she'd lain beneath him, silent and miserable, while he rutted over her. All the time he'd assumed that they were connected, united as one and straining toward a common end, she'd been separate, in her own world.

And he hadn't even noticed.

Caro? Are you all right?

He felt simultaneously monstrous and used, irredeemably evil and betrayed. Criminal and victim. Adam tried holding his breath but couldn't silence the pathetic, animal sounds he was making, shame and guilt and hurt so mixed up he couldn't separate one from the other, until a knock sounded at the door and his body, responding to a lifetime of conditioning, went still and leaden.

Adam rose to his feet, wrapped a towel around his waist and twisted the door handle before withdrawing to his bedroom while servants trooped through the sitting room, settling the tub into place by the fire and emptying their buckets of water into it.

He counted to ten on each inhale, ten on each exhale, until he could breathe without hiccupping. Then he dragged the inside of his arm across his cheeks to dry them and retraced his steps. Finn pretended not to notice that he'd been crying, and Adam pretended not to know that Finn was pretending.

"Go find Mick," he instructed, and his valet exited without a word.

Adam dropped the towel and picked up a clean cloth, swirling it through the warm water in the tub while he reached for a cake of soap. Routine. He had a routine, and he would focus on that. First order of business: assess the damage.

In the early days, a few rounds of sparring left him black and blue. Over time his skin thickened. Grew more resilient. Mick said he'd taken on the job of training Adam because he had a boxer's skin. Supple and clear. But the fight with Harris had been brutal. He'd color up over the next day or two, and the soreness—Adam gritted his teeth as he palpated his ribs—would last for a couple of weeks.

Gritting his teeth, Adam scrubbed methodically until all the dirt, sweat, and blood was wiped clean from his flesh.

All of it.

And he felt—no. He didn't feel better. He felt worse.

Adam huddled by the fire to dry himself, even though his burning clothes spat sparks and didn't release much heat.

Mick barged in, rumpled and barely dressed. How very American. "It's four in the morning."

"I need you to go find Ed Harris," Adam instructed, ignoring the complaint. "We fought last night and he's in bad shape. If Harris is still alive have him taken to the Dower House. Then fetch Dr. Lewis."

"Ed Harris?" Mick's bushy black eyebrows crawled up his forehead like a pair of caterpillars. "He's in bad shape?"

"I knocked him out." Adam dragged the towel over his hips and chest mechanically. "He hasn't woken up."

"You?"

"You'll need help to bring him back. Grab Finn—or better yet, take a horse and cart from the stables." Adam waved his towel at the door. "Go on. You'll have to throw my name around a bit, but try not to let on that I was actually at the arena last night. And make sure Harris receives the same treatment I would in his place. Spare no expense."

"It will be an honor. I trained Harris for a while, if you remember."

"Of course I do. That's why I hired you. He wouldn't have won the championship without you."

"It's kind of you to say so." Mick reached for the door. "I'll report back as soon as I can."

Adam finished drying himself and wandered into his bedroom. Finn had laid out a nightshirt on the bed. He ought to pull it on, climb beneath the covers, and rest. He'd been awake for twenty hours by now. He was exhausted everywhere that counted. And he wanted to put a barrier between himself and the day he'd just lived through; draw it to a definitive close.

But it only took one look at the bed to know he wouldn't sleep.

Adam called Finn back. The valet arrived droopy-eyed and glum, stifling a yawn with every other breath, but knew better than to grumble. He helped Adam dress in a fresh morning suit before retreating, glassy-eyed and half asleep.

Alone in his suite, Adam paced to the nearest window. The horizon had begun to pale and Adam was tempted to call Finn back, so he could change into a new set of flannels and go for an early run. But he abandoned the idea; he'd collapse at the stoop.

Adam lay down sidewise on his bed, fully clothed. He shut his eyes. He'd rest while he waited for Mick to return. Maybe that was all he needed—to lie flat, be still.

And then a knock sounded at the door. Adam hauled himself onto his feet, holding onto the bedpost while the dizziness and disorientation cleared away. He'd been closer to sleep than he thought. Rubbing at his eyes, Adam padded in his stocking feet to the door and swung it wide.

Boswell, Irongate's butler, stood on the other side.

"Grave news, my lord," rumbled the butler. "Mr. Matthew Spark is dead."

"Dead?" Adam shook his head to clear it. "Are you certain?"

"Quite certain." Boswell cleared his throat. "I have seen his body, m'lord. It was left by the front gates, in very poor shape."

"Poor shape?" Adam repeated. He dug his fingers into his temple. He heard the words, every syllable distinct, but they made no sense at all taken together. Dead? "Good God. What happened to him?"

Astonishment broke through the neutral mask of Boswell's features. "It appears Mr. Spark was beaten to death, m'lord."

"Beaten? Matthew? He has—" Adam drew up short, unsettled. "Had no stomach for hand to hand fighting."

"No, my lord. He didn't."

"Has my Uncle Paul been informed?"

"I sent someone to wake him."

"He won't take this well." The poor man. His only child, dead in the road. Adam ran a hand through his hair. What a nightmare. "Wake my secretary, will you? Have him meet me at the gates. Best fetch the constable as well, and the coroner."

Adam hurried through the corridors, more awake with each passing moment. What had Matthew been thinking, getting into a fistfight? Didn't he know better? He had no training, no experience.

While Adam, well-known to have plenty of both, had threatened Matthew the previous afternoon.

Damn.

Anyone who knew the signs could tell Adam had just been in a fight. And anyone who knew about his argument with Matthew would, likely as not, draw the obvious conclusion.

He paused in the high-ceilinged front hall, opening and closing his battered fists, squeezing the ache out of the muscles. The first light of dawn poured in through the windows and sloshed up against walls of creamy marble, filling the room like a glass of chilled champagne.

He was the Earl of Bexley. Hastings's heir. And there was nowhere in the country, or the world, where that would count more than here.

He hurt all over.

He wasn't in the mood for another fight.

Too bad.

Adam continued onto the portico, whose ring of fat Doric columns cast slanted shadows onto the courtyard beyond. A drive of crushed limestone circled the central courtyard before descending in a straight line down to the front gates. Adam cut across the circuit, meeting the road at the top of the hill where he first glimpsed the hive of activity at the gates.

The iron gates rose to more than twice the height of a man at their peak and opened wide enough for two carriages to pass through side by side. The first Duke of Hastings had commissioned them to illustrate the Spark family motto: Je seme l'or. In English, I sow gold.

The vertical bars resembled stalks of wheat, bending gently as though weighed down by their knotted iron spikelets. An arched crossbar capped the row of wheat, serving as an artificial horizon for the five suns rising atop it, iron wrought into half circles crowned with sharp, spade-shaped sunrays.

Before the gates symbolizing his family's aspirations black-suited footmen circled an oblong lump like a flock of crows. Matthew's body, laid out flat and covered in a white sheet.

"Who found him?" Adam called as he arrived within speaking distance. "Who arrived first?"

"That would be me, m'lord." One of the footmen, Yates, stepped forward. "I was on my way to the village to fetch the London papers and the post."

"When was this?"

"Fifteen, twenty minutes ago at the most. When I saw Mr. Spark I spoke to him first. When he didn't reply I checked for a pulse, but the second I touched him I knew he was dead. Cold as the ground he lay on."

"And then?"

"I went up to the big house to tell Mr. Boswell."

"That's enough, Adam," wheezed Paul. Adam turned to watch his uncle approach, clutching his stomach and panting. "I won't have you corrupting the witnesses."

"Careful, uncle," Adam warned.

"Don't you tell me what to do, boy," snarled Paul. He bent at the waist, exhausted by his race to the bottom of the hill, and demanded in a voice shredded by grief, "Where is my son?"

The raft of servants surrounding the sheet-wrapped body backed away from it silently, in mute answer. Paul dropped to one knee and, with a hand that trembled, lifted the shroud to reveal the ruin of Matthew's face. His skin had an odd greenish undertone Adam had never seen on living skin before, marred by bloody contusions. One of his eye sockets had caved in and blood crusted the lid, forced open by the compression to reveal a sliver of grayish white sclera.

Paul fell to his knees, heedless of his weight and old bones, even as a high scream split the air. Elizabeth, clutching her skirts in her fists, ran the last few yards down the road and threw herself over Matthew's body. She wailed, balling the white sheet up in her fists while Paul listed to one side, his eyes wet and red.

"Cover him up," Adam said curtly, stepping in to drag Elizabeth from the corpse. She flailed, reaching for the body as one of the footmen pulled the sheet back up over Matthew's head. But covering him only made her fight harder. She tore free from Adam's grip, wailing and tearing at her hair.

"You'll be punished for this, Adam." Paul's voice, always rough, sounded as though it had been quarried from the depths of a mine. "I don't care what you say, and I don't care what Hastings does to stop me. I'll see you hang."

"You'll do no such thing." Adam crouched down, so he could meet his uncle's eyes. "I didn't kill Matthew. But I'll help you find out who did."

"You're going to deny it?" Paul's jowly cheeks had flushed to the dull red of a rotting strawberry. "You called him a liar. You threatened him. Today he's dead. There's no point in pretending innocence."

"You're upset, Uncle." Adam stood, clapped a firm hand on his uncle's shoulder. "Perhaps you should go back inside."

Paul smacked his arm away with enough force to hurt. "He was beaten to death! Who else could have done it?"

"Many men solve problems with their fists." Adam scanned the assembled audience. Someone would need to escort Paul up to the house. Would have to force him, the way things were going. "The vast majority of them aren't trained pugilists."

"Then tell us where you were last night!" Paul lunged forward and snatched at Adam's hand, pulled the fingers straight to reveal Adam's battered, bloodied knuckles. "You yellow-bellied cur. You killed my son."

Adam twisted his hands out of Paul's and, quickly, before his uncle could retreat, trapped his wrists. "I am a boxer, Uncle Paul. You know that. Whatever you think of my hobby, it has nothing to do with Matthew."

"It has everything to do with Matthew," Elizabeth protested, tears brightening her blue eyes and clumping her pale lashes. "You make a sport of harming other human beings. I saw you yesterday, Adam. You care more about that little tart"—Elizabeth flung out one arm, index finger pointing behind him—"than you do about any of us."

Adam followed Elizabeth's accusing finger to its destination. Daphne dragged Caro down the drive, pulling her by the wrist. She trailed behind, limp and languid as a streamer. Twin spots of color burned high on her cheeks and purple half-moons stained the tissue-thin flesh beneath her eyes.

She seemed... diminished.

"Elizabeth!" Daphne wore one of the spotted old frocks she kept for painting, her curls bound neatly into a bun. Aside from the footmen, she was the only person present who didn't look to have been surprised out of bed. "You don't know what you're saying."

Daphne abandoned Caro to enfold Elizabeth in an unwilling, clearly unwanted hug. Caro, left to her own devices, wrapped her arms around her waist as though she had a stomachache and stared blankly into the distance. He'd chastised her, threatened her, but he'd never wanted to see her like this—stripped of her bravado, her daintiness reduced to frailty.

"Adam isn't capable of such brutality." Daphne pitched her voice high, addressing everyone present. "Some beast did this."

Some beast. Adam blanched. He hadn't killed Matthew, but last night he'd proved himself a savage. Capable of anything. In the space of a single night, he'd left a man for dead and ruined an innocent.

"Guilt," Paul exploded. "Written all over his face."

"I see it." Elizabeth pressed her knuckles against her mouth. "I see it."

The constable, Douglas Milgrom, chose that moment to make his appearance. A beanpole of a man whose long, narrow face seemed to grow longer and narrower as he aged, Milgrom surveyed the assembled company and asked no one in particular, "What's this?"

"Arrest Lord Bexley," ordered Paul. "For the murder of my son, Matthew Spark."

## Chapter Fifteen

"Lord Bexley?" Milgrom turned gray. "I'm sorry—that is, I believe—Did you witness the crime, Lord Paul?"

"I didn't see it, but I didn't need to. I saw him grab hold of Matthew's throat. I saw the jealous rage in his eyes. I knew my son was in danger. I warned him to leave, as quickly as he could. But it wasn't enough."

Milgrom rocked back on his heels. "When did you last see Mr. Spark?"

"He left for the Dovecote at six o'clock in the evening," answered Paul. "Hoping to avoid this... this tragedy. I saw him off. He was terrified."

"But not since then?"

Lord Paul shook his head and wiped at his eyes. "No. Not since."

"Lord Bexley." Milgrom shrugged his shoulders together and ducked his head, cringing for all he was worth. "Perhaps you could account for your activities yesterday in the late afternoon and evening?"

Caro's head whipped around. She fixed dark, burning eyes on Milgrom and then her gaze slid to Adam for the first time that morning. Such a look as he never wanted fixed on him, now or ever—bleak, daring him to lie.

"I took a long walk," Adam said quickly, filling the silence. "Then returned home to rest."

"You went on an eight-hour walk?" Daphne's thick brows went level. "I looked for you all evening. I told Boswell to notify me when you returned home. He had the whole staff on alert."

"Mr. Boswell, is that true?" Milgrom asked.

The butler's eyes dropped to the gravel. "I'm afraid so."

"I went out. I didn't see Matthew. The rest is irrelevant." Adam pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and took a deep breath. Keep control, he instructed himself, keep fighting but knew it was too late. "Slinging accusations back and forth won't bring us any closer to finding the killer. What we need to do is give Milgrom time to investigate."

"Give you time to flee the country, you mean?" Paul snarled. "Or let Hastings sweep this under the table before charges are laid? Absolutely not."

Reins jangled as Sir Walter rode into the fray. He dismounted and tossed the leather straps to one of the milling footmen. "Halloo! So many people!"

"Sir Walter." Adam had never been so happy to see the squire. "Did Matthew pay you a visit yesterday?"

"Mr. Spark? No, I'm afraid not, though I should always be glad to see him." Sir Walter snorted and cracked his riding crop against the side of his patent leather boots, the creases in his leathery skin deepening with concern. "Has your young cousin run into some trouble?"

"He's dead." Paul's grief-slackened features tightened with sudden eagerness. "You're a Justice of the Peace, aren't you, Walter?"

"Dead? Heavens... is that... right there? Mr. Spark?" Walter pointed his crop at the sheet-covered body.

"Right there," Paul agreed. "That's my son. And you can help bring the killer to justice."

"I am indeed a Justice of the Peace, Lord Paul." Sir Walter straightened, spoke solemnly. "If you can name the guilty party, Mr. Milgrom and I will do our duty."

"Then I'm laying charges against Lord Bexley. Yesterday, he made threats against Matthew. This morning, my son is dead. His guilt is clear."

Sir Walter turned to Adam in shock. "Is what your uncle says true, Lord Bexley?"

"True, but irrelevant," Adam repeated. "I had no contact with Matthew after he departed from Irongate."

"But you threatened him?" Sir Walter pressed.

"I told him to leave the property."

"That's not all," cried Elizabeth. "You were insane with jealousy. You couldn't stand finding out the truth about—"

"That's enough, Elizabeth," Adam snapped.

"Excuse me, Lord Bexley," said Sir Walter, a hint of real backbone stiffening his tone. "But I'd like to hear what Lady Paul has to say."

"He's besotted with this girl." Elizabeth pointed at Caro. "We tried to warn him away, but he wouldn't hear it. He laid hands on Matthew. He tried to throttle him in front of witnesses."

"I see. A delicate matter. My lord, perhaps it would be best to admit?" Sir Walter simpered. "Surely, if you stood before a jury, they would be lenient on account of your hot blood."

"I didn't kill Matthew." How many times had he said it now? Enough to realize that repeating it didn't make a difference. Not a single person believed him. Paul and Elizabeth hadn't wavered in their conviction. Sir Walter had made up his mind. Even Daphne, the one person who ought to have defended him to the last, seemed to have given up.

He met Caro's eyes, and she... smiled. Just a little, and not kindly. Almost like Alfie, and the thought sent a chill down his back.

No, Adam commanded silently. Don't you dare.

"Can you give us an account of your whereabouts last night, Lord Bexley?" Sir Walter continued.

"I went for a walk—"

"He was out all night," Paul interrupted. "Yet refuses to say where he went or who he encountered during his absence. Boswell?"

"Lord Paul is correct." Boswell coughed into his closed fist. "At Miss Morland's behest the entire staff remained on alert for Lord Bexley's return."

"Which finally occurred at what time?" Sir Walter asked.

"Four of the clock," answered Boswell. "I made note of the hour because my lord demanded a bath."

"A bath?" Milgrom darted a quick, suspicious look at Adam. "How unorthodox."

"Lord Bexley is not in the habit of disrupting his staff's sleep with nocturnal demands," agreed Boswell.

"I'm sorry, Lord Bexley," Sir Walter said. "Without any witnesses to Mr. Spark's death, and with such compelling evidence, I have no choice but to have you bound over for trial. Milgrom, if you please."

Milgrom cringed but he took a step toward Adam.

Until Caro spoke up, her voice throaty and raw: "He was with me."

The assembled audience went silent, instantly. She jerked forward into the circle of onlookers, nearer to the body. Adam had never seen her anything but graceful and self-possessed, but now she looked like a puppet whose master hadn't enough skill to ply the strings, all joints and odd angles.

"I can vouch for Lord Bexley's whereabouts last night." Caro held her head high and met every eye, his last of all. He wasn't sure what he read there, only that it was ugly and foul. "He couldn't have killed Matthew Spark."

"Caro," breathed Daphne, her jaw dropping.

"That's outrageous!" yelped Sir Walter.

Elizabeth made a sound between a scream and a groan and buried her face in Daphne's shoulder.

"It's kind of you to make up a story to protect me, Miss Small." Adam squeezed every ounce of his authority into his tone. "But untrue."

"I can prove it." Caro pulled the knit shawl around her neck loose, revealing a love bite, angry red against the porcelain stem of her throat. "Lord Bexley marked me."

"All night, you say?" Embarrassment mottled Sir Walter's leathery-brown skin as though it had been attacked by a mold. "You can account for his whereabouts—"

"From sunset until sunrise," Caro interrupted. "He left me only an hour ago."

"I don't think we should take the word of a slut," bit out Paul.

"I looked for Caro last night, too," Daphne admitted. "Her maid Louise helped me. I didn't want to cause any trouble for her, so I didn't mention her absence to anyone else, but... she wasn't in her bed."

"If you'll excuse the observation, milord," added Milgrom, "the young miss has the look of someone who hasn't had enough rest."

Caro didn't acknowledge any of this commentary, didn't seem aware of it. She just watched him, cooler now, calmer. That horrible smile still played about her lips and Adam felt an appalling desire to slap it off of her face.

"I will not corroborate Miss Small's story," Adam said. "But I'll say again that I didn't kill Matthew Spark, and that we should concentrate our efforts on finding out who did."

Elizabeth looked at her husband. "It's not enough to find someone to blame. We need to find the killer."

Sir Walter slapped his crop against his boot, nervous little taps that set his horse to prancing. "Perhaps, Lord Paul, we should hold off on any arrests until further information presents itself. As long as we can accept Lord Bexley's word as a gentleman that he will not attempt to flee?"

"Of course I won't," Adam agreed, but he couldn't look away from Caro. "I have no reason to flee, and a strong motivation to stay and find out who killed my cousin."

Daphne sidled close and threaded her fingers through his, and gave his hand a squeeze. "What can I do to help?"

"Get Paul and Elizabeth inside," Adam answered. "I'll take care of the rest."

Daphne glanced at Caro, who readjusted her shawl to cover the red welt on her neck and glided near. Daphne didn't shift to make room.

Caro ignored the rebuff. She looked at him and said, quietly enough that nobody beyond their small group could hear, "Tell me again that you won't marry me," before marching up the drive.

Daphne let go of his hand.

Adam barely noticed; he was watching Caro. Her back had straightened. She held her head high—until she noticed Daphne chasing after her. That made Caro clench up, tuck her chin down into her chest, hunch her shoulders.

Adam turned to Sir Walter. "Can you stay for an early breakfast?"

"Not today, I'm afraid. Other matters demand my attention. I trust Milgrom to do his best," demurred the squire. He retrieved the reins to his horse and left with surprising haste.

The coroner arrived to examine the body, his assistant driving the wagon onto which they would load Matthew after the inspection. Daphne returned from her confrontation with Caro, muttered, "I don't know which of you is worse," in a voice drenched with disgust, and took on the chore of coaxing Paul and Elizabeth into the house.

Soon only an irregular, dark brown stain on the ground remained of the once-grisly scene. One of the footmen trotted up the drive to fetch a shovel, to dig away the ruined gravel and dispose of it elsewhere. The others dispersed to their duties.

The rumble and jangle of a carriage sounded in the distance. He turned his head toward the noise with the same blank, automatic gesture with which he'd tracked a dozen irrelevant sounds over the past half hour. He saw a glossy black carriage, four perfectly matched horses, a large-framed man in the Hastings livery perched atop the driver's seat.

His father's carriage. His father's servant.

A whole new series of disasters loomed, and Adam rubbed his stinging eyes. He'd reached the stage where he couldn't dig any deeper into his reserves. They had been exhausted, and he was nearing the point of total collapse.

Weary to his bones, Adam trudged up the drive to Irongate. No rest for the wicked, he chided himself: he still had some tracks to cover up.

## Chapter Sixteen

Daphne reached Caro before she'd advanced a quarter of the way up the drive.

"What have you done?" she demanded. Caro tried to hurry, to put distance between herself and her friend, but Daphne had no trouble tromping along at Caro's side. "And what am I supposed to think?"

"Whatever you like," Caro snapped.

"If I'd had any idea what you were planning, Caro—"

"But you didn't." Caro halted her advance, kept her voice cool. "And now it's done, and if you're in the mood to read me lectures may I remind you of the many visits you've paid to the ever-charming Lord Kingston?"

"Don't you dare." Daphne balled her hands up in fists, her lips white with fury. "Don't you dare try to tell me we're the same. You've abused my friendship. My good word. You've done more damage to my reputation in one night than months of visits to Stag Run."

"What did you expect would happen when you invited me to visit?" Caro looked up at the sky, lowering and gray, blinked twice and started walking again.

"Caro—" Daphne called out. Gravel crunched as Daphne ran up behind her, grabbed her arm and dragged her around. "Did he force you? Did Adam—"

"Of course not." Caro shook her arm loose. Tears threatened, and she had to blink hard to make them go away. "Your original assumption was correct. I tricked him with my wiles. He is the wounded party, while I am a heartless, mercenary creature, with no feelings to speak of."

Daphne gaped.

Caro resumed her march up the hill. This time she reached the apex, her vision blurring, and regained her chambers undisturbed. She kicked her slippers at the wall and climbed into bed fully dressed. Covers pulled up around her neck, knees tucked close to her chest, she lay on her side and wished she could unlive the last twenty-four hours.

She didn't recognize herself.

For her whole life—no, not a long one yet, but the handful of years that she'd lived—her primary ambition had been to rise above the example set by her father and older brothers. She had wished to be careful, deliberate, far-thinking. If dancing wasn't the best illustration of those goals, it had always facilitated them.

Yet in the last twenty-four hours she'd gambled her own future, Robin's future, on a mad impulse. More than once.

Tears wet her cheeks, dampened the pillow. She'd done the right thing, hadn't she? She'd averted an arrest, and she'd all but guaranteed that Adam would marry her. He might not want to, but she knew him. Whatever other people might think, though they'd make him chew up his pride with every meal, he was an honorable man. And she'd compromised herself in his defense.

He'd been right to accuse her of opportunism. She had seen an opportunity and she had seized it. Of course she had.

And then she'd done it again. This time within spitting distance of a corpse, scheming for herself while a grieving father wept and a faithless woman tore at her hair.

Perhaps Adam would never forgive her. Perhaps he shouldn't. But he'd taken her virginity, and she would have her wedding. She rubbed at her lower belly through her corset. She was sore where he'd breached her. Her inner thighs ached. The small pains reminded her, constantly, of his repudiation. Of her gutless, pathetic begging.

She had known, but not really understood: pleasure was an evil thing.

The door flipped open. Adam entered without knocking. His short, pale hair spiked in every direction and he'd yanked his cravat loose, revealing the strong column of his throat. His manner gentled as he approached the bed and dropped down on one knee at her side.

"I need your help."

Caro contracted, turning her face into the cool cotton. It shushed in her ears like the ocean roaring out of a seashell.

Adam took hold of the sheets and pulled them away, revealing her whole body, curled and tucked. "My father is coming up the drive. He'll be here at any moment, and I can't allow him to find out that I've brought Harris onto the grounds. He can't learn about my bare-knuckled boxing."

Caro frowned. "What help would I be?"

"If I put you in the Dower House, I can mask Harris's presence there. My father won't have any reason to suspect that the building has another resident."

"But—"

"If you won't rise on your own, I'll pick you up and carry you."

He collected her shoes while she scooted to the corner of the bed, slipping them on her feet without the least bit of self-consciousness. She frowned. He wasn't supposed to behave like this. Gentle. Asking for her help, assuming she'd be on his side. She'd just stolen a piece of his happiness for herself. All the futures that he might have had, better, brighter futures, if he hadn't met her.

But then he'd finished with her shoes and he still knelt at her feet, one hand on her ankle, the other at her heel. Caro's skin prickled. She held her breath, pressure building painfully in her chest as Adam slipped the hand at her ankle up, underneath her skirts to the lower curve of her calf. The other squeezed her foot through her shoe.

She sighed. Her eyelids felt heavy. She tipped closer. She'd touch her lips to his hair. A few strands would catch. She'd breathe out, blowing the strands away, and it would tickle.

Adam jumped to his feet.

Caro understood this. Action and reaction. She rose. Arms low, rounded, elbows soft and fingers at her hipbones. Step forward through first position, air under her heels, place the foot and transfer her weight then—

Adam backed into the door with a thud.

Caro smiled. Oh, yes. She understood this dance.

"Don't," Adam said sharply, opening the door and stepping across the threshold. "Follow me."

He kept a strict distance between them as she trailed him through the corridors. Two paces. If Caro tried to narrow it, even a little, he'd lengthen his stride. If she slowed, he'd pause, wait for her to catch up.

They exited to the west, through the ballroom. Caro glanced over at Adam as they passed by the fountain where they'd first met and he, very deliberately, refused to meet her gaze. Clouds obscured the noonday sun, threatening rain as they advanced silently through the formal French gardens and past the boxwood hedge enclosing them.

Beyond lay a dormant rose garden to one side and a long, shallow reflecting pool on the other. Rows of ash trees lined the pool, mirrored perfectly in the water until a breeze sent ripples along the surface and the autumn-tinted leaves blurred into tongues of fire.

At the opposite end of the pool stood a small manor house, a simple box of rose-colored stone pierced by two rows of windows and a white-painted door.

"The Dower House," Adam explained. Leaves soggy with dew that hadn't burned away in the sunless morning squelched under their feet as they passed under the row of trees.

Two men stood in front of the front door. One was older, bespectacled, with a neatly trimmed beard and a wide-bottomed leather case gripped firmly in one hand. The other was young and moon-faced with a crop of curly black hair, dressed in the sort of loose flannels Adam wore to the arena.

"Dr. Lewis." Adam nodded at the elderly man. "Have you had a chance to examine the patient?"

"He lives," answered the elderly gentleman. "For how long, I can't say. If he doesn't stir within the next day, chances are he'll starve before he wakes. My recommendation is to keep him comfortable and clean, and talk to him as often as possible. Anecdotal evidence suggests that talking to a patient may lure him back to consciousness."

"There's nothing more we can do?"

"I wish there were, my lord. Make note of any changes in his behavior, however temporary, and I'll take another look tomorrow."

The doctor left and Adam gestured to the moon-faced man. "Caro, have you met Mr. Garner yet? He's my boxing trainer."

"Call me Mick," said the man, holding out his hand.

Caro stared at it.

"Like this." Adam demonstrated, locking Mick's hand with one of his. Their joined hands seesawed up and down before Adam let go. "Mick. I have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Caroline Small."

Mick extended his hand again, favoring her with the biggest, sweetest smile Caro had ever seen. Warily, Caro held out her own hand. He grasped it and squeezed, his palm dry and meaty.

"Why don't we go inside?" Adam suggested, and Mick opened the door to let them through. Beyond lay a vestibule, papered in yellow with a chandelier of bright orange glass. It was light, airy. Very feminine.

"You don't mind tending to Harris?" Adam asked his trainer. "If you'd rather, I can send Finn out, though with Miss Small here—"

"Of course not. Won't be the first time I've done a bit of nursing."

"I can help, too," Caro offered. When Adam and Mick both looked at her dubiously, she added, "I've been the only woman in a household of men for some years now. You can believe it won't be my first time attending a sick bed."

A muscle in Adam's jaw leapt. "As you wish," he said flatly.

Mick scratched at his neck. "Harris shouldn't be alone. I'll go keep him company. Remember we're sparring tonight, tadpole."

"Tonight?" Adam huffed out a shocked breath. "You can't be serious."

"No excuses," Mick tossed over his shoulder, already halfway through the front salon.

Adam shook his head, gingerly touching his ribs, before looking back down at Caro. "I'll show you to your room."

As they climbed the stairs, Caro took advantage of the tight quarters to creep closer to her guide. The back of Adam's neck flushed red, but he had too much dignity to scamper ahead. Instead, he kept his pace steady, legs stiff, until he reached the top.

Then he turned, slow and deliberate, and pinned her with a look that held her as effectively as if she'd been a butterfly spread prone on a square of cardboard.

"Enough, Caro," he gritted. "You win. All right? You win. You'll be a countess. And a duchess, too, eventually. You'll have houses and jewels and anything else your heart desires but, for God's sake, keep your distance."

The fine hairs lifted along her arms and at the back of her neck. But, deeper than that, she felt a shock of recognition. She knew what he felt. She understood his anger because it surrounded, like a thick smoke, the quiet, invisible emotion that had birthed it—and so revealed the inner shape, the beating heart of truth.

Fear.

The same fear she'd felt the night before, when he'd been inside her. The fear of being owned and powerless. Caro reached out and cupped Adam's cheek, bristly at the jaw, the pads of her fingers soft against the tender skin of his neck.

"Don't." His voice hoarsened, but he didn't push her away.

"Exactly," Caro said, willing him to understand. "Exactly."

He closed his eyes and the tension sighed out of his body. It was sweet, beautiful—and heady. They were even again. Equally weak, and equally vulnerable.

But not for long.

Rising up on tiptoes, Caro dragged her lips across Adam's. He held himself still, guarded, but Caro didn't mind. She inhaled the simple lye-and-man scent of him and rubbed her cheek against his, smooth and then bristly, quickly losing herself in sensation. She kissed his eyelid and eyelashes, his nose and his lips. "I will be so good to you," she whispered, while Giselle's voice spoke in the silence of her mind: And he will be grateful.

His hands landed heavily on her shoulders, holding her in place while he stepped away.

Caro sagged into his grip, but she couldn't close the distance that suddenly separated them. Her eyelids fluttered open.

"I don't think you know what that means," said Adam, very gently. "Come along."

He tugged her farther down the hallway, to a doorway that opened into a bedroom done up in shades of pink and cream.

"Will this do?"

It was nothing like the imposing magnificence of Irongate, but still far superior to what Caro was used to at home. She stepped inside and smoothed her palm across the bedspread, covered in blowsy cabbage roses. "Of course."

"Good." He looked away, then back, sighing as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Before I go, I want to make sure you understand what happened this morning, when you vouched for me."

"I proved your innocence."

"Exactly. And so long as your word remains the key to establishing my innocence, we can't marry. The moment the vows were finished, we would become—before God and according to the law—a single person. I can't stand witness to my own innocence, so neither could my wife."

Caro felt sick. "I thought you said—"

"I did." Adam's golden-brown eyes glittered with anger. "But the ceremony will to have to wait until the murderer has been identified and charged with the crime."

"I see."

"You don't." Adam rolled his shoulders, looking away again. "My father—"

Curious. Adam was not the sort of man who couldn't finish a sentence.

He cleared his throat. "My father will do everything he can to clear suspicion away from me. He has influence over my Uncle Paul that I don't. Knowing him, it won't take very long."

Caro nodded. Of course the Duke of Hastings would intervene on his son's behalf. Of course the law would bend to his will here, in the seat of his power.

"But his presence in Sussex is nothing to celebrate. He's a hard man, with a narrow view of right and wrong."

"He won't approve of me," Caro guessed. No surprise. She made a poor match for his son.

"No, he won't," Adam agreed. "And he's very good at getting what he wants. Stay out of his way. Try not to attract his attention. Don't leave the Dower House if you can avoid it."

"He knows I'm here," Caro pointed out.

"And that's bad enough." Adam coughed out a laugh. "Ignore me if you like. By all means. I've done my part—I warned you."

"Adam." Caro waited for him to look her way. "Good luck."

He hesitated.

Caro smiled. A big, bright, false smile.

Adam rapped his knuckles twice against the wooden door. "I'll need it."

## Chapter Seventeen

Adam found his father in the dining room, halfway through a cut of roast lamb and undressed greens. He looked up as Adam entered, hawkish eyes gleaming in his narrow, patrician face. His cane, jade-barreled and gold-capped, hung from a specially made brass fork hooked over the back of his chair.

"Adam. I thought you'd given up on eating?"

"Not yet." Adam sat down at a right angle to his father, who'd taken his place at the head of the table. "Pleasant journey?"

"No." Hastings cut another piece of lamb and carried it to his mouth, chewing slowly. Adam waited, as he was meant to. "I do not like being summoned away from London. I do not like traveling without adequate preparation. And I do not like being made to hurry."

"Summoned?"

"By Paul, who was worried about this trouble with Matthew." Hastings took another bite of lamb. Another uncomfortable wait while he chewed. "It appears I did not arrive in time."

The implication was clear, and Adam addressed it directly: "I didn't kill him."

"I don't care if you did, Adam. Matthew was a blight upon the family and he won't be missed." Deliberately, precisely, his father put down his utensils. "But I need the truth. If we start a search for the murderer and don't find one—"

"I won't say it again," Adam interrupted.

"Then bringing Matthew's killer to justice must be our first priority. Present company excepted, nobody kills a Spark and gets away with it." Hastings twitched a finger at the footman waiting by his shoulder—a burly man with a military bearing; one of his father's personal servants—and the sparsely laid, half-eaten plate was quickly whisked away. "I've already spoken with Paul. He won't cause any more trouble."

Adam raised an eyebrow. "How'd you manage that?"

"Paul is a dependent, Adam. His personal income is small, his expenses great. He came to heel quickly enough."

Adam needed his father's help, and he was glad that Paul had been collared by his need for ducal largesse. But he'd been in Paul's position before—forced to act against his own nature for the good of the family—and he knew how it felt.

After Lily had died, after Adam had returned to England alone, he had been half-mad with grief. He had thrown himself into anything that could focus his mind on the present, or make him forget the past. He drank, he gamed—he'd caused scenes everywhere he went.

At first, his father had taken advantage of Adam's collapse. He'd arranged the engagement to Lady Nan Houghton, a good match with a woman Adam hardly knew. He hadn't objected—he'd been in no state to make a stand, or to make decisions of any kind.

When Alfie had seduced Lady Nan, Adam had taken the blame. For the duel that followed, and for the shameful way he'd refused to shoot.

His father had called off the wedding. Lady Nan had retired to the country. And Adam had been ordered to do the same.

He'd refused. He needed the city, and all the distractions it offered.

In response, his father had cut off his allowance, instructed tradesmen not to issue credit, denied access to the carriages, the coachmen, the horses. Adam had discovered just how little he owned. Just how little of the money he spent was his. And, because he'd had no choice, he'd come to heel.

His first priority had been to ruthlessly corral his own spending. First to fit within the limits of his personal income, fruit of the assets he'd inherited from his mother. Rents from several small estates. A lump sum in the funds that dribbled out a piddling two thousand a year. Not enough to support the high-flying lifestyle to which he'd grown accustomed, or anything like it.

So he'd cut every luxury out of his life. All but one—boxing. He'd reduced his world to two simple, base needs: amassing capital and fighting. Once he'd accumulated enough to invest, he'd settled on the railroad venture.

If it succeeded, he'd be free of his father's yoke.

"Come with me to the silver salon," said his father, snapping Adam back to the present.

"Of course."

His father lifted the cane from the back of his chair and levered himself against it to stand. Thanks to a war wound, he walked with a pronounced limp, but the Duke of Hastings hadn't met a handicap he couldn't turn to advantage. His gait remained even and precise. Disciplined. His cane cracked against the marble floor at the strict tempo of a military drumbeat.

Adam fell into place at his father's side. They stood at the same modest height but his father's slim, elegant build always made Adam feel clodding and oafish. His father had been—would always be—a soldier, but between the two Adam looked the brute: bigger, heavier, thicker. Some peasant strain that must trace back to his mother's side of the family. Daphne, with her imposing beauty, was built on the same scale.

The walls of the silver salon had been paneled in cloth-of-silver, each thread made by wrapping filaments of silver wire around a core of silk. In full sunlight, light streaming in through the window and reflecting off of so many glittering surfaces could be blinding—an effect his father liked to manipulate. The afternoon's gloomy weather didn't allow for such subtle torture, and Adam was grateful.

He closed the door after they entered, surprised when his father limped around to sit at his desk rather than one of the armchairs upholstered in royal blue velvet. He fanned through a narrow stack of papers waiting for him on the blotter, custom-made of midnight blue leather, before he dropped his cane into the waiting receptacle and lowered himself into the chair.

"Paul was full of stories about Daphne's young friend. Miss Caroline Small. Apparently she did you a service this morning." Hastings rubbed at the knee of his injured leg. "More than one, if the girl made a true confession."

"I compromised her," Adam answered calmly. His father wasn't the sort to make crude jokes, and Adam knew better than to take the bait. "That much is true. And she stood witness for me. Everyone saw that."

"I gather you intend to do the honorable thing?"

"Of course."

"I'd like you to reconsider, Adam."

"It's too late for that. As soon as we find out who killed Matthew, I'm posting banns."

"I see I'll have to explain." Hastings pinched the stack of papers on his desk between the thumb and index fingers of each hand. "When I heard that Miss Small had advanced her acquaintance with Daphne to the point of making an extended stay at Irongate, I decided to have the girl investigated. Her family, as you may know, has fallen into disrepute and I worried that Miss Small was not a fit companion for my ward. I'm surprised you didn't have similar concerns."

He had, of course. At first. He'd worried about lax morals and reckless behavior—fears which had been borne out by subsequent events. He'd been swept away, blinded to Caro's faults.

"Would you like to know what I've learned?"

Angry as he was, Adam hesitated. How much worse could the situation be? Would it matter—could it matter—if his father had unearthed something truly shameful?

But he couldn't resist.

"Yes," he said. "I would."

The way his father smiled made Adam want to knock him out of his chair.

"Her father, Viscount Emlyn," began Hastings, "inherited a fortune with his title and squandered every last penny of it. He's been digging himself deeper into debt for the better part of a decade. His entailed estates are let to East India Company nabobs, forcing the family to live in London year-round. Despite his proximity to Parliament, I have never once seen Emlyn take his seat at the House of Lords."

Hastings peeled the first sheet off the pile and set it aside. "Though he's passed the age of fifty, Emlyn regularly makes a spectacle of himself at whorehouses and just last year vomited into a punch bowl at one of the rare social events to which he was fortunate enough to receive an invitation." He flicked a glance Adam's way, full of withering contempt. "Can you imagine introducing this man to anyone you respect as a father-in-law?"

Emlyn's escapades were common knowledge. Even Daphne had known enough about the man to cite him as the primary reason for welcoming Caro to Irongate. She'd hoped to give her friend a respite from his unsavory influence. "I won't like it, but—"

"Her two elder brothers are unruly, unproductive, and unintelligent. If you marry Miss Small they'll be living here before the year is out. You'll have to listen to their inanities at the dinner table every night for the rest of your life."

Caro hadn't tried to hide her brothers. She'd admitted to learning about Lord Everill's pox from listening to their scandalous gossip. Perhaps he knew the worst of it. The possibility surprised—and pleased?—him. "The prospect of being annoyed, or even embarrassed, doesn't weigh very heavily against my duty as a gentleman."

"Have you even begun to consider what a mistake it would be to sacrifice the future of our family for the sake of honor? The rules of proper conduct must give way before greater concerns. Did you know that Miss Small's mother died of a laudanum overdose soon after the birth of her fourth child? She committed suicide, Adam. Do you want your heir inheriting that kind of mental instability?"

Christ. He hadn't had a clue. Would never have guessed. No wonder Caro had gravitated to an art form that reimagined reality as a choreographed fantasy. "One woman's sin cannot contaminate the whole family."

"It doesn't bother you that your fiancée was raised by a courtesan?"

"By a—" Adam paused, frowned. "That's not possible."

"Giselle Villiers. A ballerina with a bright career who used her fame to contract liaisons with several wealthy men of the ton."

Adam tried to remain impassive but the satisfied gleam in his father's eyes told him he'd failed. What had he said on the night Caro had tried to blackmail him? If I were your father, or your husband, I might ask myself whether you should dance ballet. I'd certainly be wondering how you learned it. Well, now he knew.

His father flipped another page. "The last of Mrs. Villiers' protectors was Viscount Emlyn. After she suffered an accident during a performance, ending her career as a dancer, he moved her into his home as a 'governess' to his two youngest children." His father looked up from the dossier and steepled his hands together upon the desk. "Miss Small was nine at the time."

His father's hands, gray and spotted now with age, remained elegant. Long-fingered, narrow-palmed, graceful. Adam looked down at his own meaty palms and blunt fingers, his knuckles misshapen after hundreds of fights, and swallowed a surge of disgust.

He looked strong, but when it mattered, he was weak. One pint-sized jade, well-schooled but innocent, had bent him to her will.

She was selfish. She would look out for her own interests, not his, and in his family that would be a liability.

He could not trust her.

But she had promised to be good to him, and she had meant it. If that was the bargain she'd made with herself, she'd stand by it.

"I wonder what Madame Villiers taught your charming Miss Small about marriage? Chastity, or is that unlikely? What about lessons on fidelity? Will you feel comfortable keeping her here, with Kingston as your neighbor? Will you trust her not to stray?"

"Have you finished?" Adam forced the words out.

"For now."

"I appreciate your advice, Father, but my mind is made up." Adam bowed, preparing to leave. "I hope you'll give your blessing. But I don't require it."

"You're wrong about that, my son."

Adam took a deep breath. Count to ten on the inhale; ten on the exhale. He'd armored himself against exactly this sort of exchange. "How do you plan to stop me?"

Hastings shifted in his chair. A small sign of discomfort, but it was enough to catch Adam's attention. What was his father scheming at?

"How's the railroad venture proceeding?" Hastings asked. "Everything as planned?"

Adam frowned, unnerved by the change in subject. "My railroad is not your concern."

"Of course not." His father returned the discarded sheets to the top of the pile, smiling faintly. "Don't let me keep you."

## Chapter Eighteen

A few minutes after Adam's departure, Caro had collected herself enough to venture downstairs. Mick met her in the vestibule as she descended, his black eyes twinkling.

"You're really a boxer?"

Mick laughed. "What a question. Come on. It's time for you to meet Ed Harris."

In for a penny, in for a pound. Caro followed the trainer through an airy salon into a sitting room where most of the furniture had been cleared away to make room for a cot, short and almost too narrow for the huge man occupying it.

"Ed Harris?" Caro advanced to get a better look. His massive chest rose and fell at regular intervals, the pupils behind his eyelids shifting restlessly, but his face lay slack, drooping with the force of gravity. Seeing such a big, strong man laid low disturbed her more than it should. Adam had done this?

"He needs talking to," said Mick, before heading back the way he'd come.

Caro hopped up onto the edge of the bed and picked up Harris's hand—the size of a dinner plate, but much heavier—and patted it while the trainer's footsteps receded.

"I've never given much thought to boxing, but I think I disapprove," she said to the unconscious champion. "I hope that doesn't offend you. If it were up to me, which it's not, you'd never have come here and Adam would have picked a different hobby. Fishing, maybe. I can't remember the last time I heard about anybody dying while they fished, and I trust, Mr. Harris, that were you capable of speech you'd agree that's a powerful advantage."

Caro let her feet swing in the air, kicked up her skirts. "Have you heard the tale of the Sleeping Beauty in the Woods? I loved it when I was a child. In the story, an evil fairy curses a little baby princess to prick her finger on a spindle and die. Another fairy, who thought the curse very wicked, twined it round with a blessing. When the princess was a young woman, at the very peak of her beauty, she pricked her finger on a spindle, as she'd been doomed to do. She died—that much couldn't be changed, you see, once a fairy delivers a curse it can't be undone—but only a little.

"Even a little bit of death is a terrible thing. Just that tiny bit trapped the princess in a dreamless sleep that went on and on. She died a little one day, and a little more the next, until she'd lived through a whole death. It took one hundred years, but at the end, the evil fairy's curse lifted and the princess woke up.

"It's a bit like your situation, don't you think, Mr. Harris? You're a little bit dead, but not all the way. Some ill fortune can't be avoided, but it can be survived."

A knock interrupted her. Caro slid off the cot and pattered around to the vestibule, but Mick beat her to the door. He opened it with a cheery, "Hello," and Caro heard a familiar voice reply, "I'm Louise. Lord Bexley sent me."

Red-faced after the long walk, Louise stooped under the weight of the heavy valises she carried, one in each hand.

"I'll watch Harris," Mick offered, heading back through the salon. Caro took one of the valises and guided Louise to her bedroom.

"I've also brought a letter from Mr. Robin."

"From Robin?" Caro perked up.

Louise dug a square of paper out from the pockets of her apron and handed it over, unpacking while Caro took a seat on the bed and cracked the seal. Though I write to you at Irongate, he began, I hope that this letter crosses paths with you on your way back to London. You fear the Earl of Bexley's disapproval, but I fear the choices you might make in order to appease him. Don't do anything rash. That is our father's legacy—he'd underlined the word father three times—not ours.

Caro closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If he knew what she'd done, he'd be so disappointed. She could almost see the expression on her younger brother's face, his big sorrowful eyes magnified by the thick spectacles he wore. Unable to read any further, Caro put the letter down and wiped the dampness from her eyes.

"What's the matter miss?" Louise asked. "Bad news from home?"

"Nothing of note," she answered unevenly. She tucked the letter under her pillow and changed into her ballet costume. Early yet to be practicing, but she needed to dance. She shifted around the furniture in the front salon to make space for herself, appropriated a chair as a makeshift barre, and began her drills.

She began in good spirits but all the old familiar movements steered her down a new road. She bent into her pliés and thought, My knees are open. She raised her leg to her waist, straight, toe pointed, the first of her sixty grands battements and felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. Her legs pointed, like an arrow, to her core.

Three days ago Adam had watched her practice this exact drill and she'd preened with satisfaction because she'd seen his desire and it hadn't touched her. Now, as she raised her leg to the side, to the back, switched feet, she wondered where his eyes had roamed while she practiced, and when she'd next have the chance to see him look at her like that again, his jaw clenched and his eyes burning.

It wasn't until she transitioned into the sylph's dance that she understood how much had truly changed. She tried, as she always did, to dissolve into the air. To feel weightless and inhuman, driving mortal men mad with desire while she remained untouched and unchanged. But though Caro launched herself skyward, her feet remained earthbound. She teased and spun, but her heart hung within the bony cage of her chest like clay. She could follow the steps, but she no longer felt like the sylph.

She'd become the hunter, reaching out for the ethereal spirit and never quite touching it, longing to possess what she could not have.

Frustrated, Caro began again and again. She refused to stop, even as her arms dragged at her shoulders like leaden anchors and her legs lost their spring. Sweat dampened her hair and stained her costume, and for the first time she saw this proof of her exertion as a sign of failure.

Sick at heart and so tired she had to lean against the wall as she tottered into the next room, Caro rejoined Louise and the unconscious champion.

"Oh, miss, what have you done!" Louise jumped to her feet, took Caro by the waist, and walked her to the nearest chair. She snatched up a pillow and fanned Caro with it, though it stirred very little air. "You're about to drop, you are. I'm going to warm some water for a bath. You're sticky as a honeycomb."

After Louise bustled out of the room, Caro stood. She wobbled across the hardwood and dropped down on the sofa drawn up by Ed Harris's cot, where she stared at the skin hanging slack from his craggy features, the wattle in his limp cheek and the flat crease of his thin lips, so ugly without the vital force of a conscious mind to animate it.

She laid the back of her hand against the champion's forehead, but after her exertions it felt cool against her fingers. Tears sprang to her eyes. "Why can't I dance?"

Ed Harris's eyelids peeled back to reveal a pair of mud-brown eyes. He blinked a few times, awareness bleeding into his absent stare, and groaned.

"Mr. Harris? Can you hear me?" Caro stumbled to the tureen of cold broth waiting on a table by the cot and dribbled a few spoonfuls into Harris's mouth. His lips flopped clumsily and Caro had to wipe spilled broth from his cheeks and chin. "Are you ready to wake up now?"

The fingers on his right hand twitched. His eyelids drifted shut again.

"No. Stay with me, Mr. Harris, please try."

Louise appeared in the doorway. "How did you get over there?"

"Ed Harris opened his eyes," Caro replied.

"Did he, now?" Louise crossed the room and ducked down to support Caro again, tipping most of her weight onto her maid. They looked down at Harris's still form together. "I guess if he did it once he can do it again. He ate some of the broth?"

"Maybe a spoonful."

"That's enough for now. Best get you clean, miss."

"Help me upstairs," Caro said. "But I'd like you to stay with him. He can't be alone, not even for a minute, if he's waking."

"Yes, miss."

Caro washed in the hip bath that Louise had prepared, put on her night rail and lit a candle, which she held aloft as she made her slow, aching way back downstairs to the salon. "Anything?"

"Not a twitch," Louise answered. "But I'll stay here with him, don't you worry."

"I'll stay too." Caro settled the candle in an empty sconce and shook out the rose-printed bedspread she'd taken from her room, letting it drift down over her and her maid as she huddled next to Louise on the sofa. "We can take turns watching him. Someone needs to be awake if he stirs again."

He opened his eyes twice more during the night. Between the two of them, Caro and Louise managed to feed him a full bowl of broth. Caro hadn't slept the previous night and got little rest on the spindly sofa. By the time dawn rose, her eyeballs felt gritty and raw, her lungs dry.

"Beautiful girl."

Caro jerked out of a light doze to find Ed Harris's mud-brown eyes focused on her.

"Beautiful girl," he repeated, voice a low rasp. "Where am I?"

Caro rose to her feet and reached for the broth again, but Harris sealed his lips against the spoon when she held it out.

"Are you trying to drown me?" he asked.

"You need nourishment."

"I need to know where I am."

"The Duke of Hastings's seat, Irongate. His son, the Earl of Bexley, heard about your plight and extended his hospitality."

"What plight?"

"What plight?" Caro frowned. "You don't remember the fight?"

"I remember lots of fights." Harris laughed hoarsely. "Forgot plenty of others. I had a bad one?"

"You haven't woken up in more than thirty hours."

"I reckon I lost?"

"You did, sir, yes."

"Damn." His eyes drifted shut again. "Hate losing," he mumbled, but nothing Caro said to him elicited any further response.

A knock sounded at the door soon after dawn, while Caro was waiting for Ed Harris to rouse again. She waited for Mick to answer, as he'd asked her to, stretching her ears to glean what she could of the brief murmured conversation that followed, but couldn't pick out any words. Silence fell, followed by the thud of Mick's footsteps. He entered the salon carrying a folded piece of paper, which he extended to her.

Plucking the note from Mick's hands, Caro took one look at the seal of two crossed wheat sheaves pressed into golden wax fastening the letter and snatched her hand away as though the paper might burn her.

"What do I do?"

"Read it."

Caro raised an eyebrow at the American.

"You asked," he said.

Steeling herself for something unpleasant—given Hastings's reputation, she half expected the ink to be poisoned—Caro snapped the hard wax and unfolded the thick parchment to reveal a brief message written in gorgeous copperplate: His Grace the Duke of Hastings requests the attendance of Miss Caroline Small at her nearest convenience.

She passed the note back to Mick, whose thick eyebrows climbed up to his hairline as he read the brief missive. "I've lived at Irongate for three years and in all that time I have not come face to face with Hastings once."

Adam had warned her to avoid his father. What would he tell her to do? Dodge a direct summons? Wouldn't that only further anger the Duke?

"He's going to do something horrible, isn't he?"

"Be ready for anything. Hastings is a mean old snake." A swaggering smile lit Mick's boyish face. "But you're a tough little bird. Have faith in yourself."

"Was that a compliment?"

"More a fact." Mick's thick, bushy eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "Do you know why I box?"

"Why?"

"Because I think it's fun. That's all. Do you see what I mean?"

"Not in the least."

"I haven't been mad enough to hit anyone since I won my first prize. I box because I think it's fun. Sometimes it's that simple."

"No double meanings?"

Mick laughed. "Exactly. It would take Adam a month to figure that out."

"Because he doesn't want to know."

"That's right, little bird. I'm in your corner, for what it's worth."

Caro tidied up as best she could. Louise fastened her into a new dress, pinned her hair up, and swabbed her face with rosewater, trying to erase the evidence of two sleepless nights.

She'd never been introduced to Hastings, never even seen him. He stood above the squabbling throng of the ton. Every door opened to him, but he socialized rarely and never for pleasure. The few times she'd called at Hastings House to visit Daphne, he hadn't deigned to make an appearance.

The footman who'd brought the note waited in the vestibule to lead her up to the main house. With his military bearing and grizzled countenance, he stuck out like a sore thumb on the country estate. One of the Duke's personal servants, then.

He led her to a room she'd glimpsed on her first day at Irongate, its walls clad in brilliant cloth-of-silver. It looked like chain mail woven by ants, so tiny and tight was the weave, dull as steel from certain angles but throwing off lances of light that seared the eyes from others.

Inside a slim gentleman sat on a royal blue velvet armchair, a cane propped against his crossed knees and a folded newspaper in his hand. He didn't look very ducal, just a little old man in nice clothes reading his morning paper.

Caro faltered, too frightened to address the stranger as Your Grace when the real duke might be lurking in the shadows somewhere, eight feet tall and brandishing his thin aristocratic nose like an epée.

And then the gentleman looked up and Caro met his eyes, the same distinctive golden brown as Adam's but cold as a drenching in a frozen lake and sharper than a thousand rays of sunlight condensed into one.

Caro's limbs turned to water and she dropped into a deep curtsey, all doubt gone.

Hastings stood. A generous person would describe his height as average, but he measured only a few inches taller than Caro herself. The brilliant silver cloth on the walls fractured light around him like a full-body halo. A room as opulent as this would diminish anyone else; it magnified the man in front of her, subservient to him. The Duke of Hastings would make the gods on Mount Olympus jump at shadows.

He motioned her into a chair and she hastened to obey. Adam's air of authority was but a pale reflection of his father's.

"Miss Small. A guest here at the invitation of my niece Daphne, a young lady who herself resides at Irongate on my charity. Such towering ambition to build atop a very frail foundation."

"Truly, Your Grace, my actions repay but poorly such a gracious invitation." Caro laced her hands in her lap and ducked her head. "Though it wounds me to hear you speak of my ambition."

"Because you fancy yourself in love with my son, is that it? At five days' acquaintance."

The duke's chilly neutrality revealed nothing, but Caro knew where he was going, or thought she did. The obvious answer would be to proclaim her undying love. But she could guess, equally well, that the obvious answer would always be the wrong answer with Hastings—simply the most direct route into his trap.

"Lord Bexley is a good man," she said instead. "Perhaps the finest I have ever met."

"So you admit that the fault for your indiscretion lies entirely with you, then?"

"I did not say he is perfect," Caro parried. "I judge his character in part, you understand, by the efforts he makes to rectify his errors."

Hastings leaned back in his chair, rubbing absently at his knee. "I must admit, Miss Small, you surprise me. I had prepared first for a fortune hunter, second for a heart-struck ninny. I see elements of both in you, make no mistake, but someone has taught you pragmatism. Different from greed and far removed from sentiment. A very French trait—your governess, perhaps?"

Caro notched her chin up. "My governess taught me many valuable lessons."

"It's so easy to underestimate the wisdom of prostitutes." Triumph flared in Hastings's eyes as Caro froze, relaxing into a more supple posture only with great effort. "You can offer her my compliments when you return to London. Which will be soon, as I cannot allow you to marry my son."

"I was not aware that he required your permission."

"I can't stop him. But you can, and you will. I will make it worth your while to turn him down. I can offer you any situation you like—a townhouse in London, a small estate in another county with an annual income, a plantation in the Indies, a flat in Rome. Carte blanche. You are seventeen?"

Caro nodded, unable to speak.

"I can prevent your father from gaining access to these assets. I can even make sure that your peers, and superiors, in the ton find your sudden acquisition of wealth unremarkable. You will be well-positioned to acquire a more suitable mate, with your beauty and a fortune of your own."

Caro smiled faintly. "I would prefer Bexley to all of those things combined, Your Grace."

"Now you do. As I said, you are a pragmatist. But I have only shown you the carrot. You have yet to encounter the stick." Hastings pulled out his watch and consulted the face. "I expect you will feel its smart in the very near future. My offer lasts until I convince Adam to leave you. That shouldn't take very long, so I advise you to act quickly."

"Until you convince Adam...?" Caro repeated.

"I can convince you to walk away from Adam, or I can convince him to walk away from you. You should know that I am actively pursuing both objectives. One of the plans I have put in motion will be successful."

If Caro accepted Hastings's bribe, she'd walk away a wealthy woman, with a newfound ability to determine her own future—and Robin's.

If she waited until one of Hastings's schemes drove a wedge between her and Adam, or for the combined pressure of all the obstacles he'd devised to bear down on them at once, she'd find herself at her father's mercy once again but this time as a ruined woman—all her hopes for the future dashed, and no hope of helping Robin.

"How am I to know you will make good on your offer, Your Grace? It seems to me that the moment I accept, you will have just cause to send me away empty-handed."

"You know my son, Miss Small. If I mistreat you he will dig in his heels. If you accept my bribe, you'll administer the perfect antidote to whatever affection he's developed for you. I'd be disappointed if he replaced you with an equally unsuitable female; I'd like to inoculate him against your kind entirely."

Caro's brow furrowed. "What if I tell him about your offer?"

"Of course. Lay out the terms. I appreciate your level head, Miss Small, and I say that honestly. I call it a virtue. In that spirit, allow me to deliver a warning: though I may have to exert some effort to influence my son's choices, no amount of effort on his part will influence mine. I will not 'come round.' Not now, and not ever. Keep that in mind while you decide if you really want to join this family. You might not enjoy it as much as you think."

"As long as Lord Bexley will have me, my answer to him will be yes."

"Your loss, Miss Small. You may go."

Caro sank against the wall as the door to the silver salon shut behind her, completely drained. One of the Duke's stern servants walked past her into the salon with a little bundle in hand, very pointedly not acknowledging her existence, and not even that got her to her feet.

When she felt steady again, she found one of the house footmen and asked if he knew where she could find Daphne. He directed her to Lady Paul's boudoir, but as she approached a throbbing wail issued through the double doors to the suite, and Caro wondered if she ought to continue.

No. She ought to find a more appropriate time; Daphne and she had parted on a very sour note. But she didn't turn around, couldn't stomach the idea of returning to the Dower House alone. She needed a friend.

## Chapter Nineteen

Daphne answered Caro's knock, wedging herself between the door and jamb to keep Caro out of Lady Paul's room and block her view. "Lady Paul is indisposed."

"I'm not here for Lady Paul." She glanced up through her lashes, but found no reassurance in Daphne's lowered brows and full-lipped pout. How strange: Daphne and Adam had the same mouth, small and plump.

"You weren't in your room last night," Daphne said finally.

"Adam moved me out to the Dower House."

"To avoid Hastings?"

Caro nodded.

Daphne's eyes narrowed and the corners of her lips drew down even farther. "I don't imagine that worked very well."

Caro shook her head. "No, it didn't."

"Help me with Elizabeth." Daphne opened the door and motioned Caro inside. "We can talk once she's calmed down."

Lady Paul's bedroom looked like the product of a stylistic collaboration between a very young girl and a very successful pirate. Tiny paintings surrounded by huge golden frames hung on walls clad in sky-blue brocade, and glittering knickknacks cluttered every flat surface—a gold ormolu clock, cut-crystal perfume bottles, a dish of Limoges porcelain full of jeweled hairpins. The air reeked of baby powder.

"Elizabeth and I were just having a good cry together."

"I can't believe he's gone," Lady Paul moaned into her coverlet, quilted silk dyed to the same shade of blue as her walls. She wore a lace wrapper that did nothing to hide the chemise she wore beneath, made of fine lawn thin enough for the pale peach of her skin to shade through the fabric and reveal the shadowy cleft of her buttocks.

Caro exchanged a look with Daphne.

"She won't put on clothes," Daphne whispered.

Caro half-sat on the edge of the bed, one leg braced on the floor to hold her steady, and leaned over to smooth Lady Paul's honey brown hair, damp with tears, away from her face. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"My whole life is a mistake," Lady Paul whispered, capturing Caro's gaze in her wet, glassy eyes. A damp circle stained the coverlet where her tears had soaked the silk.

"Shush, now." Caro stroked Lady Paul's forehead again. "You know that's not true."

Lady Paul curled in on herself as a sob ripped through her. "What am I going to do without him?"

Caro felt a tap on her shoulder. She continued stroking Lady Paul as she twisted around to find Daphne pinning her with a reproachful look. The message was clear enough—You knew about this?

Caro nodded.

Daphne threw her hands up in the air, miming exasperation. Caro winced, trying to convey a silent apology, but Daphne only rolled her eyes. She sat down next to Caro on the bed and rested a hand on Lady Paul's back. "Matthew's death has shocked us all, Elizabeth, but we'll get through it together. We're family."

"Family?" Lady Paul slapped Daphne's hand away. She rolled off of the bed, stormed to her dresser, snatched up a silver-handled mirror, and threw it at the mantle. It hit with a loud crack, sending shards of glass flying in every direction. "Why don't you try going to Paul for comfort?"

Lady Paul swept her arm across the dresser. A pair of palm-sized portraits in golden frames, a blue-and-white china vase full of fresh-cut flowers, and an oil lamp tumbled to the floor. The vase belched a bellyful of greenish water onto the carpet but survived intact; the portrait frame cracked.

Daphne choked on a laugh.

"Try that," seethed Lady Paul, "and then we can talk about getting through this together."

"Lord Paul lost his son, Lady Paul." Caro picked her way through the shards and the scattered flowers and wrapped her arm around Lady Paul's slippery, silk-clad waist. She urged the distraught woman onto the ottoman by her dresser, away from the debris, but Lady Paul thrust Caro away with all her strength.

"Don't you touch me, you meddling tart!"

Caro threw up her arms, but not fast enough. She slammed into the wall, knocking her head and rattling her teeth. Pain flared and she rubbed a spot just over her ear, trying to regain her bearings.

Lady Paul flung herself at her vanity table, snatched up the dish of hairpins and threw it at the wall. The glittering pins scattered in the wake of the projectile like a comet's tail before the dish exploded into fragments.

"Why couldn't he die?" Lady Paul gripped the vanity table with fingers white with strain, bent over, elbows locked and chest heaving. "Why did it have to be Matthew?"

"Elizabeth, Paul's room is just next door," warned Daphne. "He could be listening."

"Let him listen." Lady Paul knocked the rest of the items off of her vanity in one swipe. A waterfall of bright sparkles trickled from her jewelry box as it clattered to the floor, landing with a thunk and a discordant metallic jangle. The jewels scattered amongst the chips of porcelain, shards of mirror, flowers and hairpins. Spots of blood marred the carpet where Lady Paul had trod with her bare feet. "I hope he's listening!"

Caro knelt, still dizzy, and began picking up the shards. She found a small silver dish in the pile and piled the pieces atop it, starting with the largest. Daphne coaxed Lady Paul back to the bed, murmuring softly to comfort the woman, as Caro righted the jewelry box and began to refill it, plucking up one treasure after another from the floor, some of them coated in porcelain dust. She collected necklaces, brooches, rings, a king's ransom of jewels.

Caro recognized the diamond brooch Lady Paul had worn on the morning she'd hid amongst the trees in the orangery. A starburst of stones connected by silver or platinum rods with a thumbnail-sized diamond in the center. The brooch had collected a few specks of dust, but rubbing at them only moved the specks of dirt around. She breathed on the jewels instead, hoping a little moisture would do the trick.

The gems fogged. This time, when Caro rubbed the brooch against her skirt, the dust cleared away. The fog didn't.

"I didn't realize you wore costume jewelry, Lady Paul." She liked the woman a little more for it. A playful turn, rather than just a boastful one.

"I don't." Lady Paul raised herself up onto her elbows, puffy-faced, haloed in wild tangles of honey-brown hair, the neck of her nightgown gaping open. Daphne tensed—readying herself to pin Lady Paul to the bed if she tried to get up again, no doubt. "I didn't marry Paul Sparks so I could wear costume jewelry."

Caro flourished the brooch. "These aren't diamonds."

Lady Paul scrabbled to the edge of the bed. Caro hurried to meet her halfway while Daphne grabbed Lady Paul's ankles. A dreadful intensity strained Lady Paul's already splotched and buckled features as she repeated Caro's test. She breathed on the brooch and watched the clear crystals fog, as diamonds would never do.

"Even in this he cheats me." Lady Paul gave a kick and tore away from Daphne, who flinched and released her aunt's ankle. Lady Paul ran to the window, yanked up the casement, drew back her arm and launched the brooch through the opening.

"When I find out who killed Matthew I'll murder him myself! I'll scratch his eyes out!" She crumpled into a heap on the floor, sobbing.

The door opened and Paul stood in the threshold, his florid face flushed pink with anger. "Out," he snapped. His jowls began to tremble, but he'd filled the doorway with his huge bulk and neither Caro nor Daphne could fit past him unless he moved. Lady Paul's sobs pocked the silence, until Paul turned even redder and stepped aside with a scowl. Caro and Daphne scurried out.

"What will he do?" Caro whispered to Daphne as they gained the corridor.

"I don't know." Daphne bit her lip. "I think we should tell Adam."

A footman directed them to look for Lord Bexley in his boxing studio. They struck off down the corridor side by side, but the silence between them felt awkward, uncomfortable without Lady Paul's hysterics to draw them together.

"I never meant to take advantage of your friendship, Daphne," Caro ventured.

"Yet that's exactly what you've done," Daphne snapped.

They reached a stairwell, descended, turned onto a new corridor. Caro recognized the wallpaper, a repeating floral pattern in autumnal oranges. They'd almost reached Adam's studio.

"Lord Kingston has agreed to pose for me," Daphne said.

Caro stopped short, her jaw dropping. "You've been in contact with Lord Kingston? Daphne, why?"

Daphne tossed her head, ringlets flying. "I want to paint him. And why shouldn't I? He's kind to me. He doesn't lie, or take advantage, or treat me like a child."

"You mean he has no respect for innocence, nor the decency to preserve it—"

Daphne interrupted. "Why do you think we're friends?"

Caro took a step away from Daphne, knitting her hands together behind her back. "What do you mean?"

"I don't want to be innocent, if 'innocent' means being ignorant and foolish while things happen around me that I can't understand, if it means the people I love lie to me."

"But—"

"And I'm not as naive as you seem to think," Daphne barreled on. "Hasn't it occurred to you that just as people assume the worst about you, no matter what you do, that people might assume the best about me?"

"Daphne." Caro wrung her hands helplessly, invisibly. "I'm so sorry."

A rattling, pained scream echoed down the corridor—Lady Paul. Caro and Daphne looked at one another and then, as one, hitched up their skirts and ran.

They found Adam standing by the window of his studio, as formal as Caro had ever seen him in a crisp morning suit with his sandy hair slicked close to his skull. The studio smelled of castile soap and baking powder, sunlight filtering through ranks of cloudy windows.

"Adam," Daphne called. "We need your help."

He turned to face them, his features drawn and aged. Some unpleasant emotion etched wrinkles around his mouth and tightened the skin of his high forehead and square jaw. "What can I do for you, Daphne?"

"It's Paul. I'm worried that he'll hurt Elizabeth. She's been in such a state since Matthew died and I think it's become obvious to us all that she had a... well, an indecent attachment to him. A few minutes ago Paul ordered us out of her rooms and he was furious. She just screamed, Adam. You need to stop him."

Adam nodded. "Go tell my father. He's more adept at controlling Paul than I am."

"Oh, Adam. Don't make me. I can't talk to Hastings. He makes me stutter. Can't you go?"

"If what you've told me is true, I don't have time to make a detour. I should go straight to Elizabeth. Father won't blame you for bearing ill news. Just go."

Daphne sprinted off toward the silver salon while Caro hurried to keep close to Adam as he made his way up to Lady Paul's suite. Her wails reached them in the corridor, screams of pain louder and more jagged than her earlier sobs. The door hung open but Adam filled the threshold with his broad back, blocking Caro's line of sight. When she tried to wiggle around him, he wrapped one arm around her head and clapped his palm over her eyes.

"That's enough, Paul." Adam spoke in his most commanding voice, sending a thrill of fear skittering down Caro's spine. He must have noticed the shiver, because he tucked her into his side.

"I don't need your permission to discipline my wife, Adam," snarled Paul, his voice hoarse. A loud smack followed by a scream made Caro jump.

Adam raised his voice, directed it into Lady Paul's room. "Of course you don't, Uncle Paul. But you're upset. Emotional. I understand. We all do. It's easy to overreact—"

"I'm not overreacting!"

Caro cringed.

"Step aside." Hastings's smooth voice came from behind her. Adam's arm, still wrapped around her head and shoulders, clamped tighter before releasing. Caro twisted around to see the Duke and Daphne standing side by side in the corridor. The gleam of satisfaction in Hastings' eyes chilled her to the bone.

Adam pulled Caro away from the door to make room. The Duke, as he passed by, murmured, "Do bring Miss Small inside. She'll find this little drama instructive."

Daphne paused to squeeze Caro's arm before scurrying along in Hastings's wake. Adam urged her into Lady Paul's room with a nudge of his palm at the small of her back.

Lady Paul sprawled on her bed, curled into a ball this time. Blood leaked from her nose and stained the lace of her wrapper. She swiped a soiled handkerchief at her cheeks in between sobs, her hair a wild tangle.

"Is this how we treat our women, Paul?" Hastings crossed to the bed, his cool voice mocking. His presence alone, with his parade-ground posture and rapping cane, made Lady Paul shrink in on herself. Her mess, her tantrum, her outrageous, aggressive sexuality wilted.

"She deserved it. Little whore," growled Paul, lunging toward the bed.

Hastings smacked his brother's shin with his cane. Paul howled and skipped backward.

"Words, Paul," murmured Hastings. "Use them."

"I was in love with Matthew." Lady Paul raised her head to meet Hastings's eyes as she spoke, her voice thick with blood, snot and tears. "And he was in love with me! I hate Paul, and I hate you! Horrible, evil old man—you don't even know what love is! I don't care what you say, you're just jealous. Hateful and jealous!"

"Silence, Elizabeth," snapped Hastings.

Fresh tears welled from Lady Paul's eyes. Handkerchief pressed tight to her nose, she burrowed her face into the coverlet.

"You're accusing Elizabeth of adultery, Paul?" Hastings asked. "Is that correct?"

Paul nodded.

"Not just adultery, in fact. Incest. You've judged her guilty of carrying on an affair with your son."

Paul's ruddy complexion reddened further. "That's what she did."

Hastings poked at some of the rubble littering the floor with his cane. "Do you have any scissors, Elizabeth?"

Lady Paul nodded into her mattress.

"Fetch them for me."

Heaving herself onto all fours, Lady Paul crawled to the edge of the bed and swung her feet to the ground before tumbling onto her knees and swirling her hands through the rubble littering her floor.

She found the scissors, tugging the panels of her robe together in a futile effort to cover herself as she handed them to Hastings. To little effect. Her breasts shifted within her chemise, ripe and round.

Not even the tiniest spark of interest flared in the Duke's eyes as he laid down his cane and took up the scissors, murmuring, "Thank you, sister," in a voice dripping with irony.

Tucking the blades of the scissors against his forearm, he rested his fingertips on Lady Paul's shoulders and gave a light push. She faced away from him, allowing Hastings to comb the fingers of his free hand through her snarled hair before twisting the length of it into a rope and wrapping it around his wrist.

Lady Paul squealed and tried to leap away. She launched herself with enough force to unbalance the Duke, who stabilized himself by giving the coil of hair around his wrist a sharp yank.

Lady Paul screamed but fell back into place, trembling.

"Matthew did not love you, Elizabeth." Hastings flipped the scissors out into a usable position. Silence descended upon the room as he tested the blades, opening and shutting them with a metallic snick. "Neither did you love him. His attention flattered your vanity. Just as Paul's ranting and raging flatters your vanity. You like to imagine yourself as the heroine of a melodrama, don't you? Which is to say you like to think of yourself as a victim." Hastings opened the scissors with a prolonged scritch and notched the twisted rope of Lady Paul's hair into the vee of the silvered blades.

Pitching her voice low enough that only he could hear, Caro murmured Adam's name and squeezed at his hand.

Adam squeezed even tighter in return, grinding her bones together. "There's nothing I can do," he whispered. The edge in his voice had Caro looking up to examine his expression, cold and closed.

Hastings's threat earlier that morning came back in vivid, excruciating detail: I will not 'come round.' Not now, and not ever. Keep that in mind while you decide if you really want to join this family. You might not enjoy it as much as you think. This is what he'd meant, she realized. Why he'd permitted such an audience.

"The punishment must fit the crime," Hastings continued, drawing Caro's attention. The Duke exuded the same steely calm as he had earlier that morning when he'd offered Caro his bribe. Lady Paul's shoulders shook with fear, her sobs reduced to quiet sniffles. "You let vanity tempt you to immoral acts, and now your vanity will suffer for them."

A ripping sound filled the room as Hastings squeezed the blades of the scissors together, cutting Lady Paul's hair at the nape of her neck. He dropped the ponytail, two feet of hair in a rope fully as thick as Caro's wrist, and set to work shearing away the rest until Lady Paul was left with nothing but a finger-length fringe on every side. Tears streamed down Lady Paul's face—looking at her back, Caro could see drops rolling down the side of one cheek—but she didn't resist.

"Tomorrow you will travel to Inverness." Hastings held out the scissors over Lady Paul's shoulder, allowing the blades to graze her cheek.

Lady Paul flinched. She whirled around to snatch the implement away from the Duke, clutching the scissors between her breasts with one hand while feeling the cap of shorn hair atop her head with the other. Her fingers trembled and she hunched over, sobs clogging her throat.

"Inverness?" Caro asked, still pitching her voice just for Adam's ears.

"Our hunting lodge in Scotland," whispered Adam.

"In the winter?"

"Won't be pleasant."

"You will remain there until your hair has grown back out to its proper length," continued the Duke.

"I'd rather she stay nearby, David," objected Paul.

"Of course you would, Paul. But you bear a share of responsibility. You bought yourself a pet but didn't bother to train it properly. Young and pretty women are known to stray without a firm hand to guide them." The Duke cast a glance at his son before looking back at his younger brother. "Did you provide a firm hand?"

"I don't need lessons—" Paul spluttered.

"The answer is no. You did not provide a firm hand," interrupted Hastings. Paul—middle-aged, proud, and fat—shuffled his feet like a boy at the reprimand. He didn't even try to finish his sentence, lips puckered tight as if he'd been sucking on a lemon.

Hastings continued on in the same smooth, carrying tone. "But I can, and I will. If you'd rather not submit to my authority, you're welcome to go you own way. You might prefer frugal accounting to my rules."

Paul's neck turned red.

Hastings slid his gaze over to Adam and Caro. "Of course, brother, we both know you've never been very good at living within your means. You understood the consequences when you decided to marry a young woman of extraordinary looks and no dowry to speak of. I don't see much independence in your future."

The stick. Hastings had told her, in the silver study, that she'd see it soon. She hadn't had to wait long.

## Chapter Twenty

Caro glanced at Adam. Rage brightened his eyes to the hue of sunlit honey, the muscles along his jaw so tight they could have been hammered into place. But he didn't voice a word of protest.

"She's my wife," Paul insisted.

"Nobody's keeping you from Inverness." Hastings smiled. "You can visit whenever you like."

Paul charged at Caro and Adam, shoving them aside as he stormed through the door.

"I think we're finished here." Hastings reclaimed his cane and tapped it against the floor. "We should leave Elizabeth to prepare for her journey."

"What about the jewels?" Daphne asked.

The slender arches of Hastings's eyebrows rose. "What about them?"

Lady Paul let the scissors clatter to the floor. She crawled back on her bed and curled into a ball, shaking like a gelled pudding with her sobs. An adult woman, a girl who'd come from nowhere and won the right to call herself Lady over the course of a single season—beauty or no, she'd needed boldness and ambition to accomplish such a feat—utterly broken in less time than it took Caro to do her nightly ballet drills.

"One of Elizabeth's brooches," Daphne answered, when it was clear Lady Paul had no intention of replying. "The gems were paste."

"Show me."

Daphne cast a pleading look Caro's way. Lady Paul had thrown her brooch out of the window, so Caro picked her way over to the jewelry box and hunted through the tangled chains and loops for clear stones. She breathed on each piece as she picked it up, checking for the telltale fog, and found it every time.

"All of the diamonds are fake." She carried the loot back to Hastings, her cupped hands brimming with counterfeit treasure. "I don't know any tests for the other stones."

Hastings repeated the test on several pieces, breathing, fogging, waiting. "Paul has an account at Rundell, Bridge & Rundell and they forward all his receipts to me. Every gem ought to be authentic."

"Let me see." Adam held out his hand. Hastings dropped the ring he was examining into Adam's palm, and Adam whistled. "How did Paul convince you to foot the bill for the originals?"

Hastings smiled faintly while Adam repeated the breath test. "He performed a valuable service."

"I think we should summon Milgrom. He'll want to know about these, in light of their relationship." Adam jerked his head toward Elizabeth.

"Of course. I'll see to it." Hastings collected his cane, took the jewelry, and left without a backward glance, the click of the gold-tipped jade barrel fading with his retreat down the corridor. Adam gestured for Daphne and Caro to follow in the Duke's wake, holding the door and urging them through before shutting Elizabeth inside.

"Do you have a bauble you could loan me?" Adam asked Daphne. "Nothing too flashy, and nothing you couldn't bear to lose. Something that sparkles."

"I have a pair of earbobs with aquamarines and pearls, or an amethyst choker. Would you like either of those?"

"The necklace. Harder to keep track of two things than one."

Daphne led the way to her room, leaving Caro with Adam in the corridor while she slipped inside. Adam crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, surveying her.

"I thought I asked you to remain at the Dower House."

"Your father summoned me."

"Ah," Adam said.

"He offered me a bribe," Caro added.

"A good one?"

"Very."

Daphne yanked open the door. She flicked her narrowed eyes rapidly between Caro and Adam, before thrusting out her hand. A long chain of matched purple stones the color of wild heather dangled across her palm.

"Will this do?"

"Perfect." Adam reached out to take the necklace.

Daphne closed her fingers over the stones and snatched them away. "What do you need it for?"

"I can use them to find the fence who bought Elizabeth's jewels. Once I find the fence, I'll know who stole them."

"Poor Elizabeth." Daphne hung her head and sighed. "Isn't there anything you can do for her?"

"You know there isn't," Adam replied.

"She'll go mad, alone all winter," Daphne said.

"Would you rather Paul beat her?"

"I don't know." Daphne drooped, weighted down, Caro imagined, by the same queasy sense of defeat that soured her own mood. "I wanted to stop Paul, but what Hastings did is almost worse. That was his goal, wasn't it? To find a punishment worse than a few slaps?"

"Elizabeth committed adultery and incest, and her punishment is cold weather and time to think. She ought to thank him," snapped Adam.

"Heaven save me from Hastings's good intentions." Daphne let the necklace tumble into Adam's palm; it landed with a muted clicking. "I should freshen up after that ordeal."

Daphne shut the door, leaving them alone again in the echoing corridor. Adam turned on Caro, his eyes glittering. "I suppose you side with Elizabeth as well?"

Caro slipped close and twined her arm around Adam's. "I'm on your side, of course."

"Stop lying to me."

Caro smiled, as though he'd made a joke. "I'm not lying."

"Yes." He slipped free of her arm. "You are."

Caro slumped. "It could be true. If that's what you wanted."

"If I wanted a heartless little liar hovering at my side, parroting my opinions?" Adam's lip curled. "I've seen the falseness in you from the beginning. How hard you work to please and flatter. I can't stand it."

Caro ducked her head.

"But I thought I'd glimpsed the real woman beneath the pretense," he continued. "I thought you'd let me in on a secret—"

"I did," Caro whispered.

"And I felt clever," he finished. "Special."

"You are."

"I let you fool me, I bloody helped you do it—wrapped myself up in a bow for you, didn't I? I was drunk and distraught and I fell right into your hands."

"Why are you so eager to hate me?" Caro thumped her chest. "It's hard for me, too. But I'm here—"

"You did this," Adam interrupted. "You stole the choice from me."

"Did I?" Caro tossed her head, blood thrumming in her ears. "Then why was it so easy?"

The silence that followed was long enough to give her time to regret her intemperance.

"I suggest you take my father's bribe," said Adam grimly. "Find a new target for your wiles. Between us"—he swept his hand between them like a scythe, shearing away all her hopes—"I see nothing but scorched earth."

And then he left her, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor as the distance between them stretched, and stretched, and stretched.

## Chapter Twenty-One

Caro clamped her palms to her hot cheeks. She would have crawled into a dirt hole right then and cried with relief, grateful for the damp and the dark. Instead, she fled through Irongate's echoing corridors and down its wide marble stairs, out a set of double doors and through the gardens, to the safety of the Dower House.

The front door shut behind her with a comforting thunk. Caro leaned against it, trembling with reaction.

I suggest you take my father's bribe.

She remembered the poker. Sitting by the fire as a girl, reaching for the hot iron. She'd been lucky that time; it had been cool.

This time, the poker had been burning hot, and she'd held on tight.

She could have seen all of this coming—Hastings's campaign to drive her away, Adam's resentment. Maybe she'd known, but hadn't cared. Before that night on the grass, would Adam's suffering have wounded her? Would she have felt his coldness like a slap, his judgment as a doom?

No.

She couldn't even be sure what had changed her. His desire or hers. The mingling of the two. Or just the raw emotion he'd carried out of the arena. Regret and sorrow, a victory he wore like a defeat. Had that been it?

That was where she'd failed. Adam, Hastings—they were the same, just as they'd been. She had changed, in ways she would never have predicted.

And it terrified her.

"Miss Small?" Mick appeared in the front room, leaning through the doorway that led to the sickroom. "Is that you?"

"Mr. Garner." Caro pushed away from the door. "You must be eager for a break."

"Harris is sleeping," said Mick, taking a quick glance over his shoulder before advancing to meet her in the vestibule. "What did you think of Hastings?"

Caro shuddered. "He's a monster."

"Bad as all that?"

"Worse."

Mick chucked her chin. "Don't look down, little bird."

"Don't look down?" Caro repeated.

"That's my advice." He scanned the stairway and the hall. "I'll be right back. Then we can have a word."

Caro took a seat on the sofa by Harris's cot, swaddling herself in the puddled, rose-printed bedspread left over from the night's vigil. Ed Harris had a big man's labored breathing, deep and thick. It broke the silence, gave her something to focus on.

"Don't look down," Caro repeated. She'd learned the same rule while dancing ballet. The body will follow the eyes. Stare at the floor for too long, and a fall becomes inevitable.

"Aye," rumbled Harris, from his cot.

Caro blinked, surprised to find the grizzled boxer's eyes open and fixed on her. "Did I disturb you?"

"I've slept enough to do me for a while." Harris rustled up a laugh. "Mick tell you that? Don't look down?"

"Do you know what he meant?" Caro asked.

"When everything else has been used up. When you're tired enough to drop. Don't look down." Harris's hands, battered lumps folded one atop the other on his chest, twitched. The fingers curled, then released. "In a long, hard fight, your mind will try to trick you. It lets you believe you're giving your all, when really you've decided to lose. So we trick the mind right back. We don't look down."

Caro smiled faintly. "Some fights can't be won."

"Doesn't matter," Harris replied instantly, without a shadow of doubt. "In my world, once you start a fight, you finish it."

"Even if it kills you?" Caro asked.

Harris barked out a laugh. "You think I'm scared?"

"I can see you're not," Caro replied.

"We make bad decisions when we're tired, beautiful girl," said Harris, his eyes growing heavy. "Don't look down. Fight."

"He prefers your company to mine, I think," said Mick.

Caro looked up to find Adam's trainer hovering in the doorway. He urged her to rise and follow him with a jerk of his head, so she trailed him out to the vestibule.

"Dr. Lewis has been by," Mick informed her in a low voice. "He's optimistic that Harris will make a full recovery."

"But that's wonderful!"

"It is. What's better is that Harris can't remember the fight that brought him here. According to Dr. Lewis, that's normal. Nothing to worry about—unless Harris encounters people or places that feature prominently in the missing memories."

"What would happen then?"

Mick grimaced. "He could remember everything."

"And that would be bad?"

"The navvies at the arena don't know Lord Bexley—that's why he can go there. If Harris learns my lord's name and position?" Mick laughed shortly. "I'm sure you can imagine what would happen better than I."

Lord Bexley, the bare-knuckled prizefighter—it would be a scandal, and a shameful one, despite his victory.

"I'll warn Bexley to stay away from the Dower House next I see him," continued Mick. "But if you cross paths with him first, give him the doctor's report."

"I'll let him know," Caro promised.

"Thank you." Mick rocked back on his heels. "I should get back to the patient."

Caro climbed up to her room and lay down on the stripped bed. A crinkling under her head reminded her of Robin's letter. She pulled it out and finished it—mostly news of home, until the end, where he'd written:

Giselle taught us to scheme for our own advantage above all. But you and I know that we owe our characters and happiness to her willingness to do exactly the opposite. She loved us and cared for us, children who owed her nothing and had little to give in return. She suffered our father's attentions and shielded us from his whims, at great cost to herself.

I know you like to take Giselle at her word, Caroline. But you would do better to imitate her spirit.

"Oh, Robin," she whispered to the empty room.

Light footsteps sounded down the hall, and then Louise barged into the room. "Oh, miss, you're back! I thought I heard a voice in here."

"And now you've caught me lazing about," said Caro.

"Lord knows you haven't slept a wink in days," Louise reassured her, and then blushed furiously.

Caro forced herself to sit up and stretch. "Impertinent, but true."

"Sorry, miss." Louise bobbed a curtsey. "But I do have some news for you."

"Go on."

"Do you remember what we saw at Beachy Head? By the lighthouse."

Caro shuddered. "How could I forget?"

"There's quite a bit of gossip about the pair of them, downstairs among the staff."

"What sort of gossip?"

"Well," said Louise, "before Mr. Spark's valet disappeared—"

"His valet disappeared?" Caro interrupted.

"He left with Mr. Spark and hasn't come back."

"Does the constable know? Or Sir Walter? The Justice of the Peace?"

Louise widened her eyes and shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, go on. What have you heard?"

"The valet, Mr. Samson, was complaining to an underbutler that Mr. Spark didn't appreciate Lady Paul's..." Louis trailed off and blushed.

"Charms?" Caro supplied.

"Yes. Her charms. He thought Lady Paul was wasted on Mr. Spark. Apparently he described all of his... intimate relations... with Lady Paul in a very unflattering way."

"He might not have known how to say anything pleasant," Caro mused. "He certainly never made the attempt in my presence."

Louise giggled.

Caro frowned. "For a family that seems perfect from the outside, the Sparks have more than their fair share of heartbreak and scandal brewing, don't they? Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Louise."

Louise bobbed in her chair. "Welcome, miss."

Caro frowned. "Have the other servants been unkind to you? Since... since Matthew's body was found?"

"It's just the way of things, miss."

Caro winced. "Not for long. I promise. Once I'm mistress here—"

"You really think...?" Louise couldn't even finish the sentence.

"I'm sure of it," Caro said fiercely.

Caro paced back and forth in front of the bed, thinking, while Louise picked up some stockings and began to darn a hole in the toe. The window in her room faced east, and the sun had passed into the western sky, but a clock promised several hours of daylight remained.

Caro returned to Irongate. Schooling her expression to be as meek and penitent as possible, she knocked on Daphne's door.

Daphne swung it open and blocked the threshold. "I didn't accept your apology."

"Can I come in?" Caro asked.

Daphne stepped aside. Caro took a few steps into Daphne's room, and then her jaw dropped. "Oh, Daphne," she marveled.

Caro had expected something light and feminine—décor in the style of Daphne's clothes—but the room reminded her more of Daphne's paintings, rich and surprising. Pale, winter-cool green walls, curtains the color of slightly dirtied snow, a simple, masculine bed carved in the Grecian style.

And for pride of place? A stunning painting of a woman in a yellow dress, holding a sword low in one hand. A maid crouched at her side, wrapping a—oh. A man's severed head, already green with rot, in a bundle of white cloth.

"What is this?" she wondered.

"Judith and Holofernes," Daphne answered. "A woman painted it."

"And you look at this before you go to sleep at night?"

"It's too dark by then," Daphne answered. "I look at it when I wake up, before I go paint."

Caro faced her friend. "Daphne, you astonish me. You have such talent. And if I ever gave you the impression—" She paused, frowned.

Don't look down.

She didn't. She looked straight at Daphne, big-boned and blond with eyes like little chips of summer sky, and saw the painter who made peacocks terrifying and slept across from a painting of a severed head. The feted debutante who'd trusted a misfit enough to turn down an Earl's offer of marriage.

"If I ever belittled you, it is because—" Caro hung her head, burning with sudden, acid shame. She wouldn't make excuses, or explain away her errors. "I was wrong to do so. I should have trusted you."

"You betrayed me."

Caro nodded.

"But you also protected me. And Adam." Daphne sat down on her bed, her skirts billowing around her. "What I don't understand is, none of this would have happened if you hadn't gone to meet Matthew. What were you thinking?"

"I thought Adam had sent for me," Caro admitted.

"You thought—" Daphne's eyes went wide. "But why?"

Caro shrugged. "I'd met him there before."

Daphne's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

"I told you our first meeting was memorable," said Caro. "You should have asked me why."

"I wanted you to meet him, you know." Daphne folded her hands in her lap. "I thought you'd suit."

Caro smiled sadly. They had. "Hastings will pay me handsomely to leave Adam. Should I take the bribe?"

"I don't know." Daphne waved her hands. "Ask Adam."

"I'm asking you."

"Oh." Daphne swung her legs, heels tapping on the wooden bed frame. "Then no. For Adam's sake, if I'm being honest. Hastings won't stop at getting rid of you. He'll pick some terrible woman for Adam to marry, and this house is already full of people I don't care for."

"Really?"

"I'm sure of it."

"I suppose I'd have to do the same," Caro mused. "Marry some terrible man."

The prospect didn't cheer her.

"Then it's settled."

"Not yet," Caro returned. "Is it possible that Matthew Spark switched the jewels in Lady Paul's jewelry for paste?"

"Matthew?"

"It's just a thought." She didn't want to explain how Louise's gossip dovetailed with the threats Matthew had made that night in the garden, about the people he knew in London. She didn't want Daphne to know how frightened she'd been.

"He did complain about money quite a bit," admitted Daphne.

"Matthew Spark? Complained about money?" Caro could hardly fathom it. "Why?"

"Well, Matthew got all of his money from Paul, and Paul gave most of what he didn't spend to Elizabeth."

"That's why he stole from her." It almost made sense, if one knew Matthew Spark at all. "As far as he was concerned, it was all his to begin with."

"But even if he did—what does it matter?"

"I'd hoped the jewel thief would be our murderer," said Caro. "Did you know his valet's disappeared?"

"Samson? No, I didn't! Oh! What if Samson's the thief, and he killed Matthew!" Daphne exclaimed.

Caro nodded thoughtfully. "It's possible."

"Do you want to go search his room?"

"Can we?"

"Of course." Daphne hopped up off the bed. "Wait here while I get the key from Boswell."

A few minutes later, key in hand, Daphne led Caro up to the servants' quarters to search Samson's room. The valet had had a room to himself, and he'd lived there long enough to give it a few personal touches. A faded quilt lay over the narrow bed, and a small nightstand to the side was stacked with books, its interior cabinet filled with daily necessities like shoe polish and a lint brush.

Daphne searched the bedding and mattress while Caro went through the wardrobe. It was a carved oak piece that must have started its life downstairs, in the public rooms. The huge crack in the door explained why it had been moved, and the valet had tacked over the scar with, of all things, a racy Hogarth engraving.

Samson kept his clothes with care. The interior of the wardrobe smelled of cedar. All the clothes were neatly folded, except for a pair of stockings that had been doubled, and pressed into use as a purse.

"Daphne," Caro called, pouring a stream of gold coins from the stocking.

"What?" Daphne dropped the pillow she'd been unstuffing and turned to look over Caro's shoulder. "Oh, gracious."

"This must be hundreds of pounds," Caro said.

"But how?"

"I don't know. But we should tell someone."

"Not Hastings," Daphne replied instantly.

"Hastings," Caro confirmed.

As it happened, Milgrom and Sir Walter were with the Duke when they requested an audience. Caro and Daphne reported their discovery—and handed over the refilled stocking—to all three men at once.

"There goes our best theory," sighed Milgrom, hefting the coins. "If Samson is our culprit, he wouldn't have left this behind when he fled."

"With blood on his hands...?" Sir Walter suggested. "I hate to be indelicate in front of the ladies, but he would have been a grisly sight. With dawn around the corner, he might have found it necessary to sacrifice his savings to avoid apprehension."

"I won't rule him out," agreed Milgrom.

"Thank you, Daphne. Miss Small." Hastings's tone invited them to leave. "As you can see, this is no fit subject for your interest. It's best if you leave the investigating to more capable hands."

They filed out of the silver salon. Caro breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind them—every encounter with Hastings felt dangerous, every departure a deliverance.

"I hate him," muttered Daphne.

Caro laughed.

"I do!"

Caro bumped her in the side. "What are you going to do about it?"

Daphne sighed. "Nothing."

"Marry," Caro suggested.

"Marry," she agreed. "Leave you here to deal with Hastings. You deserve it."

"Nobody deserves him," Caro returned.

"No," Daphne agreed. "But you know who can't escape his influence?"

"Adam," Caro answered, grimly. "I should find him."

"I'll see you at supper, then." Daphne enveloped Caro in a hug. "Thank you for coming to see me, and for apologizing."

Caro rose up on tiptoes to return the embrace. "I'm so glad to have you as a friend."

"Sentiment? From you?" Daphne let go to wipe her eye. "I can hardly believe it."

Caro's lips quirked. "It happens to the best of us."

Caro found Adam in his office. His secretary scuttled away while Caro looked around; the room was cluttered and masculine, with huge maps of the railroad spur that would stretch from Eastbourne north to the London—Dover line tacked to the wall.

"I'm busy," said Adam. He didn't even look up from his desk, which was scattered with papers.

"I have news," said Caro, advancing a few steps. "Harris has woken. He'll make a full recovery."

"Oh, God." He sagged with relief, covering his eyes. "Oh, God."

She took a seat next to him, reached out to touch his arm. "You must feel like a terrible burden has been lifted."

"If he had died—" Adam coughed, the sound ragged. "Caro, I'd like to be alone."

"Of course." Caro hopped to her feet. "It's just, now that he's awake, you should avoid the Dower House. Mr. Harris doesn't remember his fight with you. But if you were to meet..."

"He might realize—" Adam nodded, still shielding the upper half of his face in his hands. "I understand."

"Good." Caro hesitated. "I could stay. If you'd like the company."

Adam rubbed at his face, met her eyes for the first time. His glittered with the moisture he'd tried to hide. "To comfort me, you mean?"

"Yes," Caro whispered.

"I don't want your comfort," he enunciated. "It's not free, is it? It's just the sharp end of a hook."

"Yes." Caro pressed her palm flat to her chest. Her skin felt cool to the touch. Unmoved. But she could feel the hook there, sunk deep where her blood ran hot.

To bind is to pierce.

Adam buried his head in his hands. "I can't even look at you."

Caro reached out to stroke his head. "You don't have to," she whispered, threading her fingers through the short, silky locks, the tips tickling her palm.

The muscles in his neck and back tensed. Bracing himself. He'd ask her to leave soon, but until then she kept stroking his hair. That extra second or two, it was all she needed. It was everything.

She'd won him over once. She could do it again. She'd start from scratch.

It didn't have to be easy. It just had to be possible.

"I told you to go," he said.

Caro backed up to the door, gripped the knob in both hands. She took one last look at Adam, with her whole heart open: he looked tired, unhappy. If only he would let her hold him.

But he wouldn't.

Not yet, anyhow.

## Chapter Twenty-Two

Adam caught himself rubbing the phantom ache in his chest and shook his hand loose, dropping both arms to his sides as he traversed the hallway. She deserved it. Everything he'd said and more.

So why did he feel like such a bastard?

He abandoned his office and changed into a fresh set of flannels. He needed to focus on the problem he could solve. If Matthew had been selling Elizabeth's jewels locally, somebody at the arena would know about it.

His course set, Adam jogged through the corridors to warm himself up. Purple twilight spilled into the gold and white ballroom as he strode across the glossy parquet floor. A chill wind rushed in as he opened the door, setting the crystal drops in the chandeliers to tinkling. Beyond, the trimmed hedges of the French garden looked like charcoal drawings filled in with a heavy hand, dense and black.

"Lord Bexley." His name echoed in the vast space. "Could I borrow you for a moment?"

Adam paused at the threshold to the garden and turned to find Sir Walter standing on the other side of the huge gallery. Light pouring in from the corridor cast the squire in shadow, his silhouette framed by a pair of massive double doors.

"Of course, Sir Walter." Adam waited for the squire to join him rather than retracing his steps.

Sir Walter's heels clicked on the wood as he closed the distance. He seemed fretful, nervously fingering the fob on his watch.

"What's on your mind?" Adam asked.

"I've made an alarming discovery." Sir Walter snorted a deep, phlegmy breath into his lungs before continuing. "I've devoted every spare minute to the search for Mr. Spark's killer, may he rest in peace. Such a... refreshing young man, so witty and... modern."

"Thank you for remembering Matthew fondly." Adam tamped down his impatience. "And for giving so generously of your time."

"I beg leave to be frank, my lord. I dislike indelicate speech, but in this case, though I have searched, I see no alternative."

"My cousin is dead, Sir Walter. This is no time to let courtesy still your tongue. What have you discovered?"

"Thank you. A credit to your lineage, I always say. Rumors circulating in... certain quarters... have given me reason to fear that, should you be charged with murder—"

"That's not going to happen," Adam interrupted.

"But should the case go to trial—"

Which it won't. His father would never allow it. But Adam didn't say so. Sir Walter wouldn't leave him alone until he'd said whatever was on his mind, and Adam was anxious to visit the arena.

"—I am concerned that Miss Small may not have the good character necessary to serve as a witness in your defense."

Adam hardened his tone. "Is that so?"

Sir Walter hooked one finger inside his collar and pulled his shirt and cravat away from his neck, revealing a ring of pale flesh below leathery skin browned by exposure to the sun. He slid his finger forward and back, letting cool air inside his shirt. "Lord Paul tells me that the young lady was seen alone in your gardens at night with Mr. Spark."

"I'd think carefully before you make any accusations, Sir Walter." Adam rolled his shoulders. "Miss Small is under my protection."

"Of course, of course." Sir Walter cringed, the deep wrinkles on his face and neck folding in like a sea anemone retreating from a poking finger. "I am wholly on your side, Lord Bexley. Lord Paul is an old friend, but as a Justice of the Peace I must concern myself with the truth. Please know that I will do everything in my power to make sure that these foul rumors extend no further than they already have."

"I'm glad to hear it," Adam said, which sounded pleasant and final to him. Yet Sir Walter made no move to retreat. Adam frowned.

"Perhaps..." Sir Walter released his abused collar and folded his hands at his waist, dropping his voice to a thin wheeze he probably thought was sly. "Perhaps you will do me a favor in return?"

At last. "Name your request, Sir Walter."

Sir Walter wrung his fingers together. He stank of sweat. "I'm worried about the railroad spur to Eastbourne, Lord Bexley. We must abort construction."

Cold fury oozed through Adam's chest. His breathing slowed, and his vision seemed to sharpen. "We've spent the past eight months planning the spur, during which time you were enthusiastic about our partnership. Why the sudden change of heart?"

"I've had my doubts for some time." Sir Walter drew in another wet, snorting breath. "His Grace has kindly offered me the benefit of his guidance and, just as your uncle said, the Duke believes the spur is a doomed project. Please see reason, Lord Bexley."

So his father had stepped in to counsel Sir Walter against the investment. Of course. He'd been trying to convince Adam to abandon the project from the very beginning. Naturally, since Adam had chosen to ignore the advice, his father had sought a more receptive ear.

As he had every right to do. Adam knew better than to expect his father to take his feelings into account. The fact remained that Sir Walter had signed a contract. Signed contracts couldn't be broken without severe legal consequences, should Adam choose to invoke them.

Which he would.

Adam bared his teeth. "And if I don't agree?"

"Don't take this as a threat, Lord Bexley." Sir Walter huddled tight, tugging at his sleeves and shifting his weight in a way that told Adam he was making an effort not to retreat.

The predator in Adam, the part that he'd discovered while lying flat on his back in a boxing ring two nights ago, tasted Sir Walter's fear and relished the flavor. It wouldn't take much to send the man running away with his tail between his legs, pissing himself with terror.

"A threat?" Adam repeated, caressing the words with his voice. I'll show you a threat.

"No, no, no. Of course not! Of course I would never dare. Only, that is, I mean to say..." Sir Walter heaved in a breath, honking like a goose. "I am but a simple country squire. My authority only extends so far. I cannot make any guarantees about Miss Small's reputation. Surely you understand."

Why had Sir Walter decided to persist with his ultimatum when he clearly, clearly would rather beat a retreat?

Sir Walter was a very wealthy man. He'd inherited a comfortable income and married into an industrial family, taking a wife whose breeding didn't match his own but whose dowry far exceeded it. Sir Walter could afford a few risky investments—had a taste for them, in fact. Adam had approached the squire about the railroad, originally, because he'd been so impressed by the equanimity with which Sir Walter approached financial matters. Windfalls hadn't changed his bluff good nature, and he took losses in stride.

Whatever had changed Sir Walter's outlook, it wasn't a conversation with the Duke of Hastings.

In other circumstances, Adam would have offered Sir Walter a sympathetic ear. As it stood, the squire's cold feet threatened everything Adam held dear. They had yet to break ground on the line, but getting as far as they already had—buying land, paying bribes, hiring a crew of navvies—had consumed a substantial portion of Adam's savings.

"If rumors of Miss Small's indiscretion spread, I will hold you personally responsible." Adam smiled wolfishly and rolled onto the balls of his feet, using his size and proximity to silence the squire's blubbering. "I don't care if Paul rides up to London and shouts his accusations in the middle of Hyde Park. Whatever damage is done to her reputation will return to you tenfold."

"But Lord Bexley—"

"No. No explanations. No excuses. You should know better than to present me with an ultimatum, Sir Walter. I won't release you from our partnership. You signed a contract, and I'm holding you to it. A crew of navvies will break ground at the exchange in two weeks. If you haven't paid your share by then, I'll take you to court."

Sir Walter's jaw dropped. His tongue lolled out as he wheezed in shock. Adam nodded, satisfied, and brushed past the squire. He hurried out through the French gardens, jogging past hedges and stone pathways and low-lying pools, and told himself everything would be fine.

It was too late for Sir Walter to weasel away from the railroad project, too late for his father to step in and sabotage it.

After so many months of work, tying up the bulk of his capital in a single investment, he couldn't help but worry. His panic was a function of how much was at stake, not an omen. He'd discover the true source of Sir Walter's sudden reluctance, he'd find a way to fix it—and in the meanwhile he'd hold Sir Walter's feet to the fire with threats and intimidation.

The arena, when he arrived, seemed more crowded than usual. Not packed the way it had been for Ed Harris's appearance, but he counted more bodies than the gang of itinerant navvies could account for, obscured by thick clouds of smoke rolling off of the crackling bonfires.

Wet wood, he realized, gathered after last night's rain. The added noise and smoke would work in his favor. Adam flipped up the lapels of his coat and pulled his cap lower over his forehead in case the new arrivals were locals who might recognize him.

Nelson huddled into a dirt-crusted hollow that had once been a corridor separating ranks of stone benches, the proud beak of his nose shining with oil underneath a knit cap tugged down to his eyebrows. He stood with a much larger man, firelight catching on coins as they changed hands. Betting on the fights.

Adam tapped Nelson on the shoulder and glared at the larger man. Nelson secreted the coins into a pouch and waved the stranger away.

"Don't know as you should be here, Mumbles."

Adam mumbled questioningly.

"Laying Ed Harris low like you did. Toff up the way took him in but we ain't heard hide nor hair of him since. Not going to make you more popular here."

Adam resettled his cap lower on his head and nodded.

"So what do you want, then?" Nelson asked.

Adam dragged Daphne's amethyst necklace into the light and showed it to the smaller man.

"Didn't think as you were that type, Mumbles." Nelson scratched at the dark stubble on his neck, eyeing the purple gems. "Charlie Hinkel is the man you want. Owns a pawn shop in the village."

Adam clapped the little man on the shoulder by way of thanks. Nelson shuffled back to his betting while Adam wound his way toward the nearest exit. Not far off Big Tom stood in a knot of other men, notching his stubbled chin up to keep an eye on the ring. Recognition flickered in Big Tom's eyes, so Adam detoured around to greet his friend.

A blur of movement behind the big man caught his eye. A brawl. Not a match like the one going on in the ring, with two fighters and a set of rules. No. He'd arrived within arm's reach of the fight before he could count the bodies—four—and determine that three of them had ganged up on the fourth, kicking and punching while the victim did little more than guard his head and belly with his arms.

Adam pulled one of the three bullies from the fray and planted him a facer. Dizzy and disoriented, the man stood by clutching his head as Adam subdued the other two. Easy. Once he'd broken up the fight, Adam planted his feet in front of the victim and raised his fists, daring the spectators to pick on him instead.

A week ago, they might have. After his display in the ring two nights ago? Not a single volunteer.

"No need to get your back up, Mumbles," complained Big Tom. "Bloke had it coming."

Adam notched his chin up.

"Thinks he's better than us, doesn't he? Thinks he can put on airs because he used to wipe some toff's arse when he shat. Not a job I'd brag about."

A house servant, then. Someone who worked for the local gentry, which meant he'd almost certainly recognize Adam. Damn. The abused servant was tall, well-built, early twenties. A footman or manservant, possibly a valet. And, yes, he looked familiar. They'd crossed paths before.

Bad luck.

The poor fellow's eyes widened as recognition dawned and he put a name to Adam's face, mute lips opening and closing like a fish plucked from the water. He tried to unhook his arm from around Adam's shoulder, a flush creeping up through his cuts and scrapes.

"My—"

"Oi," Adam cut in, to keep the man from addressing him as 'my lord' and revealing Adam's true identity. Then he raised his eyebrows and tipped his head at the man.

The servant blinked owlishly. Adam couldn't blame him—minutes ago, three men had done their damnedest to rattle his brain-box. Just when Adam was wondering if he ought to give up and try again later the man said, "Roscoe. Reuben Roscoe."

Adam tossed Roscoe's arm over his shoulder, carrying most of his weight. Roscoe wobbled at Adam's side as he dragged the man toward the open country.

"Not so fast." Big Tom blocked his way, mouth hanging slack to display the gaps in his teeth, a great hulking fellow who stood more than half a foot taller than Adam and spent most of his days hauling steel and swinging a sledgehammer. Backbreaking labor that built muscles as thick and hard as the track he laid.

And backing him up? More of the same. The navvies had all signed on in London. They'd worked together for months, played together for months, bonded in a way that Adam couldn't share or—truth be told—fully understand.

In order to belong to an ad hoc family, a man had to first cut himself loose from his blood. Adam had never, could never do such a thing. But he knew without asking that if he raised a hand against Big Tom, he'd lose more than one friend. He'd set himself against all the navvies in one fell swoop.

Adam looked past Big Tom's shoulder at the raised boxing ring, floorboards rattling as two half-naked men grunted and sweated and punched one another, at the spectators urging the fighters on, most of them drunk. He shifted his gaze down to Roscoe, pummeled for showing too much pride in his work.

When had this become his life? What was he doing here? For the first time in months, Adam felt that he didn't belong at the arena. And for the first time ever, he didn't want to belong.

## Chapter Twenty-Three

This is not my fight.

He'd come to the arena to test himself, but this had never been his destination. Just a stop along the way.

Resettling Roscoe on his arm, Adam tried once more to circle around Big Tom. It didn't work. Big Tom hunched down like a bull preparing to charge, and shoved Adam. Roscoe stumbled, throwing them both off balance, which allowed one of the other navvies to hustle up and shove Adam again, back toward Big Tom this time. Adam dug his heels into the dirt, widened his stance, steadied Roscoe and explained to Big Tom, as best as his mumble and a few hand gestures would allow, that he'd prefer not to fight with a friend but he wouldn't stand by while three men ganged up against one.

"Where are you going with him?" Big Tom taunted. "Found a laddie with soft woman's hands and lily-white skin and you want him all to yourself?"

Adam set Roscoe aside, keeping a grip on the man's back until he could stand on his own two feet, then curled his hands into fists and raised them.

Big Tom roared and set to with a wide swing. Movement on the periphery of Adam's vision told him that Big Tom hadn't attacked alone. At least two of the spectators moved in as well.

If Adam didn't end the fight quickly, the odds could get worse. Much worse.

So Adam let his will evaporate into his skin, as he had when he fought Harris. He focused, his body humming with readiness, and made every hit count. This is not my fight echoed again in his mind as he beat his attackers back.

Tom bent into a fetal position after a brutal blow to the abdomen, spitting up bile. The other navvies gave up when he went down, leaving the way clear.

Adam hefted Roscoe against his side and hauled him into the darkness. Nobody tried to stop them.

"Thank you, my lord." Roscoe detached himself from Adam's support once they'd passed beyond the firelight. He still wasn't steady on his feet but Adam let the man be. Like most house servants, Roscoe wouldn't like the idea of leaning on—and bleeding all over—the local gentry, let alone a lord. "I'd have been in a bad way if you hadn't happened along."

In his own voice, Adam asked, "Do I know you?"

"I used to be a footman at the Dovecote."

Used to be? "Until?" Adam prompted.

Roscoe laughed without humor, a harsh little bark of sound. "Until two days ago, when Sir Walter fired his entire staff in one cut. Emptied out the house."

"Is that so?" Adam flashed on the memory of Sir Walter in the ballroom, twitchy with desperation.

"God's own truth, my lord. He's broke."

Adam found his handkerchief and extended the square of cloth toward Roscoe. "That's not possible."

Roscoe folded it into a square and dabbed blood from his face. "May not be possible, but it's true. We've been feeling it in the house for months now. Early spring, two of the maids left to get married and Sir Walter didn't hire any replacements. Then the squire cut our rations. No meat unless it was leavings from his table. No sugar."

Roscoe snorted, holding the handkerchief at arm's length and staring at the spots of blood on it. "You should have seen the way the upper servants fought about eggs. Distributed them on a strict rotation and heaven forbid one of the chickens didn't lay. But we really knew things were bad when the squire started treating himself to a few economies. Back in June. Sir Walter called in an engineer from London what tore up all the windows and doorways. Just a couple of weeks ago the squire sent him and his people back to the city before they'd pieced it all back together."

The heating pipes. If Roscoe was telling the truth, Sir Walter had reported on the installation's continuing progress at tea, more than a week after he'd sent the engineer and his workers away.

"Even so, I could hardly believe it when he sent us packing." Roscoe laughed bitterly and returned the handkerchief. The wind picked up, rustling the trees, and they both hunched away from the biting chill of it. "Not even a week's notice."

"I think we can help one another, Roscoe. If you can keep quiet about my presence here tonight, I can see to it that you find a new position."

Roscoe swallowed, his whole body sagging with sudden hope.

"Pay a visit to Irongate next week. Spread word to anyone else who lost their position when you did."

"Thank you, my lord." Roscoe bowed, heels snapping together and back stiff, conditioned by years of training, then groaned as he tried to stand again.

"Careful, Roscoe. And don't start any more fights. It's a rough crowd down here."

"Aye, and you showed 'em all didn't you?"

Adam glanced back at the arena. His victory felt hollow. This is not my fight, he thought again, seeing the ruddy fire's glow spilling over the stone bleachers. And then, with a cold prickle along his neck that he couldn't blame entirely on the wind: The real fight is about to begin.

They parted ways, Roscoe headed homeward while Adam trudged back to Irongate.

If Roscoe was to be believed, all of Adam's threats, blustering, and strong-arming were as useless as a ball gown in a boxing match. He couldn't finance the spur alone, and he wouldn't be able to find a new partner in time to deter other investors who saw the potential of a regional branch.

His railroad was over. The money he'd already sunk in the project was gone.

He hadn't been so vulnerable since Lily's disappearance. What's more, he'd enjoyed his invulnerability. He'd been aware of it. The change had been forced on him, but in the end he'd razed his old life to the ground and salted the earth. He'd built up his muscles like a suit of armor he could never take off and all the while he'd made sure that he didn't have anything to fight for.

He'd been a coward.

This is the real battle. This is what I've been training for.

Over the last few days, he'd been used, manipulated, threatened. Framed for murder. He must seem like an easy mark to someone—but he'd stepped into the ring and knocked the Champion of England flat on his back. How had he done that? He'd stopped holding back. He'd committed to the fight and to winning at any cost.

He'd turned mean.

Forget about Mumbles. It was time for Lord Bexley to step up to the chalk line.

The black bulk of Irongate loomed ahead, solid and reassuring, just like it had hundreds of times before. But Adam felt expectant and disappointed, as though he'd forgotten something.

He scratched at that thought for a minute before realizing that he'd hoped to see Caro along the way. Not just expected to—hoped to. He wanted her to pop out from behind a tree and make him forget his troubles.

But that wasn't really her, was it? Her charm had been a lure, an act put on by a talented mercenary.

And yet he turned away from Irongate and let his feet lead him to the Dower House just the same. I did, she'd said. You are. And he'd wanted to believe her all over again.

Caro danced in the front salon, illuminated by half-a-dozen lamps. Adam halted in the shadows and watched.

She'd already reached the end of her routine, that advance-and-retreat dance that had so captivated him when he saw it in the boxing studio. The sylph's dance, she'd called it, but something had changed since the last time he'd seen her perform. Something drastic.

Before, he'd been amazed by the way she made every move, no matter how difficult, look effortless. Tonight her performance was crisp but hard, too labored to be beautiful. She leapt but never floated. She walked on tiptoe, straightened her leg and raised it so high the heel cleared the top of her head, but she didn't dance.

The routine ended suddenly, discordantly. Caro bent at the waist and braced her hands on her thighs. Her chest doubled in width with each deep breath. Sweat dropped from her sharp little chin. Angry pink color burned in her cheeks and throat. All signs of deep exhaustion.

Adam glanced up at the sky, tracked the progress of the moon. How long had she been at it?

Caro stood again and plucked a towel from a waiting pile, folded in a neat stack on a nearby table. She leaned all of her weight on one leg as she raised the cloth to her face and let the other bend, crooked at the knee with just her big toe touching the ground. The loose leg trembled, muscles spasming beyond her control.

She put the towel down, firmed her drooping shoulders and pulled her spine straight before walking with deliberate grace back to the center of the room. A tic in her eye betrayed what her body did not—she was far too tired to continue.

She began her dance from the beginning.

Adam's heart twisted. Had he done this to her? Had he broken her bright spirit and left her earthbound?

Adam shook himself out of his trance as an unfamiliar hulking male figure appeared in the doorway leading to the rear of the house. What the hell? The shock dissipated as Adam recognized Ed Harris. Harris's mouth moved and Caro stopped her dancing to listen.

Her head drooped. Tendrils of dark hair lay pasted to her neck, the heavy mass of it too damp to shift with her movement. Her shoulders sagged a little, but she retrieved the towel and followed Harris out of the room.

Adam circled around the perimeter in time to see Caro tuck Harris into bed through the back windows. She could hardly hold herself up, but waited patiently while the big man lowered himself into his cot before folding the sheets around his shoulders. The champion's grizzled features softened as she worked, the inevitable effect of her teasing and cajoling.

Whatever demons had haunted her dancing, she packed them away for Harris and sat patiently at his bedside until he fell asleep. Adam's heart broke all over again. He hadn't believed her capable of such tenderness, and he liked himself less for having underestimated her.

Caro stood. Adam skirted the house, following her progress back into the front salon. This time she approached the window and looked out into the darkness toward Irongate. Even though the bright lamps in the salon would blind her to anything more than a few feet beyond the glass, for a moment he was sure she'd spotted him.

But, no, she'd never allow anyone to see the haunted expression that stole over her delicate features. She looked like a lost girl, a waif. Little and hungry.

It didn't make him feel any better.

Shouldn't he be delighted? At least satisfied. She'd discovered what it was like to struggle. The gloss that made all her vile tricks seem so charming had been stripped away, and now the strain showed.

But all he wanted to do was reach out to her. Hold her.

Adam knocked at the door. She opened it almost immediately, light from the front salon spilling over the sharp curve of her left cheekbone and the slope of her neck, illuminating the dark patches at her armpits and between her breasts. She smelled of clean sweat and something floral—rosewater sprinkled onto the towel she'd dried herself with?

"You shouldn't be here." She spoke in a whispery, thick-filtered version of her always breathy voice, infused with the sound of leaves scraping against brick, night-born and unnerving.

"Everything has gone wrong." The words tumbled out. "I am worried, and I am exhausted, and... Caro, please. Let me in."

She stood with her arms spread, one braced on the door and the other on the lintel, the two together pointing like an arrow toward her pert breasts. She leaned into the door—opening it, or actually... sagging into it, stumbling as it swung out of her grip.

Cursing himself, Adam lunged forward and scooped her up, hooking one arm under her knees and the other around her back.

Syrupy light from the front salon caught on her fluttering lashes, cast a dramatic spiderweb of shadows across her cheeks. "I can walk."

"And I can carry you," he murmured close to her ear, jogging her in his arms as he stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

## Chapter Twenty-Four

Caro cuddled into Adam's chest, resting her head in the cradle between his shoulder and the swell of his pectoral muscles. The carded wool, infused with the night's chill, felt cool against her ear and cheek but warmed quickly. Very quickly. Adam had come from a set-to—how else could he produce so much heat?

"You've been fighting," she murmured.

He grunted.

Caro sighed. She ought to take advantage of this opportunity. He'd come to her, and she could use that. He'd opened a way back into his good graces.

But she didn't have the energy. Not even close to it. She'd pushed herself to the point of exhaustion, and then past it.

"This is nice," she murmured, as he mounted the stairs. For once, she didn't mind being so small and light. "You should carry me everywhere. Breakfast. Supper. On long rambles through the countryside."

He huffed with laughter, pulling her knees in tighter and sliding his supporting arm higher up her back so that he could maneuver her through the doorway to her bedroom without dropping her.

"I'm serious," she insisted, as he kicked the door shut.

"I believe it." The rumble of his voice tickled her ear. It was so pleasant she almost forgot to listen for the words. He carried her to the nearest armchair and sat down, arranging her in his lap. "We'll just sit here for a minute."

"Mmm," she acknowledged, limp and peaceful. "What happened?"

"Sir Walter," Adam answered. "He's penniless."

"I thought he was quite wealthy?"

"He was. He's lost everything."

Caro let this new information settle in her mind. "The railroad?"

"Exactly. Sir Walter's financial troubles spell disaster for the whole project." Adam smoothed his palm over her hair, half petting her and half restraining her. "I need freedom from my father's influence, and I saw two ways to achieve it: a wealthy wife, or a profitable investment. Now I'm engaged to a pauper and I've lost half my savings."

"Oh, Adam." She curled her fingers into the wool. "I'm so sorry."

"I have a small estate. Some income. Not what you'd hoped for." He laughed shortly. "Not what I'd hoped for, either."

Caro shrugged. "I think it sounds wonderful."

"You mean that."

"Mmm."

"Caro." He jostled her. "Say that again. Look at me."

Bracing her palms against Adam's broad chest, Caro reared back so she could gauge his expression: intent, chagrined. "A small estate, a limited income," she repeated. "Sounds wonderful to me."

He captured her lips with his, sealing them together as though to bind her to a promise she'd just made. The kiss woke her, and she stretched into it, almost purring as Adam cradled her closer.

"It's all I'd hoped for." Caro smiled, a little puzzled. "I'm accustomed to worse. You must know that."

"But to hear you say it..." He sighed. "It's so easy to believe you, when you're in front of me."

"And when I'm not?"

He dragged his thumb across her cheek, his finger skipping on her sweat-sticky skin. Pressed a divot into her lower lip, his finger sharp with salt on her tongue.

"I've kept your from your bath."

Caro's eyes fluttered open, half-focused and dreamy. "What?"

"Go on." He nudged her to her feet, untied the laces to her corset and tugged them loose. Then he pushed her, gently, toward the low copper tub by the fire. It was half-full, with two buckets of water still steaming in the blazing hearth. "Before the water gets cold."

Caro backed up to the tub and toed the water. She stood awkwardly, her arms crossed in front of her, the heat of the fire at her back cool in comparison to the warmth in her cheeks. She began to push her bodice down over her hips, but the intent look on Adam's face gave her pause.

He wasn't worried about her hygiene.

And that made it easy. A performance, a display. Something she could relax into, play with.

Caro let her bodice slip to the floor and stepped out of it. She loosened her pantalets and let them drop. One by one, she propped her feet atop of the small stool by the tub to unclip her garters and roll the stockings off her feet. She kept her movements slow and graceful, focusing on the shape and symmetry of her arms as she moved, the lines of her silhouette.

Adam's breaths coarsened, sped.

Instead of removing her last item of clothing, her chemise, Caro poured the two buckets of hot water into the copper hip bath. She picked up a cake of soap and dunked her hand in the warm water. Propping one of her feet on the stool again, Caro tugged her chemise above her knee and stroked her soapy palm up her calf, caressing it. From the corner of her eye she saw Adam lean forward in his chair, his eyes hot, hands dangling limp between his knees.

Yes.

Caro saturated the sponge and squeezed it over her bare skin. Water sloshed and trickled, loud in the hushed silence. She rinsed the suds from her lower leg with slow squeezes of the sponge, hearing a count of four: dunk, lift, squeeze and two, dunk. She switched feet and repeated the process, hearing Adam's breathing hoarsen.

Her own body tightened in her response, her belly clenching low. She stood in profile and dribbled water like rain over her arms, then across her breasts. The droplets soaked the thin linen of her chemise and pasted it to her skin, the cloth so fine that her skin shone golden through the wet patches, as if she wore nothing but a transparent veil.

Caro did a pirouette. Slowly, an inch at a time. From the corner of her eye she saw Adam tense, his muscles rigid and bulky, popping with strain. She remembered how he'd reacted in the boxing studio when she did her sylph's dance and fresh energy coursed through her.

And then something unexpected happened. The water dance she'd imagined when she and Daphne tried to picnic in the orangery days ago seeped into the familiar steps of La Sylphide, transformed them.

She rolled her shoulders to mimic the waves advancing toward the shore, and spread her arms as though to graze her fingertips through the water she imagined roiling around her, waist-high. She swayed her hips as though rocked by a current, tipped her head back and tugged loose the pins that held it in place, freeing the great mass of it to hang and flutter at her back like a sail.

While Adam swallowed, throat working, she grabbed hold of her foot, curled her fingers around her instep and pushed into her hand. She straightened her leg out, her heel high above her head, her chemise rucking up around her waist.

Adam made a choking noise, his intent gaze fixed on the secret part of her that she'd revealed with her pose, folds of rosy flesh exposed to the air. He reached for her, but she rolled out of his reach, smooth as a ship upon glassy water, smiling as his hands clenched the empty air. Gliding back to the bath she bared her thighs and slicked the sponge inside her knee, let little drops of water glide down, followed the motion with her soap-slicked fingers and traced up, up, her eyes on him. On his heat, that turned her to steam. On his frustration, that filled her with power.

His hand twitched. Reached toward his groin. Caro stepped inside the shallow water and faced away from Adam then slowly, slowly pulled the chemise off and tossed it aside. Behind her, Adam groaned, low and greedy. Caro dropped down to a crouch, knees together, and sponged water over her shoulders. Over her nape. Slow trickles. She closed her eyes and imagined the waves withdrawing from the shore, the fingers of water as they retreated.

"God, yes," whispered Adam, behind her. "You are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on."

Caro turned and sank to her knees in the tub. The hot metal burned her knees as the water level rose about halfway up her thighs, the moving surface teasing at her sex and over her buttocks. Adam had undone his trousers and he fisted his erection, stroking himself as she massaged soap onto her breasts and rinsed it away, following her every movement.

"Come here," he said, his voice scraped raw with need. "Stand up and come to me. You want control? Take it. Holy Mother of God, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you like this. I have to touch you. Please, Caro..."

Caro stood. She discarded the soap and the sponge, left wet footprints behind her as she advanced again. As soon as she'd come within arm's reach, Adam grabbed her by the waist and lifted her onto him. He settled her with her legs spread outside his, his knees wide enough to serve as a seat for her, the core of her slick and wet against his hardness.

"Christ," he whispered, his hands shaking as Caro reached between them and curled her fingers around the male part of him. She stroked the soft skin, thin velvet wrapped around the hardest muscle she'd felt on his magnificently hard and muscular body, teasing despite—no, because she saw what a torment restraint had become for him. "Have mercy."

Like music to her ears. New music, a kind she'd never heard before, and it made her bold.

She positioned the wide flaring head of him at her entrance and sank onto the crown until she felt the pinch and stretch of penetration. His hips twitched but she whispered, "Don't move," and Adam froze as though he'd been commanded at gunpoint.

She lowered herself slowly, still feeling her way into the thing. Adam grunted and jerked but her awareness of the outside world faded with every inch of him she took. It boggled her mind that anything so simple could bring her such pleasure. Touching, rubbing two body parts together shouldn't overwhelm the senses. Shouldn't stuff her brain full of cotton wool, turning all her wants and needs, every thrum and thud in her body to a single purpose that, just a week ago, had been a matter of complete indifference to her.

But at that moment, she didn't think badly of Adam for begging—she admired his restraint. She couldn't have controlled herself as well, wouldn't have known how to begin.

She clapped her palms over Adam's eyes so he wouldn't be able to read thoughts too primitive and strange to share, but the sight of his half-covered face drove her wild. His willing blindness seemed like a kind of permission, license to do whatever she pleased.

So she danced. It was the same as a dance—finding the rhythm and letting it take over her body. Just as once she'd let the spirit of the sylph move through her, washing away her humanity, she became a vessel of pure emotion.

It was so easy. As though their movements had been choreographed in advance, practiced, rehearsed. He palmed her breasts and made her moan. She bore down on him with short little thrusts that made him grunt and long, deliberate strokes that showed in his hollowing cheeks and bated breath.

She could drive him to agony with a flick of her hips. She could offer him satisfaction with another. She saw the crisis coming, saw him reaching for a peak above which she could only feel thin air, and she thought she might play a game. Demand an intermission, make him wait.

Raising herself up on her arms until the connection between them broke, Caro flung herself backward, away from the armchair. Drunk on sensation as she was, she'd forgotten how the long hours of practice below stairs had drained her, forgot her rubbery muscles and legs that didn't want to hold her upright—until she stumbled as she landed, squealing and laughing and tottering wildly to regain her balance.

Adam lunged for her, grabbing her by both arms and holding her steady. A kind gesture, a helpful one, and yet all of a sudden Caro found herself naked and held immobile, almost dangling from his iron grip. He loomed over her, nostrils flared and lips slightly parted, so much stronger, so much more powerful than she.

She had never really been in control. She had only played at it, at his whim, and now he was done with the game.

She laughed, oddly lightheaded, and cupped his cheek in her hand. "What now?"

"Lie down." He pressed her backward, onto the bed.

Caro let him move her, let him spread her legs, but jolted with surprise when he lowered his head and licked at her, his tongue flared wide and velvety hot. Wet.

She twisted in his grip but without the rhythm and control she'd commanded only seconds ago. She squirmed but he held her down, gentle but firm.

He worked her gently, patiently, making colors flash in front of her eyes, giving her pleasure so pure it made her teeth ache, so pure she had to ease away from it, to squirm and cry out.

"Together," he said suddenly, rising up and spearing her deep. It was like being kicked into a kaleidoscope. Shocking. The sort of shock that paralyses rather than surprises, and at first Caro did nothing but pant mindlessly. He kept one hand between them, twanging the center of nerves where he'd been sucking, as he covered her. "It's not you or me. It's us. Together."

She didn't understand, so maddened by sensation—so maddened with frustration—that it wasn't until the crisis was upon her and she saw her own emotions reflected perfectly in his face that she realized what he'd meant, what he'd done.

## Chapter Twenty-Five

Adam let the door to the Dower House fall shut at his back and squinted into the predawn light. The far end of the reflecting pool reflected the lemonade-pale light riming the eastern horizon, the water at his feet dark and fathomless as the deep blue sky overhead. Birds chattered from hidden bowers, loud in the still air.

Caro still slept, her pillowy lips slack, hair loose and tousled. Sleep left her quiet and vulnerable in a way it almost hurt him to witness. Ed Harris snored in his cot, Mick wrapped in a blanket on the sofa nearby.

Adam took a deep breath and launched himself forward, toward the periphery of the property. He'd make a loop. Soon enough, he wouldn't be able to take his morning runs outside anymore. He'd miss that—not least because autumn was his favorite time to be out of doors. The vibrant hues of summer dimmed and relaxed, the weather cooled.

An old parable matched the four seasons to the stages of a human life and represented autumn as a vigorous middle age gracefully fading into senescence. If the parallel held true, Adam expected the autumn of his life to be his favorite time, too, lived with the confidence and welcoming ease that the earth radiated on a day like this one.

But then, it was hard to think of fading into winter when, inside, he felt like spring. Full of hope and vitality, though he'd never confronted so many problems at once, and never any so severe. He'd stood by Lily's side while she manufactured crisis after crisis—as blurry and rosy-hued as his memories of his sister had become, he hadn't forgotten that much.

Now it was his turn. His mistakes. His damage to repair. Yet he felt ready, both energized and pleasantly drained, ready to fight, confident of victory. Maybe he was drunk on sexual afterglow, but if so, he didn't mind. He didn't mind at all.

Even when he saw Alfie skulking amongst the fallen leaves, carrying his coat in one hand and otherwise soaked to the skin. His linen shirt clung transparently to his lean, marble-pale torso; his dark hair lay in flat, dripping spikes over his brow.

Adam called on his reserves and ran faster. Alfie cocked his head and then looked over. Their eyes met; Alfie threw up his arms as Adam dug his heels into the dirt, skidding to a halt and blocking Alfie's path. "What the hell are you doing on this side of the property line?"

Alfie skimmed Adam with an insolent, assessing gaze. "Same thing you've been doing, by the looks of it," he drawled. "Out in wrinkled clothes, bags under your eyes. It's been a long time, old chum."

Adam advanced on his former friend. "I don't recall inviting any observations."

"And that swagger." Alfie's lips twisted. "Proud as a cock in a henhouse."

Adam cracked his knuckles. "I hear you talking, but you ought to be running."

"Must be the little fortune hunter. A tasty morsel, I grant you, but you can find the same on any street-corner, or better yet—"

"I know your tricks, Alfie." Adam advanced on him. "You won't distract me. What were you doing at Irongate?"

"Don't like the truth, do you?" Alfie backed away. "Here's another little gem: whatever the itch in your cock is telling you, one woman's body is much like another. You can vary the preliminaries, but fucking is fucking."

Adam punched him in the mouth.

Alfie reeled away, the whites of his eyes showing all the way around. He spat out a mouthful of blood and offered a few slow, insolent claps. "Come to show me what you've learned? Very special. Well done."

"Answer the question. What were you doing at Irongate?"

Alfie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't think I will. Let's be honest, Adam. If you couldn't shoot at me after I slept with your sister, you're not going to hurt me now."

Adam launched himself at Alfie. His momentum carried them both to the ground where they rolled in the loam, cold and wet, leaves crunching in his ears even as the birds fell silent. Adam sought soft tender places with his fists, spleen and kidney, rib and neck.

Alfie flinched and cringed. He shielded his face with his arms, blinding himself, and tried to twist away from Adam's assault. He coughed when Adam punched him in the gut, and swore when Adam drove his knee into the small of his back, but he did not fight back.

Finally, Adam grabbed him by the shoulders and shook hard. "Fight or concede, damn it."

"Fuck you," spat Alfie.

And Adam, crouched on all fours and breathing hard, couldn't go on. He didn't want to stand up a few minutes from now with a dead man's blood on his hands. He'd had a taste of that, with Ed Harris, and it had sickened him.

And another when he'd seen Matthew's battered and bloodless corpse, abandoned by the gates. He had loathed Matthew. He couldn't bring himself to mourn. But Matthew had deserved better. Even Matthew.

Adam rolled to the side. He propped his forearms on his knees, breathing heavily. "You're a bottom-feeding coward," he snarled. "You prey on the weak. Run from the strong. You're a disgrace."

"And you're a good-for-nothing windbag." Alfie leaned on his hand and pushed, levering himself back onto his feet. He stooped, one hand on his ribs, and slapped weakly at the dirt and leaves on his wet shirt. "Always falling short at the last. Always making excuses."

"Leave," said Adam, suddenly weary. "And don't come back."

Alfie hissed with pain as he bent to pick up his coat and managed a brief, hacking laugh. "Or what?"

Adam met his former friend's eyes, pale and angry. He didn't reply.

Alfie flashed his unpleasant smile. "That's what I thought."

Adam watched Alfie disappear into the woods in the direction of Stag Run, his good mood gone. Something rank tickled his nose; himself, he realized. He'd dragged himself from the arena into Caro's bed, sealed the grime to his skin with sweat from their lovemaking, and then crawled under the covers to stew in the resulting miasma—only to dress, this morning, in soiled flannels and set about working up a new sweat to season the old.

He smelled like a meat cellar.

Feet pounding the earth again, Adam tried to clear his mind. Too many odd occurrences clustered together: Alfie's trespass, Matthew's death, Elizabeth's jewels, Sir Walter's impoverishment. He could hardly figure out where he stood, who was friend or foe, let alone how to work his way clear of the difficulties.

No wonder he turned to boxing, where opponents were placed on opposite sides of a clear line, obeyed a mutually agreed-upon set of rules and fought to a clear and decisive conclusion. Only a fantasist would imagine that the hard battles, the ones that kinked and shattered the straight course of a man's life, could ever be so simple.

Back at the main house, Adam had his secretary pass word of Hinkel's involvement on to his father, then bathed and dressed. He wasn't surprised, later that afternoon, to receive a ducal summons. Only the location was unusual: the footman directed Adam to the music room, one of Irongate's lesser reception halls.

The music room didn't see much use these days but Adam had played in it often as a child. Lily had loved to devise games that made use of the second-story balcony, the alcove behind big enough to fit a chamber orchestra or string quartet. The balcony overlooked a small stage, perfect for amateur theatricals or games of charades, and the two were connected by a delicate spiral staircase of gold-painted wrought iron. Crimson drapes hung from the ceiling, framing the stage.

Hastings leaned on his cane, staring with apparent fascination at the piano. Adam rarely saw his father in a state of idleness, and the picture disconcerted him.

Tall, narrow windows hung with gauzy pale curtains let in the afternoon light, each pane reflected at a slant on the polished wooden floorboards. Instruments filled the space; a harp here, a viola there, tuned and ready to be pressed into use. Lyres and masks, tambourines and diadems hung by pegs on the wall.

"Milgrom sent his assistant with Hinkel's account books," began his father without preamble. "Hinkel's numbers correspond exactly with the deposits that Matthew recorded in his own ledgers—minus the portion that went to Samson, his valet."

"And?"

"Milgrom will question him further, but he found Hinkel forthcoming enough. Hinkel has connections with a consortium in London who can supply the enormous sums of ready cash Matthew demanded in exchange for the jewels, and he took a ten percent cut from every transaction. They enjoyed an amicable, profitable working relationship. Truth be told, Matthew's thievery makes Hinkel one of the few people to truly mourn Matthew's passing."

Adam strolled over to the piano, positioning himself on the opposite side of the instrument from his father. He depressed a few keys, releasing low, mellow notes. "Did Milgrom find anything that will actually help clear me of suspicion?"

"Hinkel rarely met Matthew. He did business with Samson, who still hasn't turned up." His father tapped out a quick trill. "Samson visited Hinkel on the day of Matthew's death. He sold two large diamonds, and left with a tidy sum. So if he killed Matthew, we can now be sure he had both sufficient time and money to reach France."

"Wonderful," Adam muttered. "He's escaped justice."

"If he is our culprit," cautioned his father. "I am not convinced, and neither is Milgrom. Samson repeated to Hinkel what Matthew originally told Paul: that he'd stopped by while en route to the Dovecote."

"And perhaps Sir Walter hasn't been honest when he insists that Matthew never arrived," Adam finished, easily following his father's logic. "I'd always thought Sir Walter a good, honest man, but recent events present him in a different light entirely."

And, really, he should have learned his lesson by now. People only seemed simple and good from afar. Up close, inside, almost everyone was a beast. "Sir Walter is in dire financial straits."

"Is that so?" Pleasure brightened the cold citrine of his father's eyes. "You must be worried about your railroad."

"There's nothing to worry about," Adam admitted. "It's finished."

He braced for a bit of gloating. His father enjoyed winning, and he didn't have the grace to hide it.

Instead, the Duke paced away from the piano and clasped his hands at the small of his back. Adam followed his father's gaze to the empty balcony.

"I could change that," his father said.

Adam froze. The hairs at the back of his neck stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"I don't like the railroad," said Hastings. "But I much prefer it to Miss Small. If you'll call off this unsuitable marriage, I'll open the coffers to you. You could finance the spur that you've been dreaming about and half a dozen others besides. Whatever absurd investment you care to name—follow your fancy, you'll have my permission to raid the treasury."

"Just to get rid of Miss Small?"

"Easier to restore our finances to good standing than our reputation," answered his father. "No good will ever come of grafting Miss Small's bloodlines into ours."

He wasn't even tempted. The whole exchange felt like a trap—and, Christ, he'd had enough of being lured and baited.

"I want nothing to do with your bargains," he said. "I choose Miss Small."

"You choose her." Hastings twisted the cane in his hand. "You'd abandon your responsibilities to the family—to your legacy—for the sake of a woman? I thought I'd taught you better."

"I'm not abandoning anything. You're casting me out." Adam paused, then added, "I'll inherit eventually. I can wait."

For some reason, his father kept staring up at the balcony. So did Adam. What the devil was he looking at?

"What about Daphne? I thought you'd grown close to the girl."

"She's old enough to fight her own battles."

His father extracted a letter from a pocket hidden inside his jacket. Adam couldn't make out much beyond the fact that it had been written in a light, feminine hand.

"Did you know that Miss Small is in regular correspondence with her younger brother? Mr. Robin Small. The boy hopes to become a vicar one day. Such a shame that once you marry Miss Small, Robin will find the doors of every public school shut in his face, his name struck from the roster of every respectable university in England, Scotland, or Ireland, and every parish with a living attached offered to other, worthier candidates."

"You wouldn't punish a boy for the crime of earning his sister's affection," Adam scoffed. He wouldn't be taken in by this bluff. "Not when he's family."

"What do you think, Miss Small?" Hastings cast his voice upward.

Caro stepped into view on the balcony above, pale and trembling.

"I know you," Adam insisted, speaking to his father. "For all our disagreements, you've always been a man of principle."

"And family is my first principle," he replied. "I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that we thrive not just in my lifetime, not just in yours, but in generations to come. A family is like a house, Adam. It must be maintained, cared for, improved if it is to survive."

"Your principles killed Lily. They've shaped Paul—and Matthew, too, when he was alive. Did either of them thrive? I question how well your principles have served any of us."

"I handed Lily the key to a happy life, and she spurned it. She died because she wouldn't listen." Hastings glanced up at the balcony then back at Adam. "Don't make the same mistake she did."

"A happy life?" Adam sputtered. "Married to an old man? Anyone who knew Lily could have told you what would happen—"

"She failed to think ahead. The 'old man' was the Duke of Leeds and he died two years after Lily disappeared." Hastings shook his head. "She needed time to escape from Kingston's influence. That was what I arranged for her. And you, son, need a wife who can smooth away this savage edge you've cultivated. You cannot wallow in vulgarity without being defiled by it."

Hastings shrugged and glanced up at Caro. "But if you will not see wisdom, I suspect Miss Small will. She's a pragmatist, and she has a brother to care for. My offer stands, Miss Small."

## Chapter Twenty-Six

Caro watched Hastings's crisp and measured exit. Nothing fazed the man. No accusation, no crisis. He was utterly secure in himself, confident of his choices. Her own father's perfect opposite, and yet she found Hastings monstrous. He could have been conjured from her imagination, designed down to the last particular to teach her an unwanted lesson.

"Caro, will you come down?"

Dragging her gaze away from the now-empty doorway, Caro saw the vibrant cap of Adam's hair, his square forehead and slashing eyebrows. Such a different view of him, from on high. She shook her head.

"Then I'm coming up." He flung himself onto the decorative spiral staircase, rattling the steps of pale, waxed oak, but stopped short of the last stair, making him almost her height. A little shorter. Was this the first time they'd stood eye to eye?

"I can't do it," Caro whispered.

"Of course you can."

Adam gripped the gold-painted wrought iron handrails to either side with such force that they groaned in protest. He leaned forward. Caro took a step backward, deeper into the alcove, and he stilled.

"I couldn't live with myself if I traded my happiness for Robin's, my dreams for his. Not if there's another way."

Hastings had provided the way, of course. Carte blanche. Once she took it, she'd be free of the Duke. Adam would battle on—pity shuddered through her, hot and bitter—but she'd escape.

She'd carry away enough treasure to compensate for the loss of her reputation. She'd never have to strive for the ton's good opinion again; a terrible freedom, not one she'd ever have sought, but thanks to Giselle she could at least conceive of other paths, other worlds, without the stomach-dropping bewilderment most girls of her circle would experience.

She would find her way. Alone. And if her heart ached, if all her lost hopes and dreams seemed bound up in the flesh of a single man, well, her tragedy was a small one, just her size, and she'd survive it.

"He's trying to scare you." Adam slapped the railing, making the metal hum. "Once we wed, your family will be allied to mine—and my father's priorities will change."

"'Never make a threat that you cannot carry through,'" Caro quoted. "Isn't that what you told me when I tried to blackmail you? Your father's great lesson? He wouldn't have said it if he were not both willing and able."

"And perhaps he is—now. But he won't be later, when it counts." Adam stepped onto the landing and closed the distance between them in three quick steps. He cupped her cheeks in his palms, as improbably gentle as the kidskin leather against her skin. "I know it's hard, but if we stand together, we will win."

Caro slipped out of Adam's grasp, into the shadows. "And victory will only send your father searching for some new punishment. What if he does force Robin away from the clergy? Who will be next? Daphne? Our children?"

"Family, Caro—"

"Blood hasn't protected Lady Paul. Or Lord Paul, whose life, I think, has been one long capitulation." Caro shook her head. "Endurance isn't victory. It's just a very slow, very painful way to lose."

"Caro." He held out his hand. "Please."

"Blind faith isn't a plan. And hoping for the best"—she clutched at her breastbone, tugging fistfuls of frothy fabric between her fingers—"leads only to a kind of misery I will not bring on myself or my brother. You cannot ask that of me."

He gathered her into his arms. "I need you," he said, his lips on her cheeks, on her eyelids. "You need me. You feel it, don't you?"

And she did. Heat flooded her body at his touch. Her eyes fluttered shut and she opened her mouth to his invading tongue. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and teased her fingertips in the short, prickly ends of his hair, rubbed her nose into his temple.

"I love you, Adam." Caro stepped away from his touch. "I love you," she repeated, her heart in her throat. "But this is a terrible bargain that you're offering me."

She straightened her hair, her clothes. Put her thoughts, her priorities, in order. She would make Hastings pay. She would take as much as she could—more than she needed, more than she could use—and she would build a new future with it. Everything from scratch, exactly as she wanted it.

Hers was the easier route, she imagined. She could walk away while he had no choice but to fight on. Round after round, until he couldn't rise again.

"Don't leave me alone," Adam whispered.

"You'll be fine." She kissed his cheek, rough with stubble. "Just don't look down."

In the silver salon, Hastings sat at his massive desk, making notes on a densely scripted sheet of paper. He laid down the pen and gestured her forward with a muted smirk.

"Miss Small. I've been expecting you."

Hateful old man. "I take it I won the race?"

"And now you can name your prize. I hope you've given the matter some thought?"

"Yes." Caro smoothed her skirts down her legs as she sat. "Yes, I have."

## Chapter Twenty-Seven

Hastings's carriage took her to London. That had been her first demand: transport home in a coach bearing the ducal coat of arms. She couldn't think of any other way to travel alone from Irongate to London safely. Nothing she could afford, at any rate.

But at least she'd accomplished one thing while in Sussex. Daphne had agreed to hire Louise as a lady's maid. Their final moments together had been tearful, Daphne overflowing with all the emotion that Caro had tried to hide. They'd make a good match: Daphne would appreciate a servant skilled at keeping secrets, Louise a mistress with a kind heart.

Caro had never been able to pay Louise what she deserved, but after only a year of service she'd found her a new mistress in a fine establishment with a large and well-organized staff. She'd held up her end of the bargain she'd made, and she was glad: she needed some small victory to cling to, a little lifeboat in this sea of misfortune into which she'd flung herself.

The journey lasted through the better part of two days, one night. Plenty of time to think, to let her new circumstances settle in her mind. Tragedy could be a little bit like a soup; it took a while for the full flavor to develop. And she'd made herself a tragic character, hadn't she? She'd aimed too high. She'd fallen in love with a man she could never have. And now she'd been punished for her overweening ambition.

Tragedies usually ended with a death. Caro's new circumstances would take her close enough. As a ruined woman, she'd be dead to the world she'd grown up in. She'd lived on the fringe, but she'd belonged to Society. From now on, she'd be an outcast.

Nothing she took from Hastings could change that.

Caro knocked at the townhouse that was her destination until she heard the scuffle of noise within, hopping from foot to foot to ward off the chill of the cold, foggy night while she waited. The thumping of feet on stairs, more than one pair, preceded the scrabble of turning locks.

A slim young maid wearing a thick woolen robe and a linen nightcap opened the door a crack, candle outthrust to light Caro's features. Caro met the girl's eyes and then looked up into the dim stairwell behind, where Giselle's pale face seemed to float in the gloom.

"Caroline?" Giselle's accent had faded over the years but she still pronounced Caro's name the French way, care-oh-leen, the r a soft blurred burr before the attenuated long e she added at the end. Nobody else said her name that way and the sound of it in Giselle's accent made her feel safe and at home.

"Can I come in?" Caro asked.

"Bien sur." Giselle beckoned Caro forward while the maidservant opened the door and stood flush against the corridor.

Caro dragged her luggage inside. The maid closed and locked the door, then picked up one end of Caro's heavy trunk. Together, they carried it upstairs to Giselle's first-floor rooms. The maidservant used her candle to light a lamp, turning the flame up as high as it would go, before she silently took Caro's luggage into the spare bedroom.

Giselle picked up the lamp and held it between them, the yellowy-orange light flaring across her pale face and tinting her eyes green as an alley cat's. Caro held her breath, braced for judgment.

"No longer a maid," Giselle said finally. She hooked her arm around Caro's elbow and pulled her into the spare bedroom, then set to work unfastening the buttons along the back of Caro's gown. "Have you been cast out?"

"Not yet."

"There is no virtue in delaying the inevitable." Giselle held the split back of the gown open while Caro stepped out of it, then tossed the dress onto the bed and set to work on Caro's corset. "Is that why you're here?"

"Yes." Caro heaved a sigh of relief as her corset strings loosened. She raised her arms, allowing Giselle to pull the contraption over her head, and plopped down onto the mattress, shoulders slumped in defeat. "And you're right. But I can't go home. Not yet."

"Can't?"

"Don't want to," Caro admitted. She hadn't recovered from the events at Irongate, if such a thing was even possible. "I'm not ready."

"It's too late to send you home tonight." Giselle opened the door and called for one of her spare nightgowns, then sat down next to Caro. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Caro poured out her story, starting with her arrival at Irongate. She didn't spare a single detail.

"You fell in love," Giselle pronounced, when Caro had finished.

"I did." Caro cringed.

The maid knocked lightly at the door, slipped inside and handed Caro the requested nightgown. Caro tucked it close to her stomach, unwilling to remove her shift—unwilling to be more naked, when she was afraid of what came next.

"No, Caroline," said Giselle. "You needn't fear that I will reprimand you. We all fall victim to love, sooner or later."

"All of us? But..." Caro frowned. "You've warned me against love all my life."

"And now you know why." Giselle's smile was sad but sympathetic, welcoming. As though Caro had just been invited to join a secret society. "Would you have believed me if I said such a fall was inevitable?"

"No."

"I would have liked to see you safely settled with a husband before you faced this trial, because at this stage in your life the consequences will be grave. But I don't blame you, Caroline. A broken heart is the only protection in the world that works against love."

Caro touched her chest, let the steady thump of her heart within comfort her. Her pain would make her stronger. She could almost believe that. "I disappeared inside my love of him. I lost myself to it, and I didn't want to come back."

"And now?"

"I feel like a part of me has died."

"A part of you did die." Giselle tucked a lock of hair behind Caro's ear. "That is why we must never be careless in love. Every encounter with it will take away a little bit of your heart, until there is none left."

Caro shivered. "And you? What's left of your heart?"

"A tout petit morsel that I guard like a miser sitting on his last coin." Giselle slung one arm around Caro's shoulders and swayed into her, a teasing little push. "I did not have the benefit of a wise advisor when I was young. Let us speak of something more cheerful: what will you do with your twenty-five thousand pounds?"

"I'll set some aside for Robin's schooling. As for the rest—I don't know."

"It would bring you almost thirteen hundred a year in the five percents," said Giselle. "You could double or treble that as a demimondaine. You would have a fortune in only a few years, and then a lifetime of true independence."

"Don't you suppose my father would object? I won't turn twenty-one for years, yet."

Giselle's good humor faded. "No," she answered, her tone sharp. "I don't think he'll object."

"I've always wanted to experience the society of artists and poets," Caro said glumly.

"Would you rather marry?" Giselle asked. "You are young and beautiful and rich. Many men will want to make a proper woman of you, if you know where to look. What would you prefer—an adventurous nabob, rich from trade with India? A successful playwright? Perhaps a poet with threadbare pockets and soulful eyes?"

Caro pursed her lips and bit back her reply.

"Speak, dear one." Giselle grazed Caro's cheek with her knuckles, cool and soft.

"I don't want a nabob," Caro whispered. "I don't want a playwright or a poet."

"But they will want you, and that will give you power." Giselle smoothed the sheets one last time. "Forget about love. Strive for power. It is no harder to maintain, and far more useful. You realize that now, don't you?"

Caro nodded. Her heart hurt. She quickly peeled away her shift and pulled the nightgown over her head, then lay down between the chilly sheets and let Giselle tuck them up around her neck.

"You can stay with me for as long as you like. You are the daughter of my heart." Giselle kissed Caro on the forehead. "You could teach with me, if you like. Take your own students. When I am too old to teach myself, the school could be yours."

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do." Giselle sat down again by Caro's arm. "But I don't think you will stay for long, dear one. You are too much alive to let this one disappointment crush you. You will recover, and you will thrive. Perhaps not in the way you had planned, and I'm sorry for it, but all will be well."

"All will be well," Caro repeated, and she let those hopeful words ease her into sleep.

## Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Give me a few minutes," Mick said, bending almost double. Sweat dripped off of his forehead and his breathing was shallow, rapid. Adam knew how his trainer must feel: nauseated, as though the battered organs unprotected by his ribcage might crawl up his throat and spill out through his mouth to flop on the floor.

He knew because he felt the same way—but he was still standing. Adam flexed his fingers in the mufflers, relishing the pain that branched up his arms. Every time he landed a punch he felt as though he were exorcising a bit of the anguish that consumed him. Every punch that Mick landed pummeled away a bit of sorrow and replaced it, inevitably, inexorably, with anger.

He hadn't been back to the arena. Instead, he'd doubled his sparring sessions with Mick. A month previously, he'd been lucky to get the better of his trainer. Now he won most of their fights. Round after round, he remained on his feet while Mick went down.

"Harris should be ready to depart tomorrow." Mick rose to his full height and rolled his shoulders. "He's recovering well."

"I'm glad to hear it." Adam bounced from foot to foot, raising his arms.

"Though he won't stop talking about Miss Small. The doctor thinks Harris would probably be dead without her."

"A service worth twenty-five thousand pounds of my father's money, do you think?" Mick didn't have a reply to that—neither had Adam, when his father first told him the figure—and Adam snorted. "Step up to the line. If you can talk, you can fight."

"Have you thought about what you'll do if she falls pregnant?"

Adam bared his teeth. Oh, yes, he'd thought about it.

A knock sounded at the door to the studio. He and Mick both twisted around to watch as the door swung open. One of his father's beefy footmen stood in the threshold.

"My lord, His Grace the Duke of Hastings requests your urgent attendance in the silver salon."

Adam ceased his bouncing and lowered his fists. "Of course. I'll be there as soon as I can dress."

"He asks you to proceed without pause, my lord. Lord Paul has also been summoned." The footman hesitated. "The constable, Mr. Milgrom, is already in conference with His Grace."

Adam yanked at the ties to his mufflers with his teeth until the knot came loose and he could tear the gloves off. He tossed them at Mick, offering a quick salute before following the footman out of the studio.

He found his father tense, seated at his desk, and Milgrom squinting against the dazzling light of a cloudless day, hands clasped at the small of his back.

"What have you discovered?" Paul's voice sounded from the corridor. Adam stepped aside to let his uncle through.

"Matthew's murderer has been identified, located, taken into custody and bound over for trial," Hastings announced, nodding at Milgrom.

The constable took his cue. "We have determined that Sir Walter Sheldon is at fault, and His Grace has officially charged him with the murder of Mr. Matthew Spark and his valet, Mr. Samson."

"The valet?" Adam echoed. "He's dead as well?"

Paul's emphatic, "That's not possible," drowned out Adam's query.

"Indeed, Lord Paul, Sir Walter's guilt is certain. A search uncovered Mr. Samson's body at the Dovecote, killed in the same fashion as his master."

"You'll want to explain that, Milgrom," interrupted Hastings.

"We found the murder weapon buried along with Mr. Samson's body," Milgrom explained. "A fireplace poker."

"Matthew did not die in a fistfight," Hastings clarified.

"But the bruises." Paul dropped into an armchair of midnight blue velvet. "Adam's threat."

"The coroner is convinced that Sir Walter wielded the poker against both victims, intentionally aiming his blows to mimic the appearance of a fistfight."

Milgrom bowed in Adam's direction. "I am sorry to have entertained the possibility of your guilt in this crime, Lord Bexley. Every piece of evidence we gathered drew suspicion away from you. In retrospect, Sir Walter's eagerness to cast blame your way is itself a strong mark against him."

"Sir Walter is Matthew's godfather," Paul protested. He sat with legs spread, one arm hanging limp and loose along the inside of his thigh. "He's my oldest friend. He—"

"Tried to pin his crimes on me," Adam interrupted, unable to muster up any sympathy for Sir Walter. "Do you know what motivated the murders? As far as I was aware, Sir Walter and Matthew had no cause for conflict."

"Our best explanation is that Mr. Spark arrived unexpectedly at the Dovecote, where he observed sure signs of Sir Walter's pecuniary difficulties. Sir Walter resented Mr. Spark's discovery and lashed out, killing both Mr. Spark and Mr. Samson."

"This is a theory," interrupted Hastings, shifting a piece of paper from one side of his blotter to the other. "A weak one, in my opinion. Sir Walter knew he could not keep news of his reduced circumstances secret for much longer. I can't see the point in killing Matthew and Samson to stall for a matter of a day or two."

"Yes, Your Grace." Milgrom bowed in the Duke's direction. "This is true. The most important point is the physical evidence we discovered—"

"What made you say that?" Paul interrupted, lifting his head up from his hands. "About Sir Walter's finances?"

"Paul, we can talk about this later—" Hastings said soothingly.

Adam turned a sharp glance on his father. Since when did his father try to soothe anyone?

Milgrom remained silent. He knew whom to obey and whom to ignore.

The red veins in Paul's jowly cheeks darkened against his sallow skin. "David," he ground out. "Let him speak."

"I think we're finished." Hastings sat back in his chair and let his arms drop away from the desk into his lap. "Thank you for your time and effort, Mr. Milgrom."

"No." Adam slid in front of the door, blocking Milgrom's retreat. "I want to hear the answer to my uncle's question as well. What leads you to believe that Sir Walter's finances pushed him to murder?"

The constable sucked his lips into his mouth, bending a little at the waist.

"Very well." Hastings stiffened in his chair and nodded to Milgrom. "Please answer the question."

"Sir Walter has not confessed. But when Samson's body and the murder weapon were discovered in the meat cellar, Sir Walter made comments that paint a clear picture of his state of mind. It seems he lived in hopes of a turnaround, and thought he could keep his dire straits secret until that time. According to Sir Walter—and his truthfulness is uncertain, Lord Paul—Mr. Spark attempted to use his new knowledge to blackmail Sir Walter—"

"He did no such thing!" Paul exclaimed, swaying in his chair as he fumbled to grip the armrests. "These are lies!"

"Get a hold of yourself, uncle." Adam advanced into the room, clamped a hand on Paul's shoulder and held him in place.

Milgrom's report didn't surprise him. Matthew had been exactly the sort of person whose first response to another man's desperation would be blackmail. "Milgrom is just repeating Sir Walter's ravings. Save your fury for the squire."

"Lord Paul, I am more sorry than I can say for your loss." Milgrom let his long, horsey head droop atop his tall frame like the head of a sunflower nodding in a breeze. "It grieves me to speak ill of the dead, even if the words are not my own. But you have sufficient evidence at hand now to expect an easy indictment and a swift, sure conviction. Sir Walter Sheldon will hang before the year is out."

Paul stood up and offered his hand to Milgrom in gratitude. The constable took it, but instead of shaking, Paul glanced over at Hastings and froze.

"Thank you, Milgrom," Hastings murmured in Paul's place. "We appreciate your diligence and discretion throughout this investigation."

"Just doing my duty. Your Grace. My lords." Milgrom bowed and beat a quick retreat, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

"Remember what we discussed, Paul," murmured Hastings.

"We didn't discuss the possibility that my son would die," Paul growled.

"Adam, your uncle and I need a moment alone."

"I think he should hear this." Paul glared at his brother with frightful intensity.

"Hear what? Paul?" Adam prompted.

The muscles of Hastings's jaw clenched. Adam considered the two brothers and realized that, for the first time in his memory, Paul had the leverage. His father's roster of threats and privileges hadn't changed, but Paul knew something damaging enough to neutralize them.

He'd never seen his father routed before. Hadn't entirely believed it was possible.

"Tell me," Adam demanded.

"Paul," Hastings warned. Then his tone softened, reasonable and almost—almost—tinged with entreaty. "Nobody could have predicted Sir Walter's reaction. Many men have traveled a similar road without resorting to violence. He wasn't a confrontational man."

"My son is dead." Paul paused, nostrils flaring. "Because of you."

A chill ran down Adam's spine, but his father didn't look surprised. Just tight with expectation.

"Do you know how Sir Walter lost all of his money, Adam?" Paul asked.

"How?"

"Your father—my brother—spent the past year sabotaging him. Didn't you, David? The second Sir Walter signed on to Adam's pet project you set about destroying him."

"Is this true?"

Hastings nodded. He looked Adam in the eye, direct and unashamed. "I didn't approve of the railroad spur and you refused to end it on your own."

"What did you do?"

"Everything I could think of. Bought goods sold by his competitors and re-sold them at a loss. I monopolized the entire supply of indigo and flooded the market with high-quality French calico, for example. I purchased his loans and convinced the banks he worked with to raise his interest rates." Hastings shrugged. "It wasn't hard to do. The sum of all the assets Sir Walter has ever possessed and ever hopes to possess pale in comparison to ours."

"Sir Walter has been a friend and admirer of yours all his life."

"I never returned his esteem." Hastings spread his hands. "And I wouldn't have acted differently, even if I had. My goal was to prevent the project from reaching completion, and I'm pleased to have succeeded."

"At the expense of my son's life?" Paul demanded.

Matthew's life—and Samson's, and soon Sir Walter's, too. Three men dead, so his father could cripple his own son.

"Matthew died because he was foolish enough to blackmail a desperate man." Hastings stood, a cold smile on his lips. "I would have warned him against it, if I'd had the opportunity. I was engaged elsewhere."

"How dare you—"

"Only two people regret Matthew's death, Paul. You and your wife, who cuckolded you with him."

Adam winced. Paul had lost his leverage, and now his father was putting him back in his place.

Paul swung in Hastings's direction. Adam stepped between the two quickly, wrapping his arm around Paul's thick chest. He dragged Paul away from the door as his father strode toward it.

"Weakling boy. Little toady. What do you know?" Paul tried to buck loose but Adam didn't let go. His uncle collapsed, wheezing, before long.

"I know that there's a better way." To even out the scales. To bring him low.

Paul slumped.

Adam met his father's eyes, imagined a chalk line drawn on the floor between them. "And I'll find it."

"You can try, Adam. But you'll fail." Hastings reached for the doorknob.

"Until I win." Adam let go of his uncle and advanced on his father. For once he didn't feel ashamed by his size, or embarrassed to have the vulgar shape of a village blacksmith. "I'll fail until I win. And you can believe one thing: I'll only have to do it once."

"Your choices in this recent debacle show little promise of victory. You selected a sycophantic fool and a mercenary girl as partners in your rebellion. With weak partners, you must establish and maintain complete control in order to accomplish anything."

"You're wrong."

"You don't believe that, son." His father reached for the doorknob. Adam opened his mouth; hesitated. "And you shouldn't."

## Chapter Twenty-Nine

Suzy, the Small family's perpetually frazzled maid-of-all-work, answered the door to Caro's knock. She waved Caro inside, a dirty rag hanging from one hand, and disappeared through the green baize door into the servant's quarters. Noises filtered through from the basement, metallic bangs and clanks: Caro had probably arrived home in the middle of Suzy's luncheon preparations.

With a sigh, she hefted her luggage and dragged it through the dim foyer and up the stairs.

The house looked much as she'd left it, chaotic and shabby. When her father had first moved them all to London, they'd brought as much furniture from the entailed Emlyn estate as they could. Every room had been dark and cluttered, surfaces collecting dust faster than their time-strapped servants could feather it away.

But the rooms had emptied, bit by bit, as her father sold or pawned their valuables. All that remained now were the dregs, items their creditors wouldn't take: chipped tables, sofas with soiled cushions, chairs with uneven legs.

Once the house had emptied out, her father had cut the staff, leaving only two maids to cook and clean for a family of five. Coal dust stained everything—the walls, the ceilings, the curtains—to a uniform shade of drab. Their wooden furniture hadn't been polished in months, nor the carpets beaten. Items of dubious utility cluttered tables and shelves. A pair of boxing mufflers here—the sight of them made Caro's heart twist—a small pocket knife there, the blade extended and coated with an oily film.

A door opened above her. Light footsteps echoed down the short hall and then Robin appeared at the head of the staircase, eyes huge and owlish behind his thick spectacles.

"What are you doing here?" Robin asked in his familiar piping voice. "You weren't supposed to come home for weeks."

"I didn't have time to write. Circumstances changed rather suddenly." Caro huffed with frustration and pulled her bags up another step.

Robin clattered down to her level and gently pried the handles away from her, thin and weedy but still stronger than she.

"A great deal has happened," Caro added, following her younger brother to her room.

"In two weeks?" Robin twisted to angle himself through the doorway to her bedroom. "Where's Louise?"

"She's taken a position as Daphne Morland's lady's maid." Caro followed her brother inside.

Her room felt alien and a little sad. No fresh flowers or clean smells; just her old bed with its thin, lumpy hair mattress, her wardrobe with yellowing plates and etchings taped over the scratches on the doors, a little table where she kept her toiletries in their store-bought tins and vials.

Robin clapped his hands, white but ink-stained, then frowned. "What's wrong?"

Caro rubbed at the dull wood of the nearest bedpost. She could polish it herself, she supposed. Orange oil, almond oil—Suzy must keep some downstairs, surely?

"Caro?"

"I feel like a stranger in my own home." Caro flashed a smile at her brother and led the way downstairs. "It didn't take long for all that luxury and opulence to feel natural, quite my due."

Robin, trailing behind, hesitated on the landing. "Maybe you're remembering the old days."

Caro bit her bottom lip. Robin had been born in London. He was the only one of her siblings without any memory at all of the old days, as he called them. "The old days and life at Irongate are no more alike than... than paper flowers and hothouse roses."

"It must have been very grand."

"I think the gods of Olympus would fall into one another's arms and weep with jealousy at the sight of Irongate," Caro answered solemnly.

"Truly?"

"Truly."

They worked together to tidy the mess left over from the night before in the drawing room. Suzy usually didn't make it to the front of the house until after luncheon, which was just as well, since the elder Emlyns usually woke up around that time. Robin returned bottles to the sideboard and stacked dirty glasses while Caro righted sofa cushions and gathered her brothers' assorted cravats and jackets from where they'd been dropped haphazardly across the floor.

"How have you got along?" Caro asked. "Have you made any progress convincing Father to send you back to Winchester?"

"No. I've dropped the subject for now. He's too pleased with himself. Wasn't listening. I'll try again once he starts to tire of having me underfoot. I'm not much fun to have around, and that should help my cause."

Another victory, this one profound: she'd have Robin back at school just as soon as Hastings transferred the funds.

"Why don't you sit down and tell me about your trip? The things you must have seen!" Robin held up a hand to ward off her reply. "Wait, wait, don't answer yet."

Before she could protest, he dashed out of the room. "I asked Suzy to put together a tray," he said, returning. "I know you don't need anyone fussing over you. But you went a bit green just then and a spot of tea couldn't hurt."

Dancing had made her hungry. "Tea would do nicely."

"So what happened at Irongate?"

Caro paced over to the curtains to give herself time to frame her answer. She hauled the heavy velvet drapes away from the window and tied them open with long tassels, releasing motes of dust that danced and sparkled as light poured into the room.

"A death in the family," Caro answered, turning round.

Robin's eyes widened and he patted the dented cushion on the sofa, inviting her to sit down next to him. "I'm sorry to hear it. Not the old duke?"

"The deceased was a young man, only twenty-two. The duke's nephew, Mr. Matthew Spark. He was murdered."

"Murdered?" Robin jumped in his seat. "Caro, that's awful. No wonder you decided to come home early. What happened to the poor fellow?"

Tinkling and clattering preceded Suzy's entrance to the drawing room, bearing a tray with the silver plating worn off along the handles and a mismatched tea service. Caro poured for herself and Robin, but before she could slide the small sandwiches Suzy had prepared onto plates a tall, dark-haired young man wearing a stained, red and gold brocaded robe over his nightshirt ambled into the room.

"Thought I heard your voice, Caro." Bertie, her oldest brother, took two of the sandwiches from the plate on the table and nabbed Caro's teacup before she could take a sip. "When did you get home?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

"Welcome back." Bertie consumed the first sandwich in two bites, took a sip of tea, and made a face—"Hot!"—before eating the second sandwich and reaching for the last two left on the plate.

"Leave some for us." Caro slapped at his fingers.

"I'm hungry. You woke me up." Bertie snatched the sandwiches and stood, scratching under his armpit. "Now that I've had something to eat I can go back to sleep."

Caro sighed. She felt Robin's hand at her side, warm and frail and fumbling for her own, and squeezed it tight.

"Do you want me to ask Suzy to make more?" Robin asked, once Bertie had climbed the stairs to his room.

"No. We can hold out for luncheon. She's busy enough." Caro poured herself a fresh cup of tea—Bertie had left crumbs floating in the first one—and asked, "So, have you been studying?"

"I practice my Latin and Greek every day. But History and Mathematics..." Robin rubbed his hands along his thighs, hunching his thin shoulders. "How am I supposed to teach myself? I don't know what they're learning."

"You'll be back soon, Robin." Caro gave his hand another squeeze, passing the comfort and reassurance he'd just offered back in the other direction. "I promise."

Robin looked down at her hand and back up, squinting. "Something's upset you. Is it this man that was murdered?"

"The murder is the least of my worries."

More noises overhead preceded the second Small brother, Reggie. He'd dressed, at least, and leaned into the room to survey the tray before he noticed Caro. "When did you get home, little sister?"

"Just an hour ago."

"Too bad. Sounded like a nice place you were staying at. Duke and all that."

"Irongate is an extraordinary estate," Caro agreed.

"Well, if you ever get another invitation, ask if I can tag along. Until then, I'm off to my club." Reggie shoved away from the doorway and headed out, slamming the front door behind him.

"They're looking well," Caro observed.

"Reggie was bragging about shoving one of our creditors into a barrel and rolling him down a hill yesterday at supper," Robin said by way of answer. "And Father's recovering from a dose of the clap."

"Oh, no." He always insisted on describing his treatments in gruesome detail.

"Nothing so unusual," Robin said gently. "Now, you were telling me...?"

The knocker sounded against the door before Caro could respond. Robin rolled his eyes but stood to answer it, calling down to Suzy not to trouble herself, and returned with a small envelope sealed shut by a coin of gold wax imprinted with two crossed sheaves of wheat.

Caro accepted the envelope with a trembling hand. She cracked the seal and unfolded the note, which acknowledged the receipt of a twenty-five thousand pound bank transfer to her name and asked her to pay a visit to a solicitor's office in the City. Without a word, Caro handed the note to her brother.

Robin read the note several times before he looked up, his eyes shining and dark with worry. "What is this?"

"I found a way to have you back at Winchester after the Michaelmas recess," Caro replied.

Robin flinched. "A sum so great... no. Don't hand me this burden."

"It's not a burden. It's a gift." Caro cleared her throat, suddenly clogged and scratchy. "There's plenty. Enough for you. Enough for me. I made sure of it."

"But how?" Robin dropped the letter onto the sofa between them. "And at what cost?"

"The Duke of Hastings paid me not to marry his son."

Caro watched her brother's sweet face cloud with confusion. "Not to marry?"

"His Grace didn't approve of me. Lord Bexley did. I have profited from their disagreement."

"Lord Bexley. You mentioned him in your letters. You said he was strict and cold and didn't like you."

"I changed his mind."

"Of course you did. Anyone who has the opportunity to know you well must love you," Robin said staunchly.

He still didn't understand. He had too much faith in her.

"I should hesitate to put that notion to the test. But in Lord Bexley's case—yes, I do believe he came to care for me. Deeply."

"You didn't return his affection?"

Caro didn't reply.

Robin furrowed his brow. "But if you did, why not accept his proposal of marriage? A man you care for, who cares for you—and in any case, he must be worth more than the twenty-five thousand pounds that you received to abandon him?"

"I told you. His father, the Duke of Hastings, did not favor the match, and I preferred his bribe to a lifetime of paternal disapproval."

"If that was enough to dissuade you... you couldn't have cared for Lord Bexley very much. So why toy with his affections? For profit?" Robin pushed the letter farther toward her, away from himself. "That's Giselle's influence—and not the aspect of her life or character you should be imitating, Caroline."

"And why not?" Caro tossed her head. "Hasn't it worked as well as she could have hoped—if not better? Why, with forty-five thousand pounds—twenty-five from Hastings, plus the twenty I've already got—I could marry an Indian nabob, or a playwright. Whomever I choose, and he won't have a disapproving papa."

Robin raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

A low, thin male voice filtered in from the hallway: "Caro? Is that you?"

"Yes, Papa." Caro crossed to the doorway and watched her father make his slow way down the steps. He'd been handsome when she was a child, and was still recognizably a man who had been handsome, though she knew he understood the distinction and despised it.

He wore a corset to hide the soft bulge of his middle, combed wisps of his thin, dark hair over his mostly bald forehead, smiled rakishly at young ladies when he ought to have learned an avuncular twinkle by now.

"It's good to see my daughter." Viscount Emlyn folded her into a tight hug, smelling of dirty laundry and heavy cologne, then took hold of her shoulders and held her out at arm's length. "Back where she belongs!"

"I've missed you," Caro lied.

"Catching up, are we?" Emlyn turned his fond smile on Robin. "My two peas in a pod. Everything's tip-top?"

"Just fine, Papa," murmured Robin.

They knew better than to unburden their problems onto their father; if they tried, he'd pretend to listen until they'd finished speaking, assure them that everything would soon work out, and go on his merry way. He wouldn't think of the problem again unless they reminded him—and then he'd be annoyed.

"Garfield offered to stand me for lunch, can't be late," Emlyn said now, dropping a kiss on Caro's forehead and waving at Robin. "I'm sure Suzy will work something up for supper... no meat right now, of course, but two skinny things like you, you could probably fill up on a bit of air sauced with raindrops!"

Emlyn chortled. Caro and Robin did not.

Caro waited for her father's shadow to disappear from the front stoop. "He'll gamble away more than he would have spent buying steak for us all by the time he returns."

"If we're lucky," Robin agreed. "Have you thought about how you'll stop him from spending your new fortune?"

"Hastings said he could arrange it so that Father couldn't touch the money."

"And you believed him?"

"I believe the Duke of Hastings can accomplish whatever he sets his mind to," Caro replied, rubbing her arms against an imaginary chill.

"But not Lord Bexley?" Robin asked shrewdly.

"Lord Bexley has a nobility of heart that his father lacks, and honor is a weakness in a powerless man."

She looked up to find Robin staring at her, his cheeks bloodless. "And you've left this man—an honorable man, a man who loves you—to bear the cost of what you've taken?" He pushed the gold-sealed paper away, rejecting it. "I will not profit from this theft."

"You haven't asked what he took from me," Caro whispered.

Robin froze. "No. Caro, please, don't say—"

"It's true."

Robin glared at the envelope and then wiped his hands on his thighs, as though it could poison him. "How could you have let this happen?"

"It was my scheme, Robin."

"If you want approval, you may talk to our father. No doubt you've spoken to Giselle, and gained her support as well. If you've shared your tale with me, it can only be because you want to hear someone counsel you to do what is right, rather than what is advantageous."

Caro dashed close enough to her brother to snatch up the letter from Hastings. "I am doing what is right."

Robin shrugged. "Then you don't need me to tell you so."

"I don't." Caro took a deep breath. "I'd hoped for kindness. And a fond farewell. I'll move in with Giselle before the scandal reaches London."

## Chapter Thirty

Adam strode through the front hall and across the courtyard until he could see the iron gates, with their cold metal suns eternally on the rise over fire-forged stalks of wheat.

Je seme l'or. I sow gold. The Spark family motto had inspired him since he was a boy. Plant the right seeds. Be patient. While other families placed fierce predators on their crests, his displayed sheaves of wheat. His people aspired to growth and good husbandry, not violence and destruction. They cultivated and planned, always taking the long view.

Perhaps there had always been savagery in a farmer's motto—nature being nothing if not savage, and farmers her chosen people. A good farmer might plough all spring to see his crops fail in summer, or rejoice at the storm that watered his fields while passing over a neighbor's, knowing the value of his own bushels would rise.

And Death, in all the stories, carried a scythe.

Adam broke into a full-on run. He pushed himself until his legs turned to jelly. Until his emotions ran dry. And he kept on going, mile after mile. He ran until he forgot who he was and every breath scraped his lungs like winds howling through an arctic fjord.

As he carried himself onward, his footfalls slower and heavier with each lunge, a refrain floated into the empty echo chamber of his mind: No more. His heel pounded into the ground. No. Little shocks of impact shuddered up through his bones to rattle in his teeth. More. He rolled his weight onto the ball of his foot and pushed himself into the air. No. The opposite foot slammed down with an audible thump. More.

No more.

He stumbled through the doors of the Dower House on his return circuit, swerving right into the front salon and then through it, to the rear salon where Ed Harris, Champion of England, sat at the sofa with a knit blanket on his lap and a bowl of soup cupped between his massive hands.

"Ed Harris," Adam panted, gasping out the words between heavy breaths.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Adam stalked forward until he loomed over Harris. "Do you know me?"

"I don't," said Harris, but something flickered in his eyes. Adam leaned down, crowding the man. Harris cringed back, spilling soup all over his lap. "I don't..."

Adam spaced the words out this time, snapping each one out with sharp, percussive force. "Do... you... know... me?"

The pupils of Harris's eyes shrank to small points.

"You remember?"

"We fought?" Harris's voice trembled.

"We fought," Adam agreed, standing straight.

"You were going down easy..." Harris frowned, searching the corners of his room, as though the missing moments were mice that might scurry across the floorboards. "I knocked you down."

"And then I knocked you out."

He'd never seen someone regain a lost memory before, but it was a little like watching a sunrise: light after darkness. Comprehension.

"Congratulations," said Harris, lifting up one soup-sticky hand.

"It was an honor." Adam took the hand, shook it. Now that he'd begun to catch his breath he realized just how mad the impulse had been. No more. "I am Lord Bexley. Earl of Bexley. After we fought, I arranged for you to recuperate here, at my family's seat. I asked my own doctor to tend to you."

"My lord." Harris groped about, as though he might stand—or fall to his knees, more likely, given his level of strength. "Allow me—"

"Services I owed you," Adam interrupted, "in consideration of the injuries I inflicted. You owe me no gratitude. There is no debt between us."

Harris paused, looked Adam levelly in the eye. His own craggy, blunt features twitched. "But?"

"If you wish to thank me," Adam said, more slowly now, "I do have a request."

"Don't tell anyone?" Harris asked, a knowing smile hitching up one corner of lips.

"Tell everyone," Adam corrected. "In terms as vulgar as you can think of. The remote location. The rough men in attendance, how many of them knew me by sight, which of them greeted me as a friend." Adam showed Harris his misshapen knuckles. "I am no stranger to fighting with my bare hands. Tell everyone."

Harris set his nearly empty bowl of soup aside on a small tray. "I don't mind speaking the truth, my lord. But I'd like you to answer a question for me, if you don't mind."

"Of course."

"That girl who sat with me those first days. Who was she? Why'd she have to leave in such a hurry?"

"She never told you her name?"

"She left before I could ask. I want to find her—I want to thank her."

"Miss Caroline Small," Adam answered. "Of London. Viscount Emlyn's daughter."

A strange combination of pleasure and embarrassment softened Harris's gruff expression.

"She left in a hurry because I did not fight hard enough to keep her," Adam admitted.

"A hard loss."

Adam nodded. "If you find her, you can tell her, for me, that she was right. About everything."

He kept to a walk as he made his way back from the Dower House to Irongate. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye: Daphne in one of her old painting frocks. Adam changed course to intercept his cousin, who started when she first caught sight of him and then set her own course marching toward Irongate, veering as far away from him as she could.

So Daphne didn't want to talk to him. Too bad. He'd realized, sometime between when he set out from Irongate and when he'd arrived at the Dower House, that his time here was over. And Daphne, of all people, ought to know first.

"Daphne," Adam called, hastening his pace as she slowed hers. "Wait for me."

She folded her arms over her chest and tapped her foot, frowning and impatient.

"Where's your canvas?" Adam asked as he reached her. "Haven't you been out painting?"

"I left it in the gamekeeper's cottage to dry," Daphne answered, her arms tightening their already closed, defensive pose.

Adam took a deep breath, still winded from his long run. "When was the last time you showed me one of your paintings? Why don't we go take a look?"

Daphne hunched into herself even further. "Some other time. I'm busy."

Doing what?

"I'm winded, and I wouldn't mind a bit of rest," Adam said slowly, watching Daphne's mulish expression morph into something different. Panic? "Maybe I'll take a look on my own."

"Why bother? You're not interested in my painting."

"Something to hide in there, Daphne?"

"Of course not. But you're sweaty and clumsy. You'll track dust in, and you could knock one of the wet paintings over if you're not careful." Daphne trotted after him as he bent his steps toward the cottage. "You'll ruin months of work."

"I'll be careful," Adam promised. He rattled the lock on the door, then shifted to the side so Daphne could hand him the key with remarkable ill grace.

Inside, the cottage was immaculate. No wonder she'd worried about tracking in dirt; as far as he knew, nobody visited to tidy up but he couldn't see a single speck of dust. Her paintings hung on the wall, rubbing edges from corner to corner and floor to ceiling, while others were stacked on the table and a single wet canvas dried on an easel.

Adam's first thought was that, until this moment, he hadn't had the least idea of how talented Daphne really was. The bold shapes and rich colors, expressive lines and casually perfect use of perspective stunned him.

His second thought was that he recognized most of the scenery from long-ago trips to Stag Run. At least five of the hanging canvases offered up lurid, disturbing images of Alfie's peacock garden.

On an easel, the charcoal cartoon only half filled in with colored oils, rested a picture of Alfie himself. He stood waist high in a pool, by all appearances nude, his hands, half of his forearms and all of his lower body submerged in the dark water. A tree loaded with ripe plums stretched one of its branches overhead, crossed by a stray beam of light. Daphne had painted Alfie looking up at the fruit, his lips parted, a living embodiment of want and need. A seducer's expression, Adam knew, though his own heart ached to see such pain—even in a painting.

The whole scene had the feel of a stage set, not quite real; the fathomless water below, blank canvas where the background above should be.

"You've been painting Alfie." Adam remembered seeing Alfie creeping back across the property line, soaking wet. "Are you intact?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you a virgin, Daphne? Or is it too late?"

Daphne smacked his shoulder and Adam turned to face her, entirely unamused.

"I painted him, that's all. He hasn't touched me. He hasn't tried."

"Thank God." The relief he felt was so strong he stumbled, grabbing hold of a stray chair to keep himself upright.

"It's not so different from the painting I made of you, Adam." Daphne pointed to her painting of Hephaestus and then back to her work in progress.

"There's a world of difference between painting him and painting me. I don't know how you can pretend otherwise, even to yourself."

"But it's the best painting I've ever done! Just look at it. Kingston is the perfect Tantalus."

"You know what he did to Nan Houghton." Adam shook his head. "You can guess what he's done to other girls like you. But you know what he did to Nan, and that's your excuse?"

Adam looked again at the painting. It was, as Daphne had said, the best she'd ever done. Great, perhaps. The light alone: dust motes danced in a beam of sunlight striking at a slant, splitting the gloom. It pierced the plums and pooled in their juices. The fruit seemed to glow from within, casting a rosy light over Alfie's upturned nose and mouth. The effect was sensual, haunting, a tour de force of technical skill.

An abomination, as far as he was concerned.

"I'm leaving Irongate," Adam said. "Tomorrow morning. The way things stand with my father, I doubt you and I will see much of one another for a while." Adam met Daphne's eyes briefly before walking past her to the door. "Perhaps it's for the best. Good afternoon, cousin."

## Chapter Thirty-One

Caro woke early, before dawn, and dressed quickly. She tossed a thick woolen cloak over her shoulders and skipped down the stairs only to find Robin leaning against the front door, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes half-shut, dozing.

Caro shook his shoulder and he came alert with a start. He recognized her, then opened the front door and waved her through before following behind and locking it.

"I didn't expect to see you this morning," she murmured. The streets were already beginning to come alive. Milkmen on their routes, foot traffic bustling in and out of service entrances and early morning hackneys racing down the middle of the street.

"You are my sister," Robin said simply. "I love you whether or not I approve of what you've done. I love you whether or not you listen to my advice."

"Would you love me even if I betrayed you?"

"If you slapped me, I would offer you my other cheek and ask for another," Robin said mildly.

Caro let that bit of wisdom settle like a ball of lead in her gut and spoke no more on the way to Giselle's studio. They turned the corner onto her street just in time to watch her mentor's first, earliest class let out. A dozen girls, all slim, graceful, and pink-cheeked, trailed out the door, laughing and chatting.

Most of Giselle's pupils, the girls who eventually danced professionally, grew up in the arts. Their parents were painters, dancers, or actors—some of them very successful. The few that weren't born into the theater still came from the lower classes; ballet wasn't a career to which well-bred girls aspired.

Poor pay, frequent stretches of unemployment between productions, and long hours dissuaded those who didn't object to the moral stain or fear the nights spent dancing in highly flammable costumes near ranks of torches.

Caro shuddered. Much as she loved dancing, she had never wished for such a life.

Once the street cleared, she and Robin entered the studio. Giselle waited inside, still willowy and youthful at thirty-six, her deep brown hair tied into a bun at the nape of her neck. Caro hung her cloak up on a peg and quickly ducked behind the screen at the back, changing into one of the practice uniforms that Giselle kept for her—just her size, always perfectly mended and freshly laundered.

"Show me your sylph dance." Giselle instructed, once Caro had finished her drills.

Caro performed the advance-and-retreat sequence that she'd practiced so diligently. Giselle clapped out the rhythm, her jade-green eyes sharp.

Caro had hoped that being back in the studio would help her recapture the old spirit, that she'd once again become the sylph. Instead, she felt more conscious than ever of her failure, of how deeply she'd changed since last she stood in this room.

"You will never dance that role again," Giselle said decisively, once Caro had finished. "It is time to find new material. Put on your day clothes, and practice at home tomorrow. I need time to devise a new program."

"Yes, Giselle."

Caro retreated behind the screen. She felt dizzy and disconnected. Dancing had always been... the secret core of her. She let the lessons she learned from Giselle radiate out to inform the rest of her life. Not the reverse.

But Adam had changed her so fundamentally that even here she'd have to start from scratch. Even here, she'd never be the same.

Giselle chatted with Robin, their voices mingling pleasantly through the studio, before she slipped behind the screen to help Caro tie her corset shut and give her a quick hug. "Ne pleure pas, Caroline. Your next role will be better than the sylph. We will make sure of it."

Afterward, Caro and Robin stood side by side on the street.

"Home?" Robin asked.

"No." Caro dangled her nearly empty coin purse between them. "I've got one more visit planned for today."

"All right," Robin agreed, hailing a hackney.

Caro gave the driver the address of the bank where Hastings had sent her bribe. Robin handed her into the hackney's cab, settling wordlessly beside her as the driver clucked at his horses and the wheels ground into motion beneath them.

"I never disregard your advice," Caro explained. "But I must choose my own path. Not your way. Not Giselle's, either. But somewhere between."

## Chapter Thirty-Two

Adam arrived at the bridle path connecting Irongate and Stag Run before dawn the next morning. He'd bundled up, not sure how long he'd have to wait, and sat at the base of a massive elm tree, resting his back against the trunk. There were more leaves on the ground now than there had been a few days ago, fewer high above in the canopy.

Adam rubbed his gloved hands together, waiting. Alfie arrived with the first trickle of light through the branches, a thick woolen cap pulled low over his forehead, hiding his pitchy hair and making his water-pale eyes even more startlingly clear.

Adam stood, brushed away the leaves and twigs that clung to his trousers.

Alfie froze.

"Do you remember what I said last time, Alfie?" Adam called, dropping into a shallow lunge. "For old times' sake, here's your warning."

Alfie wheeled about and sprinted in the direction of Stag Run. Maybe he thought he had a chance of reaching safety; maybe he thought Adam wouldn't cross the property line. Alfie had long legs, a massive stride, strong incentive to succeed.

But Adam had years of training on his side, and speed fueled by fury. He gained on Alfie quickly, caught him before he'd counted one hundred paces, and threw his former friend to the ground.

This time, unlike the previous, he didn't hold back.

"My sister," he hissed, locking his knees like a vice on either side of Alfie's ribcage. "My fiancée." He wrapped his hands around Alfie's throat. "And now Daphne? No more," he gritted. "No more."

Alfie's eyes widened. Wheezing, choking, his face flushing red, he began to thrash. He kicked and slapped. He tried to yank Adam's hands away from his throat.

Adam squeezed harder.

Alfie gripped one of Adam's wrists with both hands. He bucked, and they flipped—quick as a coin, from heads to tails—and all of a sudden Adam was on his back, Alfie braced atop him.

"I loved Lily," Alfie rasped. "I still love her. I have grieved her as long as you, and as deeply. She is the cancer in my heart that will not heal. She is the sun that has blinded me to every other woman I meet. And every time you accuse me of treating her lightly, with less care than she deserved, I hate you a little more."

"What care?" Adam scoffed. "By your own confession—"

"I wished to die," Alfie interrupted, his wrecked voice thin and bitter. "I asked you for a bullet to the brain, Adam. I asked you for mercy."

"Then why stop me now?"

"It's been seven years." Alfie climbed off of Adam, landing in a spiderlike heap of arms and legs in the dirt. "I no longer yearn for death with quite the same urgency."

"Good." Adam sat up. "I'd rather you weren't looking forward to it when I kill you."

"Do you know how many times I asked for Lily's hand?"

Adam felt dizzy—and not from the sudden change of elevation. "You asked for her hand?"

"Twenty-five."

"Don't jest."

"Oh, no. I'm serious. I proposed for the first time on the day Lily turned fifteen. Then every month after that for the next two years. Hastings said no."

"You asked my father? Not Lily?"

"You know what they were like. Always at odds. I didn't want to divide them further." Alfie shrugged. "I thought I was averting a catastrophe."

"You ruined her."

"I'd hoped to force a betrothal. I'd hoped to have her pregnant before Hastings found out. But he caught on too fast and arranged a marriage."

"The Duke of Leeds," Adam supplied.

"A seventy-year-old man. Because anyone would be better than me, in your father's estimation." They sat in silence for a moment, and then Alfie continued in a halting, thick voice. "If I were told I could bring one person back from the dead, my parents, my sister, or Lily... for better or for worse, I'd pick Lily. I've never loved anyone more."

"And the others?"

"You never minded about Nan Houghton. Admit it."

"I was already so full of anger and grief—I couldn't take on any more," Adam replied. "But I should have minded. She was innocent. Hurting her was no way to get to me."

Alfie shrugged and looked away. "I wanted to die. I didn't care who I hurt in order to make it happen. I look back and there are whole months I can't account for."

"That still leaves Daphne."

"Daphne is like a sister to me. Of course I could guess how you'd feel about it, but after Georgina died I needed... someone like her. A girl who'd treat me like family. There aren't many of that sort around, you know."

Adam had never lacked for female attention; he was handsome enough, and titled. But he'd never been a model of male perfection, as Alfie was—tall and slender and tragic. Before he'd turned obnoxious, he'd been able to set a whole room to swooning with a glance.

"No," Adam agreed. "Probably not."

"What happened to your fortune-hunter?"

Adam frowned. "Who's been talking to you about her?"

"Daphne."

"Ah." Adam shrugged. "She got her fortune."

"Better than yours?"

"She took a hefty bribe to look elsewhere."

"I can't say I blame her." Alfie snorted. "One of these days Hastings is going to realize that he's wrecked his own family, and then he'll have to start scheming against himself."

Adam laughed.

"At least that will give him a worthy opponent. At last." Alfie picked up a twig and flicked it past his feet. "Lily might have given him a challenge, if she'd lived long enough."

"I might," said Adam. "Right now."

Alfie raised an eyebrow.

Adam stared at the ground between his feet. The soil of his ancestors, of his childhood. Gray, clayey, dense, layered with brittle leaves and tiny ants. They had crossed this way, back and forth, hundreds of times as children. They'd played cricket together at Eton, argued philosophy late into the night at Oxford, joined the same club in London.

They had been friends. They had, each of them, failed Lily. And then they had failed one another: failed to ask the right questions, failed to offer support when it was most needed. Neither of them were the better for it.

"I'm on my way to London," he said, rising to his feet. He reached out to take Alfie's hand and help him stand. "I'm scheduled to leave in an hour, and I could use a friend."

Alfie smiled. His teeth showed, white but a little crooked. Jumbled. It was the most honest smile Adam had seen from him since they were boys. "I'll see you there."

Adam found his luggage loaded into one of the Hastings coaches upon his return—he had no conveyance of his own, nor yet any horseflesh; a situation he'd soon have to remedy—and Finn waiting next to the door with a packet of letters in his hand.

Adam took the knotted bundle as he climbed onto the step and into the coach's shadowy interior. "Everything in order?"

"Down to the last button and shoehorn," answered Finn, following behind and closing the door. Mick had taken up the job of escorting Ed Harris to his home, so it was just the two of them. "You'll want to read the one on top."

Adam raised his eyebrow. Finn filtered his mail, answering or discarding letters that didn't require Adam's direct attention. He cracked the seal and unfolded the paper to reveal a note from a reputable bank in London, explaining that Miss Caroline Small had offered to invest in the construction of a railroad spur reaching from the London-Dover line to the village of Eastbourne.

She would wish to remain anonymous, the letter read. She preferred the role of silent partner. As many practical details had already been settled, she had no wish to alter standing arrangements.

The letter had been neatly written, signed by one of the bank officers. Up to twenty-five thousand pounds was available to him, if he accepted. All of it, everything she'd squeezed from his father, funneled back to him.

At the bottom, in a light feminine hand, were three unnecessary but wonderful words: Don't look down.

## Chapter Thirty-Three

One week later, Adam pulled his pocket watch from his trouser pocket, clicked open the gold lid, and stared at the Roman numerals on the face. "The banker's messenger arrived at Hastings House an hour ago?"

Alfie tore his gaze away from the window of his Charles Street townhouse, in the heart of Mayfair, to glance at Adam's watch. "On the dot."

"And Miss Small is still at Mrs. Villiers's ballet studio," Adam added. Their last report on Caro's whereabouts had been only ten minutes ago.

"She won't be, if you keep dawdling."

"I'm on my way." He picked up a leather portfolio from a side table, but hesitated on his way out of the room. "You're sure you can handle my father?"

"If he bites, I'll reel him in." Alfie jerked his chin. "Now be gone."

Adam drove a curricle borrowed from Alfie to the Emlyn townhouse, a nondescript building in a middling neighborhood. He left the horse and vehicle with Alfie's tiger, bounded up to the doorway, and lifted the knocker.

He waited, staring down at the blurry ovoid reflection of his face in his boots for a seeming eternity. Why didn't anyone answer?

Impatiently, Adam knocked again. This time, a tall man only a few years younger than Adam himself opened the door. He bore the same exotic features that made Caro so lovely, thickened and broadened into a masculine shape. The effect was just as stunning on a man as a woman.

Adam handed over his card. "I've come to request the honor of a visit."

The young man took the card. His cheeks flushed red as he read the raised black letters printed across the thick cardstock. "Lord Bexley?"

"That's right."

The young man dropped Adam's card and drew back his fist. Adam just had time to ask himself, Is Caro's brother going to hit me? before his head exploded with pain. He hadn't had time to brace himself for the blow and stumbled while the world spun around him.

By the time he'd managed to stand up straight and return his attention to the door, an older man had joined the young one. The newcomer, a faded wreck of a human being with dark, lively eyes and a soft mouth, was easily identifiable as the Viscount Emlyn. Caro's father.

"Bring him in," ordered Emlyn.

The young man grabbed Adam by the elbow and hauled him inside. Adam found himself shoved onto a sofa in a cluttered, shabby drawing room while the brother and Emlyn stood in front of him, both of them scowling.

"Reginald or Bertrand?" Adam asked the younger one.

"Bertrand."

Adam rubbed his jaw. "Can I ask why you hit me?"

Bertrand widened his stance and gave him an incredulous look. "You ruined my only sister."

"And refused to pay for it," added Emlyn.

"Perhaps I can make amends?"

"You can't buy my sister's virtue," Bertrand sputtered.

"How much?" asked Emlyn.

"One thousand pounds—" Adam began.

"Two!" Emlyn interrupted.

"—Every year until she reaches her majority," Adam finished. "Is that enough?"

"You can't sell Caro to this cad," protested Bertrand. "After what he's done? And anyhow, you know that—"

"Well, how much do you want?" Emlyn asked his son.

Adam reached into his portfolio before Emlyn and Bertrand could bicker themselves around to demanding a price that he couldn't pay. He extracted a draft, names and signatures already filled out, and handed it to the viscount.

He'd moved most of his money to a new bank, one his father didn't patronize. But he'd left one thousand pounds in his old account, and this draft would empty it out.

He wanted his father to know where it was going. He wanted his father to guess at why.

And he needed Emlyn to take the bait.

A thin, bespectacled young man appeared at the door before Emlyn could say anything else. Robin, Adam knew instantly. Caro's cherished younger brother.

Robin fussed with the too-short sleeves of his jacket. "Who's this?"

"Meet the Earl of Bexley." Bertrand waved his hand lazily at Adam. "He's trying to purchase our sister on the cheap."

Robin blinked, small and solemn. The opposite of Caro, and yet... oddly alike. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"But what guarantee do I have that you'll want to keep her until she turns twenty-one?" Emlyn asked, drawing Adam's attention. "If you only want her for a year, you'll have cheated me out of money, thousands of pounds, really—"

He'd want Caro for the rest of his life, through sickness and health, good times and bad, but Adam could guess how well Emlyn would respond to such a reply. "You'll have the money no matter what." He pulled a second sheet from his portfolio. "Sign here, and it will be guaranteed."

The contract did guarantee Emlyn his thousand pounds a year, up to Caro's majority. Adam had asked his father's solicitor to prepare the document. It also noted, in a clause Emlyn would doubtless find irrelevant, that all payments would cease if Caro married.

Emlyn signed the contract and took the draft.

"Thank you, Lord Emlyn. I'm glad we could come to an agreement." Adam stood and crossed to the threshold, where reedy young Robin hovered.

"I say, Lord Bexley?" Bertrand queried.

Adam turned, raising his eyebrows.

"Is it true you beat Ed Harris in a fight? There's a rumor going 'round, and if it's true—"

"He was down for the count," Adam confirmed.

Bertrand whistled, his earlier animosity forgotten. Adam smiled, not because he cared for the young man's admiration—it was wildly inappropriate—but because he was glad for the confirmation that Harris had done his part. When he turned around again, he caught the deep contempt in Robin's eyes.

"You'll be out of here in a week," Adam said, his voice low, clapping the young man on the shoulder.

Robin shook off his grasp. "My sister led me to expect a better sort of man."

"Let's hope she was right," Adam replied, continuing into the front lobby and out the door. He took up the curricle's reins, sending Alfie's tiger back to his perch, and surveyed the street. He hoped one of his father's men was watching, somewhere. He hoped the report would travel swiftly, to connect with news of the draft and the contract.

Combined with news of the boxing match, Adam knew what his father would be thinking. Knew what assumptions he'd make, and how he'd react. Adam had, in fact, gambled his whole future on his ability to predict his father's next move.

## Chapter Thirty-Four

Caro did not enjoy learning new dances. She hated being so aware of her own imperfections. She hated feeling clumsy and making mistakes. And though she had discipline enough to repeat a short sequence of moves hundreds of times in a row, she enjoyed herself more when it was easy.

The knock on the door of Giselle's studio came as a relief. Caro paused, hoping for a break, but Giselle motioned for her to continue and disappeared into the lobby. She returned seconds later, resuming her elegant lean against the wall.

"You didn't open the door," Caro panted.

"I didn't give you permission to rest," Giselle replied. "From the beginning. That's right. More supple. Remember what we talked about? Lengthen your arms. I shouldn't have to remind you—"

The knock sounded again at the door, louder than before. Caro stumbled, jarred by the noise—the visitor had to be a man, to knock like that—but Giselle only raised her eyebrows and tapped her slippers against the floorboards, impatient.

"It isn't one of my brothers, is it?" Caro asked. She'd moved out days ago, but not one had come calling.

"No." Giselle narrowed her jade-green eyes. With a swish of her soft skirts, she shoved herself away from the wall to pace toward the back of the studio, where a flight of narrow stairs led up to her apartments. "Why don't you greet our visitor?"

Caro watched Giselle's retreat, puzzled until she peeked through the corridor into the studio's small lobby.

The glass window set into the door revealed Adam's profile.

Caro trotted up to the door and flipped the lock. She turned the knob and pulled, heart fluttering and sweat-slicked skin like ice. "Lord Bexley?"

His gaze traveled hungrily over her body; his full lips parted, soft and silent. Caro shifted her weight onto one leg and threw her shoulders back.

"I have something to show you."

"Show me?" Caro blinked. "Right now?"

"Only a short walk away."

Caro gestured at herself. "Give me a few minutes to dress..."

"No. Don't. What you're wearing right now is perfect. Just—if you have something to cover yourself with?"

Caro took her cloak down from its peg and settled it around her shoulders. She reached up to draw the hood over her brow, but Adam stopped her, his fingers sweeping hers aside as he pushed the cloth back to settle around her shoulders.

"Don't hide."

"You may not wish to be seen with me, Adam. News of my disgrace—"

"I will always wish to be seen with you," he interrupted.

Their gazes locked.

"Your father will protest."

"I certainly hope so."

Caro hesitated. She didn't want to tangle with the Duke of Hastings ever again.

"All I'm asking for is an hour of your time, Caro. Indulge me."

Adam offered his arm. Caro crossed the threshold, looped her hand around his elbow, and let him lead her down the street.

"Has your return been very difficult?" Adam asked, keeping his voice down.

Caro shrugged. "Giselle has welcomed me. I haven't spent so much time with her in years, and it's been a great pleasure."

Muscles jumped under Adam's superfine sleeve; she supposed her feint hadn't been particularly adroit.

"Your fight with Ed Harris has reached the scandal sheets," Caro observed, changing the subject. "I was sorry to learn that after all our efforts to keep your identity from him, he still discovered your name."

"I told him," Adam replied.

"You?" Caro stopped short, astonished.

"And I asked him to spread the word."

"You wished to achieve infamy?"

"Precisely."

Adam urged her onward and Caro continued at his side in silence, trying to make sense of his last comments. After a few minutes, he brought them to a halt before the marble-columned, pedimented entryway of a grand building—very tall, wide enough to allow for five sets of doors along the plinth, the windows dark.

"Wait a minute." Adam reached into his tailcoat, extracting a set of keys. "I'm still getting the hang of these."

Caro surveyed the street. She saw several passersby gawking, whispering behind raised hands. It wouldn't take long for gossip to spread. She notched her chin up, fine-tuned her posture. Elegant, unconcerned. As though she were standing before one of Irongate's windows, looking out on the calm green lawn.

Still, she was glad when Adam opened the door and gestured her inside.

"What is this?" She stepped into a massive hall. Frescoes climbed the high walls and filled the ceiling. Curving staircases snaked up to a high balcony on either side, and underfoot spread tiles of pink and green marble.

"A proposal," Adam replied, then speared her with a glittering, ironic glance. "Of a sort I doubt you've encountered before. This way."

She followed him through a pair of felt-clad double doors into... a theater. Rows of wooden seats marched down to the bare stage. Ranks of boxes protruded the walls, each rounded balcony empty.

"What are we doing here?"

"Take a look at the stage," he answered, resting his palm at the small of her back, urging her down the narrow central corridor splitting the seats.

The stage was empty. Scrupulously clean, no sets in evidence. "Adam?"

He lifted her up by the waist and, turning her midair, sat her down on the wooden floorboards, her feet dangling, her eyes just about level with his.

"Sir Walter killed Matthew," said Adam.

"Sir Walter?" Caro repeated, astonished. "He's such a harmless bore."

"He was," Adam agreed. "And would have remained so, most likely, if it weren't for my father's intervention. He reduced Sir Walter to a state of utter penury and desperation, hoping to put a stop to the railroad, and he succeeded on all counts."

"That's... appalling."

"You understood what my father is capable of before I did. The extent of his viciousness, the harm he'll cause in order to have his way. I'm sorry for doubting you," Adam said. "That's the first thing I need to tell you."

Caro nodded. She wasn't sure what sort of conversation began this way.

"Second of all: I appreciate your offer to invest, but I must refuse."

"What?" Caro reached out to clasp his hand. "You can't."

"I must," Adam replied gently. He touched her cloth-covered knee, his hand warm and solid. "It's not enough, to continue on as I've been before. Mostly cowed, mostly obedient, making plans for a future that he has time, and resources, to dismantle before I achieve anything."

He took a deep breath. "My father must understand that every attempt he makes to force me into compliance, every effort to blockade the life I'd choose in favor of the life he wishes me to lead, will only push me further from his desired goal."

"Adam, we can't marry." Caro smiled, uncomprehending. "I signed a contract. I took quite a bit of money."

"It's true that we can't marry."

Caro's smile faded.

"You could continue on as my mistress."

Anger arrived with such force that she felt light-headed, almost gleeful. She slapped Adam's hand away from her knee and braced her palms against the stage floor, preparing to flee, but he clasped his hands around her waist and held her still.

"Hear me out," he insisted. "Look around."

"At the empty theater?" Caro spluttered.

"I want you to understand that you are the most important person in the world to me. I can't marry you—but I can give you something different. My fate, my future, in your hands."

"Your fate?" Caro scoffed. "You have no idea what you're asking."

"This theater is for sale," Adam continued, undaunted, trying to bore a hole through her skull with his eyes. "Ninety thousand pounds. Forty from me. Twenty from you. And thirty from Alfie. We'll be partners."

"You want me to follow in Sir Walter's footsteps? I might as well throw those twenty thousand pounds in the Thames—and then toss the rest of it in afterward. Who knows what your father is capable of!"

"I know what he's not capable of. Understanding art. Entertainment. Leisure. He has no sense for it. Neither do I. I'd hand all my votes to you, Caro. You'd have a two-thirds share in a musical theater in the center of London. You would have control over the staff, the players, the entertainments."

"And I'd watch them all fail—"

"You could perform, if you want." Adam barreled on. "I'd like to see you on stage, with hundreds of people watching you. I think you'd have them eating from the palm of your hand in seconds."

"Your kept woman on stage, for all the world to ogle?"

"I've had enough of shame. Haven't you?"

Caro stilled.

Adam let go of her waist. His shoulders dropped, tension releasing. "I need you to understand how much I want you at the center of my life. If we can't marry, I want you to know—every day, in every way I can think of—that you are my world. I only have forty thousand pounds left; I'm willing to bet it all on you."

"But what if I'm right?" Caro asked. "What if your father mounts a campaign against the theater—against myself, or Kingston? What then?"

"Then I'll try earning my living in prizefights," Adam answered. "Or we could mount a tour through Europe. Introduce you onto every stage."

"Escalation," Caro breathed, finally understanding.

"Only escalation," Adam agreed. "And only you. I won't look at another woman. There will be hardship—our children won't bear my name, and their birthright will be scorn rather than admiration. They'll inherit no titles nor any entailed estates."

He gathered her hands into his own. "But I'd rather father your children than husband my pride; I'd rather start a happy family than keep an unhappy one alive for one generation more. That's my choice," he concluded, "but I can't force you to make it with me. You could ask for more, and better, from another man."

Caro climbed up onto the bare stage, flashing her stockinged legs and the tops of her pantalets. "Would you like to see the new dance Giselle and I have devised?"

Some of the hope in Adam's expression cooled, shuttered, but he nodded. "Of course."

Caro took her position at the very center of the stage. She had never wished to perform in front of an audience; she understood the hardships too well. Dancing had always meant secrecy to her.

But now Caro looked out at all the empty seats and wondered what it would be like to see them filled. To see jewels winking in the torchlight, women in their finery and men on their best behavior, all of them looking at her. To hear a full orchestra play for her, to see sets designed for her, a costume sewn just for her.

She pictured it all, and she danced.

The steps had evolved from the dance that Caro performed for Adam in her bedroom at the Dower House. She'd confronted the possibility that she'd never see Adam again, that love had come and gone for her, and she hadn't been able to let go of that piece of her heart without building a memorial to it.

So she'd shown Giselle the movements. Together they'd stripped away the more lascivious elements and enhanced the essence of it: liquid, sensual, greedy. She rolled and churned and flowed, earth and sea and sky, salt spray and sharp breezes, sheer cliffs and sturdy lighthouses.

Her new dance began by invoking the thrill of a first kiss, but it didn't end there. She'd conceived the next segment as a journey away from shore, into the deep waters. No landmarks to lead the way, no compass to show true north. Only emotions that swelled overhead like mighty waves, her heart carried forward on a little white sail, just a speck in the widening sea. Overwhelmed, endangered, bewildered.

Dancing, she knew, was always about an impossible reality. With La Sylphide, she'd tried to dance away her humanity and, for a few scant minutes of every day, felt like she'd succeeded. Probably love could never be as decadent, as graceful, as all-consuming and unapologetically physical as this pantomime she'd invented. She'd felt the hard edges already; she'd just entertained a proposal that could only be called degrading.

But her dance was love, and it was her answer, and when she finally stopped moving she fell to her knees and drank from Adam's lips as though he were a fountain that could quench her every thirst.

## Chapter Thirty-Five

A slow clap echoed through the empty theater and Caro tore her mouth away from Adam's. The Duke of Hastings stood at a side door—he was the one clapping—with the Earl of Kingston smirking silently at his side.

"The acoustics are particularly good at that entrance," Adam murmured under his breath, sweeping Caro into his arms and standing her in the shelter of his arm.

"You mean he heard—"

"Everything," Adam finished.

Goosebumps rose along Caro's arms.

"If that's the sort of production that we'll be staging here," said Kingston, "I predict that the three of us will soon be very rich."

"Shut your vile mouth," muttered Hastings, picking his way between two rows of seats.

"A body doesn't learn to move like that in a day," Kingston continued, following behind the Duke. "Imagine how many years Miss Small must have dedicated to her art. A safe investment, don't you think? I can't wait to see what she does next."

Hastings gaze slid up and down her body; it was the coldest, least sexual assessment to which she'd ever been subjected.

His perusal concluded, Hastings turned his attention on his son. "What do you propose?"

"Caro and I will marry, with your full support and blessing." Adam paused. "And you will leave Daphne in my care."

Hastings twisted his cane in his hand, slowly. "I have two conditions."

"I'll hear them," Adam said.

Hastings nodded at Adam. "You will never fight for money." He nodded at Caro. "And she will never perform in public."

Adam held out his hand. "Done."

His father took it, and they shook.

"And the theater?" Kingston asked.

"I wash my hands of you. Buy it. Run it into the ground." Hastings's piercing glare found Caro again. "If you can make the attempt, after you've returned every last one of the twenty-five thousand pounds I hoped would avert this disaster."

Hastings turned and walked, straight-backed and alone, from the theater.

"Are we still interested?" Kingston asked mildly.

"I don't think we can," Adam replied. "I have forty thousand. I don't think you want to put in fifty."

"It's not the money I mind," drawled Kingston. "It's the responsibility."

"I have a dowry of twenty thousand pounds," Caro interrupted.

Adam and Kingston paused to consider this information.

"That makes sixty, between the two of you," Kingston said. "We're back where we started."

"Caro..." Adam hesitated. "Do you really want the risk?"

Caro gaped. Words failed her. After all that, to balk at a little risk?

"I think," said Kingston, "that I'll make sure His Grace has left the building." He backed away a few steps. "Let me know if you need a witness."

Caro watched Kingston leave and then turned to Adam, balling her hands up into tiny fists. "You planned that," she accused.

"Of course."

"And all the things you said—about putting me at the center of your world—those were lies?"

"I meant every word—"

"For how long?" Futile though it was, Caro leaped at Adam and punched him as hard as she could. "A few minutes, and now you're done?"

He reeled backward as though she'd struck with the force of a battering ram, raising his hands with palms open and out-turned. "It had to be real," he protested. "It can be real."

"You let them"—she hit him again, connecting with the massive bulk of his chest, over his heart—"see me!" She pummeled his neck and shoulders.

The back of Adam's legs hit the stage.

"That was private!" Caro shoved at him with both hands.

Adam toppled backward onto the smooth wood of the stage.

Caro climbed up after him, awkward in her skirts and propelled by furious urgency. She planted one knee on his belly.

Her hair, falling loose from its pins, hung like a tattered curtain on either side of her face. Not sure what devil drove her, she leaned all her weight onto that knee, into the sheet of muscle beneath his ribcage, dense and hard and tensing against the pressure. But he didn't resist or push her away, just stared at her with eyes as clear and warm as Darjeeling tea, his high forehead naked, his full lips parted and waiting.

Caro planted her other foot on Adam's ribcage. She knelt atop him now, rising and falling with his breaths, a leaf on a stream. Fisting her hands into his collar, she kicked off her shoes and pulled herself forward and up until she stood atop him, as though he were a mountain that she'd climbed. She could feel his heartbeat in the twitch of veins against the soles of her feet. She rode his every inhale and exhale, her whole body swaying to the rhythm.

Caro narrowed her eyes. She watched, waiting, ready for a tumble, as she lifted one foot and trailed her toes down... down to his navel and below, and rubbed the ball of her foot along the ridge of his erection.

He twitched and hardened. If he'd been a dog she would have said she'd found just the right spot to scratch, there was such simple, unquestioning wonder written across his expression.

"I want it," she said. Then she pointed her toes and burrowed down between his legs, letting her instep make contact with the soft, tender globes there.

She waited, watched. She had to flex her weight-bearing foot to keep steady as his breaths came faster. His pupils dilated. And then she pressed with her foot—as though she were nudging a crooked picture into place on the wall, just that much pressure and no more—and he groaned. The vibrations rose up through her feet all the way through her calves. She grinned down at him as she lifted her foot away from his sensitive flesh and dragged it slowly back up his body until she'd flicked the underside of his chin with her big toe.

"It's yours. Take the keys. And lift up your skirt," he gasped.

When she danced, she wore loose drawers that gathered at her knees. She raised her skirts and untied the drawstring top, pulling the bunched fabric loose and letting the thin linen fall away from her waist. She kicked them away, her eyes on Adam's though his were not on hers.

"Christ," he whispered.

Caro let go her skirts to fumble with the fastenings on her dress. That seemed to release Adam from the spell he'd been under—one second she was groping awkwardly at her back, the next she was falling forward, stomach in her throat, with just time enough to squeak before she landed with her knees cupped in Adam's palms and spread on either side of his head.

She tried to squeeze her thighs together but he controlled her whole body through her knees, spreading them wider as he darted his head up inside her skirt.

She let her head fall back on her neck, let her shoulders droop and follow, her hair a heavy weight pulling her down. Only Adam held her up—his hands strong and warm, his tongue at her core, seeking and finding the little knot of flesh where pleasure lived. He sucked, flicked his tongue, moved in ways she hadn't the power to analyze or question when swamped by sensation, all the stronger for having been missed in his absence.

Her hair brushed his hips and an idea struck. Carefully, while she still had presence of mind enough to act, she raised her arms high and then bent her back, letting her head lead the way, farther and farther until—there, her fingers landed on Adam's thighs. She flattened her palms, making her body into a bridge, and then carefully freed one hand so she could fumble with the buttons on Adam's trousers.

It was irritating and difficult to undo buttons one-handed while upside down and riding the very edge of orgasm—and Adam didn't help, his nimble tongue redoubling its efforts—but she set her teeth and finally succeeded in lowering the fall of his trousers.

His erection sprang free, rising eagerly to meet the tongue she darted out to graze the tip.

Adam wrenched his mouth away from her for long enough let out a curse and Caro seized the opportunity afforded by his surprise. She steadied both hands against his thighs and took the head of his cock into her mouth.

It was an awkward move—she recognized, as she bobbed her head shallowly, that this was a trick, a game, something different from the primal union of bodies in the darkness of night—but she was too pleased with herself to care.

Adam responded by plucking at the little nub of sensation with his teeth and then sucking on it hard. It didn't take him long to make her forget about tussling and battling for primacy; she gasped and panted, his erection, dampened with her saliva, resting against her cheek.

She couldn't move; she couldn't fill her lungs; she'd been pinned in place like a butterfly to a scrap of pasteboard, and by her own machinations. The wave of sensation crested, painfully sharp. Her arms trembled with exhaustion and she couldn't let go. Adam gripped her knees tighter, kept his mouth fastened tight to her mound while her hips jerked.

Her arms finally gave out and she fell backward, knees in the air, legs spread, ungainly and throbbing with fizzly little aftershocks that bloomed in her belly without any interference from Adam at all.

He shifted beneath her, letting her slide from between his legs onto the stage, rucking up her skirt. Caro clasped her thighs around his waist and raised her hips to meet his first thrust, deep and to the hilt, his fingers sinking into her rump tight enough to pinch.

Heavens, that felt good. Right. Like the answer to life, the universe, everything, and if wasn't right to have such thoughts she'd trouble herself about it later because—ah, when he buried himself deep like that, just so, when her whole body tingled with the thrill of it, when she met his eyes as he reached his crisis and his pupils seemed to tremble, flashing her a wordless communication, she understood that some small moments in life pulled all other experiences inside out, like a jacket with the lining exposed, bright silk instead of drab wool, and the reversal was as real and true as all the solemn thoughts of scholars in all the echoing vaults of history.

The world would fall right again—she felt it happening as Adam lifted his weight off of her body, rained musk-scented kisses over her neck and hairline—but she had no questions, no worries. She and Adam had been made into one flesh, and soon they would marry, and that, to her, was bliss.

## Afterword

Thank you for reading The Secret Heart. I hope you enjoyed it.

I appreciate all reviews. If you take the time to write one, you have my thanks.

You can learn more about me or my books at my website. That's where you'll find my blog (ramblings about what I'm reading, what I'm researching, what I'm up to), my FAQ (what books are out, what books are in the pipeline, etc.), along with links to sign up for my newsletter, which is the best way to learn about new releases.

If you want to drop me a line, you can email me at erin@erinsatie.com, chat with me on Twitter at @erinsatie, or message me on Facebook.

The Secret Heart is the first book in the No Better Angels series. Keep reading for an excerpt from the next book, The Lover's Knot.

# The Lover's Knot

## Chapter One

Spring, 1839  
Derbyshire

Julian Swann had been born seventh in line to inherit the dukedom of Clive. A gap that ought to have expanded over the years, as the six who came before him sired offspring. Sons who would grow up, take wives, and beget more sons.

Instead of adding new branches to the family tree, Fate had hacked away at the old. Age, war, disease. Everything that could have gone wrong had. The gap narrowed coffin by coffin, then finally closed.

And so, newly ennobled, Julian exchanged one name for another. One residence for another. One set of problems for...another. That much he could guess from moment he arrived at High Bend, the duchy's grandest holding.

Now his grandest holding.

His predecessor's widow greeted him in the high front hall, young and fresh against a background of weathered stone and moth-eaten tapestries. She wore a gown that flaunted her curves rather than her grief, mourning black fitted tight around her full bosom and trim waist, crepe pleats flaring with her hips. She looked, he thought, like a nun in an erotic drawing.

"Are you ready? I'm about to perform my last act as mistress of the castle." The Dowager Duchess of Clive eyed Julian the same way he might admire a friend's horseflesh, her regard frank and almost clinical. "My husband's rooms have been cleaned and aired in preparation for your arrival. They're yours now."

She paused, and Julian felt a certain bitter satisfaction when she added, "Welcome home, Your Grace."

Despite everything, he knew he had come home. As a child and young man, he'd kept his little room in High Bend while the title tumbled down the family tree. He might as well have been part of the entail: each new duke inherited the pastures, the mines, the factories, and the child.

Julian squeezed the young Dowager's hands and leaned in to kiss her cool cheek. "I hope you know that you'll always have a place here. You're welcome to stay on at High Bend for as long as you wish."

"I do not wish." She grimaced. "I am sick unto death of this old pile. I've always hated living so far from Town, and now..."

"I'm sorry I couldn't attend the funeral." Julian settled a hand at the small of her back and urged her out of the front hall, with its drafts and echoes, and into the first of High Bend's two central courtyards. Overhead, a latticework of iron and glass kept out the worst of the weather. "By the time I heard the news, there was no chance of arriving in time."

"The news." The Dowager laughed, low and throaty. "But, Julian, you haven't heard the news. I've tried to keep it quiet—I didn't dare write it down in a letter, though God knows the coroner's told every shopkeeper and washerwoman in the county." She took a deep breath and stared straight ahead. "Clive didn't die of an apoplexy. He took his own life."

Julian froze. "That's not possible."

She turned around to face him. One corner of her mouth, thin-lipped and deep red, turned up. "I would have said the same. And yet it was so."

"For no reason? With no warning?" Julian shook his head. Men like Clive did not commit suicide. He'd been wealthy, esteemed. A duke, with a beautiful daughter only a few years younger than his even more beautiful (second) wife. "I don't believe it."

"He left no room for doubt," said the Dowager Duchess. "Come along. I'll show you."

The stiff crepe of her skirts rustled on the granite as she strode purposefully out of the courtyard and into a wide corridor. Lit sconces cast flickering orange haloes against the stone walls, an oriental carpet swallowed the noise of their footsteps. She led him up one of the spiral staircases tucked into High Bend's turret towers and down another corridor to a small sitting room, elegantly if impersonally furnished.

"I didn't think you'd like my staying on in my old rooms, with the connecting door." The Dowager opened up a small secretary and extracted a piece of paper from the bottom of a pile. "So I've moved all my things down here until I can manage a permanent move."

"Here." She held the paper with the tips of her fingers. "Proof."

Julian took the sheet and read.

I know what I am doing, and I will not apologize.  
I have no confession to make but this. I meted out the poison and I drank it of my own free will.  
I am so sorry. I never did have the courage to do the right thing until it was too late. Please forgive me for asking you to remember the man I wished to be rather than the one I was.

Brief. To the point. And fake.

"What is this?" Julian traced the letters with his fingertip. He knew who'd written this note, and it hadn't been his predecessor—though the ninth Duke of Clive's signature did appear at the bottom.

"He left a note." Gloria's voice was low, furious. "He wanted us to know."

"I suppose it would have been suspicious otherwise," Julian murmured. He sniffed the paper, but the only perfume he detected was the Dowager Duchess'. "For a man to die of poison without any explanation."

"How soft-hearted you are," marveled the Duchess.

Julian looked up, startled. It had been a long time since anyone had accused him of undue kindness.

"He wasn't trying to protect us." She slapped the table. "Who would have guessed? Who would've sounded the alarm? He was trying to punish us. To make us feel guilty."

"And do you?" Julian asked.

The Dowager Duchess blushed.

But no. She hadn't the skill to copy her husband's hand. Clive the Ninth, only one rung ahead of Julian in the ladder of succession, had worked as a solicitor for more than a decade before inheriting the title. He'd developed a tidy, precise, legal hand. Hard to duplicate without similar training—or a talented forger's skill.

And in these frozen hinterlands, he could only name one person whose abilities matched the task. Sophia Roe, Julian's former fiancée. As a young man, he'd marveled at her talent. On more than one occasion, he'd seen her forgeries fool the very individuals whose handwriting she had copied. They would take their own memories to task rather than doubt the evidence on the page.

In later years, after he'd started working for the Foreign Office, he'd been more impressed by her restraint. To his knowledge, Sophie had never attempted to profit from her ability.

But he'd read Clive's will. The ninth Duke had left her a handsome bequest—a bundle of properties guaranteeing her a revenue of some twelve thousand pounds a year. Perhaps, threadbare as her pockets were, she'd decided to hasten her benefactor's demise?

Perhaps it hadn't been the first time she'd succumbed to temptation.

The thought chilled him, but why? She wasn't his wife. Her crimes couldn't blacken his name. He hadn't even seen her in ten years. And yet...

Julian drew the tip of one finger over a majuscule "I". He felt a bump where ink had pooled at the base of the downstroke, where Sophie had labored over a letter that would have been a clean, quick line in his cousin's hand. A small flaw.

He thumbed the curled flourish atop a small "o", the line thinner and lighter than Clive the Ninth's heavy fingers could have managed. Sloppy. Sophie must have written this in a rush. He knew her work. When she took her time, she could fool anyone.

Why hurry? Unless she meant these little flaws as a message to him. Because only he would look at this note and see the truth. He knew her abilities, and he'd been trained—first by Sophie herself, later by experts at the Foreign Office—to recognize such small irregularities.

"I have to go," Julian announced.

"What?"

"I have to go," he repeated, handing the letter back to the Dowager Duchess.

"You've only just arrived," she protested. "There's nothing to be done. Take the afternoon to rest. There will be plenty of time in the morning—"

But he didn't wait to hear her suggestion. If Sophie wanted a confrontation, he'd give her one. A decade ago, she'd sent her uncle to break their engagement rather than confront him herself. She'd denied him any chance to plead his case. But he wasn't small-minded. He'd teach her a lesson just by making an appearance.

Julian retraced his steps to the front hall. He donned a thick scarf and his greatcoat before stepping out into the chill spring air. High Bend stood atop a windswept tor, perilously steep on three sides with a narrow road winding up the fourth. The gray stone of the building blended with the gray sky, melted into the Derbyshire hills. Weak sunlight glinted off the windows, black as dark water.

When the stable boy led his horse around to the front drive, Julian heaved himself into the saddle and urged his mount to a trot. Down they went, the road a pale crease dividing rows of rocky mountains, down to a shallow valley where the village of Padley spread from slope to slope.

Julian left his horse at the inn, flipped a coin to a stableboy, and clicked open his pocket watch. Iron and Wine Writing Fluid, read the label he'd glued to the inside face, 21 Halftail Street. He'd lifted it from a bottle of Sophie's ink years ago, when she'd just started out. Soaked the bottle in water, peeled off the paper, and...kept it.

Most men carried a portrait of their beloved, but Julian never had to worry about forgetting what Sophie looked like. He did have to prod himself to remember what he knew in the abstract, but had never seen or felt or tasted: the woman she'd become, the things she'd gone on to do without him.

Her shop looked much as he'd imagined it, a small cottage only a block away from the row of shops lining Padley's main street. A sturdy wooden sign with Iron & Wine spelled out in polished brass letters hung from a bracket over the lintel. A woman bent at the waist in front of the whitewashed front door, the ribbons of her apron billowing out from her waist.

She had the fine, balanced figure of a Greek caryatid. Supple curves crafted by a deity who preached moderation in all things and possessed skill enough to prove his point in the shape of a woman's body. Sophie had always been just lush enough, just slim enough, just soft enough. Just right, in every way.

A woven shawl slipped down her shoulders. In his memories, she wore silks and fine woolens, muslin and velvet. Not grey serge and undyed homespun. At least her hair had stayed the same—it snarled and frizzed, skeins twisting loose from pins and bonnet to snap in the breeze.

Even after ten years, the sight of her moved him. He wanted to fall to his knees, rub his face in the dirt. Why didn't you want me? Why did you turn me away?

She reached out with her white, white arms, a crystal vial tipped neck-down between ink-stained fingers. A single drop of sunny golden fluid formed at the lip and then, ever so slowly, fell to the ground.

Poison?

Sophie tucked her elbows into her waist and murmured something in a voice too low for him to understand. Sweet words, so gentle and warm that his bone-dry soul wept with envy.

Then the rage came back, and he could move again. "What have you got there, Sophie?"

She staggered, dropping the vial and reeling back against the wall.

Her cheeks had hollowed dramatically since he'd last seen her, as though someone had scooped out all the baby fat with a shovel. With her pointed chin, her face now formed the perfect shape of a heart, marred only by a dark mark high on her left cheek.

The last time they'd been face to face Sophie had been distraught, more than a little drunk, and gushing blood from just that spot. He had left to find help, and then he'd never seen her again.

But he wasn't looking at a scar, now. It resembled a puncture wound, yes, but this mark was deep black. Inky.

It had been made. Stamped, branded, tattooed onto her flesh.

It...didn't surprise him. He could imagine it so easily. While he'd been beating down her door, out of his mind with heartbreak and rage, she'd been boxed up inside, savage with anger of a different kind. She had the strength of a snake eating its tail, self-immolating and infinite.

Could a woman like that commit murder? Oh, yes. Absolutely.
