Hermione had wangled their invitations to the Michaelmas marriage mart Lady Clitheroe was hosting, convinced that at five-and-twenty, there was still hope for Mel. For her part, she’d been glad to attend, but not for the purpose of meeting marriageable men. She’d escaped this day for the once in a lifetime chance to visit one of Lady Clitheroe’s not-too-distant neighbors, one of England’s most successful bankers, Gregory Sawley. Her grandfather.

After the solicitor managing her money bungled an investment, she’d decided that if her grandfather could rise from humble beginnings to become as rich as Croesus, she ought to be able to manage her own small inheritance herself. She had a plan, and it didn’t include matrimony, a risky endeavor even in the most optimistic of circumstances. After months of exchanging letters with her grandfather, she’d jumped at the chance to meet him and be tutored in person.

And he’d been altogether welcoming this day. He’d answered all her questions, and provided a very good luncheon, and then, having more to say, he’d escorted them to his expansive library. Two fireplaces, one at each end, warmed the room against the autumn chill. Above the nearby mantel, the late Mrs. Sawley, Mel’s grandmother, gazed lovingly at the golden-haired babe on her lap, the child who would grow up to be Mel’s headstrong mother. Amazingly, the artist had caught the willfulness in the wide blue eyes and bowed lips of his younger subject.

Outside, the day was advancing, heavy clouds obscuring the late afternoon sun. If they didn’t leave soon, they might have to stay the night.

Was that why her grandfather had required this parting lecture? Did he want her to stay? Pain lurked in his eyes, and his gray pallor and gaunt frame belied the strong voice, putting her in mind of her father’s last illness. She might never see him again, and though their acquaintance was short, she’d miss him, as she still grieved for her father, dead these two years.

“I said a proper marriage, one with proper contracts and settlements, to a man in the Commons, or a lord would do. Your stepfather likely has contacts, but you will not want to be under his thumb, I think.”

A shiver went through her. Upon Papa’s death, she’d dodged that thumb, and Mother’s broad hints at a betrothal to her stepfather’s nephew. She’d fled to Hermione in Hampshire while her mother returned to her husband-to-be in Kent. And the man her mother married would be no help at all to her financial plans. He was far too indolent to take up his seat in the Lords. He’d be nothing but her mother’s tool, and an utter hindrance.

“Aren’t such men often rather pompous and foolish, sir?”

Across the room, a throat cleared loudly.

Grandfather’s lips quirked and he tipped his head toward the interruption. “What about him?”

The him in question was seated on the far end of Grandfather’s spacious library, and apparently had perfect hearing.

Oh, he met Grandfather’s requirements in some ways. He had a seat in the Commons, and someday he would inherit and move on to the Lords. He was also unmarried, his wife having died in childbirth the previous year.

And breathtakingly handsome with rumpled golden hair, soulful blue eyes, and a wide-shouldered, narrow-hipped, long-limbed form that had at first sight sent her blood pounding. Fortunately, she’d had many years following the drum with Papa, and had seen enough well-formed men to master her baser urges.

She shook her head. “It is not that way between us, sir. In truth, I’m rescuing him today from marriage-minded mamas and their daughters.”

“What way must it be? You are a female. Your financial plans require social connections, ones that in your case can only be achieved by marriage. If you don’t believe me, ask Mr. Lovelace.”

Grandfather pointed the tip of his cane at the overstuffed wing chair placed near the opposite fireplace. Mr. Fitzhenry Lovelace, eldest son and heir of Baron Loughton, had retreated there and waited at his ease, allowing them a modicum of privacy whilst imbibing every word.

Mr. Lovelace wasn’t likely to agree with Grandfather on this subject, having that morning accosted her in Lady Clitheroe’s stables, begging the honor of conveying her here in order to escape two doe-eyed misses vying to be the first to be compromised by him.

Mel squeezed her hands together to prevent them from rubbing at the ache between her eyes. After forcing his presence upon her today, Lovelace might as well come and defend her desire to remain unmarried. “What say you, Mr. Lovelace?” she called.

He put aside his book and stood.

His words stirred her out of her imaginings about handsome young men, and she realized she must manage the conversation else she’d slip into sleep, or perhaps something more inconvenient, without thinking.

The Comte had always succumbed to sleep when they’d conversed, no matter the topic. She must soothe this fine-looking and very fatigued man the same way.

Outside, the thunderstorm had moved on, and the rain pounded in a comforting downpour. With the warm fire, and the heavy blankets, and the sleeping dog, it was quite cozy.

But what to talk about? Most certainly not the free trade. It would be far too diverting to put him to sleep, and besides she had no idea what he would do with the knowledge.

The countryside? She might slip and drop a hint about her home at Bloodmoor Hill.

She thought back to her time on the fringes of a London society that she’d found unbearably dull.

The weather.

“I am glad you are enjoying the brandy,” she said. “But I daresay you are not liking this weather. It is quite the worst storm in many seasons, people are saying. Normally at this time of year the sea has quietened.” A lie, of course, but how would he know?

He sipped his drink, eyeing her over the glass.

Oh. Given that it might remind him of her activities that evening and spark questions, the sea was an inappropriate topic, whether or not one was fudging a weather report. “Winters, however are generally mild.”

He yawned, and she went on, discussing the number of rainstorms in March and going back to February, and then January, and making up the story as she went along, until his eyes drooped and the empty glass fell into his lap and lodged itself next to his fall.

Warmth uncurled in her. His trousers were tight in the usual fashion for gentlemen, outlining masculine endowments that sparked her interest far too much. Retrieving the fallen tumbler was out of the question.

She set down her own glass and fought the urge to join him in slumber.

In Darby’s view, Rudgwick Abbey was paradise compared to their present abode, Thornview Farm. With four rooms below, four bedchambers above, and a few small attic rooms for the housekeeper, cook, and two maids, Darby had been sleeping on a cot in the dressing room. His friend, Lord Jeremy Bolton, who had inherited the estate late the previous year from an aunt, was in alt, declaring himself perfectly happy with the cozy cottage and the small income that came with it. And it wasn’t entirely a bachelor establishment; Jeremy, too kind and dutiful to ever be a true rake, had offered shelter to another female relative, an elderly cousin and her even older companion.

He stepped into clean trousers and held up his arms for Darby’s assistance, annoyance niggling at him. He needed a man to tend to his boots, keep his clothing in order, and button his left cuff. Otherwise, he preferred dressing himself, even, or especially, during his time in the army.

“I fear I won’t get the salt stains out of those—”

“Yes, yes,” Rudgwick said. “A fair day for sailing it was, though, Darby. Are you not glad we’re back from touring all the byways of Norfolk?” He’d left Darby behind while he and Jeremy rode hither and yon for the last few weeks, making do with help from inn servants. “Had we supplies on board today we would have made for Inverness.”

Jeremy’s new home had come with a yacht, a smallish one, in truth, too small for a comfortable journey to Scotland. An old school friend and former naval man, Jeffrey Musbury, had traveled up from his cottage on the River Ware to assess the craft, pronouncing it sound for short days of sailing, and inviting them to join him in summer on the two-master he’d been refurbishing.

Darby made a grumbling noise in his throat and fetched the letters. “A brandy, my lord?”

“Yes.” He sighed. There’d be another nagging missive from his fiancée’s grandfather, and a lamenting one from his steward.

Darby set a full glass before him. “Shall I break the seals for you, my lord?”

“Why not read them as well,” he snapped.

Darby blinked in that way that mother did before she straightened her shoulders and walked away from his churlishness. The valet was of an age with Mother, and, like high-born ladies, he’d learned patience and forbearance in the face of surly noblemen.

“Apologies, Darby.” It wasn’t Darby’s or Mother’s fault that a French mortar had blown off his hand at Waterloo. “That was uncalled for. Thank you. I shall manage.”

Darby dipped his head and left, carrying off the wet and soiled garments.

Rudgwick took a healthy swig of the drink. They’d found cases of spirits in the manor’s storeroom, good French brandy, and gin from the Lowlands. It seemed that the free trade reached even the west coast of Norfolk. As pillars of society, he and Jeremy would be expected to support the increased efforts against smuggling, but they had no qualms about availing themselves of Jeremy’s late aunt’s stores.

He closed his eyes and let the drink ease the phantom throb in the hand that was no longer there. Then he shuffled the letters one-handed.

One fat missive and one thin. Both had been sent to London, where he was supposed to be in residence, and forwarded on. He broke the seal on the thin one and read.

Sir Thomas Abernathy, a baronet attached to the Home Office, inquired about his health, and asked about his availability to assist with a matter of interest to the Crown. A reply at his earliest convenience would be appreciated.

His interest was piqued, but he couldn’t help wondering if Mother knew Sir Thomas and if she had put him up to it to orchestrate his return to town.

The second, heftier letter was addressed in a man’s scrawl and sent post-paid from Edinburgh.

He hastened to break the seal and flipped to the signature, laughing out loud when he saw who had signed it.

Colonel Finnley Macbeth, Baron of Calder, had written him. His wife, Greer Macbeth, corresponded with Mother, but the Colonel had never done more than send greetings via those letters.

That called for another dram of brandy.

And then he began to read. A lengthy passage reviewed the Colonel’s recovery (he was mending apace), reported on his cousin, Lord Menteith (still in France), and discussed the plans for the two boys Macbeth had taken charge of, his late cousin Banquo’s sons. That had all been a prelude for an important request.

Your lady mother informs me that you should be in London by now, and so if it would not be an inconvenience to you, I would be much obliged to ask a boon from you. There’s a solicitor by the name of Stephenson in the City who has knowledge of Banquo’s business matters. He’s failed to reply to several letters, and I can only assume he’s ignoring them. I’ve asked Lucie to pay a call on the man. Lady Fiona has offered help from her man of business, and I’ve sent Hyde along to London with Lucie.

Lucie. The name all but leapt from the page. Lucie was in London.

However, of late I’ve had misgivings and worries that, given Banquo’s criminal nature, this Stephenson may be a shifty character. Lucie being Lucie, she’s likely to find the danger an enticement and plunge ahead. Plus, I know that a title can often open doors that would otherwise remain closed.  If you could see your way to offer her assistance, if your new bride has no objections, I would be most grateful.

He read through the letter again and then pulled the bell. As he returned to his seat the door opened.

“That was quick.” He turned and saw that it was not a servant, but his host.

Jeremy was a younger and handsomer version of his brother, the Duke of Northam. A handsomer version of Rudgwick as well, with the same height, dark hair, and gray eyes, though they were completely unrelated.

“At your service, my lord,” he joked. “The servants are busily preparing for dinner.”

“Will you pack my trunk, then?” Rudgwick teased. “Ah, there is Darby, poking his head in behind you. Darby, we are leaving for London in the morning.”

“We are?” Jeremy said.

“You may come as well if you wish. I’ve been summoned to go to the aid of the Crown.” And Lucie Macbeth.

Gus had been in his cups the day he’d met Twisden at a horse market in Brampton, else he wouldn’t have allowed the young pup the informality of his first name, respectable though Wes was. The malaise of his first long winter’s sojourn at Whitlaw Grange, his new estate near what was once the Debatable Land, had made him more sociable than was his wont.

Still, he’d found the friendly lad more sensible than most his age, and the family connection had intrigued him. His late mother had written frequently about the Twisdens, the jovial late baronet and his amiable wife. He knew of their mutual ancestor, Sir Ebenezer Twisden as well, and so, he’d jumped at the chance to visit Twisden Hall. His very resemblance to the old warrior was astonishing, and Gus had been impressed with the well-run estate. Much of it the late baronet’s sensible widow’s doing, Gus’s valet had learned.

And so, when Wes proposed visiting his stepmother and attending the York races and then sweetened the deal with the notion of a marriage mart—it had been a very long, lonely winter—Gus agreed to this sojourn in York.

He turned back to his young erstwhile host. “Practically doddering, you said.”

Wes looked up from pouring spirits from a flask into a tumbler. “What?” His blue-eyed innocence was genuine. Wes saw his stepmother as an ancient, when she could scarcely be much beyond thirty. He ought to have paid more attention to his mother’s descriptions of the Twisdens.

“I cannot stay under your stepmother’s roof, Wes.”

“Whyever not?”

“She is not by any means doddering. She’s a widow, and one young enough that even with you here some of the time…” Wes had planned to depart for several days to visit his Grandmother in Harrogate. “The presence of a single man in her household might stir gossip.”

“She’s three and thirty and is known to be very proper. Plus…” He glanced back at the closed door and lowered his voice. “Though she’s clever and good, she’s plain.”

Gus gazed back at the now empty street. Perhaps plain was the right word to describe each of Lady Twisden’s entirely unremarkable features. But taken as a whole, he would call her appearance amiable, moving, and in fact… pretty. The spark in her eyes when she spotted him, the color rising in her cheeks, those had stirred him as well.

She pressed her lips closed on an even sharper retort. If she wanted to be nagged and prodded about matrimony, she might have remained at Lady Clitheroe’s house party for today’s activity, a picnic, with her much older widowed cousin, Lady Hermione Gravelston and the other guests.

Hermione had wangled their invitations to the Michaelmas marriage mart Lady Clitheroe was hosting, convinced that at five-and-twenty, there was still hope for Mel. For her part, she’d been glad to attend, but not for the purpose of meeting marriageable men. She’d escaped this day for the once in a lifetime chance to visit one of Lady Clitheroe’s not-too-distant neighbors, one of England’s most successful bankers, Gregory Sawley. Her grandfather.

After the solicitor managing her money bungled an investment, she’d decided that if her grandfather could rise from humble beginnings to become as rich as Croesus, she ought to be able to manage her own small inheritance herself. She had a plan, and it didn’t include matrimony, a risky endeavor even in the most optimistic of circumstances. After months of exchanging letters with her grandfather, she’d jumped at the chance to meet him and be tutored in person.

And he’d been altogether welcoming this day. He’d answered all her questions, and provided a very good luncheon, and then, having more to say, he’d escorted them to his expansive library. Two fireplaces, one at each end, warmed the room against the autumn chill. Above the nearby mantel, the late Mrs. Sawley, Mel’s grandmother, gazed lovingly at the golden-haired babe on her lap, the child who would grow up to be Mel’s headstrong mother. Amazingly, the artist had caught the willfulness in the wide blue eyes and bowed lips of his younger subject.

Outside, the day was advancing, heavy clouds obscuring the late afternoon sun. If they didn’t leave soon, they might have to stay the night.

Was that why her grandfather had required this parting lecture? Did he want her to stay? Pain lurked in his eyes, and his gray pallor and gaunt frame belied the strong voice, putting her in mind of her father’s last illness. She might never see him again, and though their acquaintance was short, she’d miss him, as she still grieved for her father, dead these two years.

“I said a proper marriage, one with proper contracts and settlements, to a man in the Commons, or a lord would do. Your stepfather likely has contacts, but you will not want to be under his thumb, I think.”

A shiver went through her. Upon Papa’s death, she’d dodged that thumb, and Mother’s broad hints at a betrothal to her stepfather’s nephew. She’d fled to Hermione in Hampshire while her mother returned to her husband-to-be in Kent. And the man her mother married would be no help at all to her financial plans. He was far too indolent to take up his seat in the Lords. He’d be nothing but her mother’s tool, and an utter hindrance.

“Aren’t such men often rather pompous and foolish, sir?”

Across the room, a throat cleared loudly.

Grandfather’s lips quirked and he tipped his head toward the interruption. “What about him?”

The him in question was seated on the far end of Grandfather’s spacious library, and apparently had perfect hearing.

Oh, he met Grandfather’s requirements in some ways. He had a seat in the Commons, and someday he would inherit and move on to the Lords. He was also unmarried, his wife having died in childbirth the previous year.

And breathtakingly handsome with rumpled golden hair, soulful blue eyes, and a wide-shouldered, narrow-hipped, long-limbed form that had at first sight sent her blood pounding. Fortunately, she’d had many years following the drum with Papa, and had seen enough well-formed men to master her baser urges.

She shook her head. “It is not that way between us, sir. In truth, I’m rescuing him today from marriage-minded mamas and their daughters.”

“What way must it be? You are a female. Your financial plans require social connections, ones that in your case can only be achieved by marriage. If you don’t believe me, ask Mr. Lovelace.”

Grandfather pointed the tip of his cane at the overstuffed wing chair placed near the opposite fireplace. Mr. Fitzhenry Lovelace, eldest son and heir of Baron Loughton, had retreated there and waited at his ease, allowing them a modicum of privacy whilst imbibing every word.

Mr. Lovelace wasn’t likely to agree with Grandfather on this subject, having that morning accosted her in Lady Clitheroe’s stables, begging the honor of conveying her here in order to escape two doe-eyed misses vying to be the first to be compromised by him.

Mel squeezed her hands together to prevent them from rubbing at the ache between her eyes. After forcing his presence upon her today, Lovelace might as well come and defend her desire to remain unmarried. “What say you, Mr. Lovelace?” she called.

He put aside his book and stood.

“Not at all,” she lied. As in many great houses, the kitchens were a good distance away.

“Lady Glanford,” Cassandra said, “you are purposely diverting our mother.”

Just as Sophie opened her mouth to defend herself, the dining room door burst open.

“Here we are.” Windblown and damp, Fitz filled the doorway and paused with a grin and a flourish. “And look who I’ve found. Your favorite brother.”

A man appeared next to Fitz and Sophie’s heart leapt into a gallop.

“I knew it would be you,” Cassandra cried.

Sophie steadied her spoon and tried to quiet the bolt of instant, unbidden attraction, and the rollicking tumult inside her. Taller than Fitz, the brother’s profile revealed a strong stubbled jaw, straight nose, and full lips. Dark hair brushed the edge of a white collar and crisply tied neckcloth; wide shoulders filled the dark superfine of a coat that tapered down to buff breeches covering the powerful legs of a man who must spend a great deal of time in the saddle.

Her gaze traveled back up and met blue eyes, and her breath left her. The same hard-planed cheeks, the same stubborn jaw, the same sardonic lips—but young Lovelace had grown into a shockingly handsome man.

It would have to be that brother.

She stiffened her spine as she’d done on that long-ago day in the Townsends’ garden, fighting the sudden attraction, holding the piercing blue gaze. Oh, he was delicious, and challenging, and…interested. Heat flooded her insides and rose into her cheeks.

“George.” The Lovelace boys swarmed him and pulled his attention away.

She took in a much-needed breath. She’d won this round.

As the tumult increased, she cast her gaze up the table. Artie squirmed in his seat, watching his friends. At the other end, Lady Loughton’s lips twitched as if fighting a frown. Or a smile.

The woman had ten children, but this new arrival was special to her, and as Fitz said, a favorite of his younger brothers and sisters. He was equally windblown and ruddy-cheeked, and likely showing up for dinner in the same clothing he’d traveled in.

Her own father—another hard-edged man—might have done the same, arriving late from the mill after a business meeting. Her vision blurred again.

She shook herself and glanced around—anywhere but at him.

Or not. Foretelling the future was for Travellers and crones, wasn’t it? Not battle-hardened men like himself.

He inhaled slowly, holding the breath for a count, and then eased the air out. Best keep his purpose in mind—he was here to track down Sir Thomas Abernathy, lately arrived in London, and rumored to be attending this rout.

His gaze swept the room, seeking the distinctive bald pate. In spite of his own forty-three years, his eyesight was still keen enough to make out a sniper or spot the dust of a fleeing stag. Keen enough as well to relish the deep décolletages and clinging, delicate, almost transparent skirts on display this night, a vision far more cheering than the one the Sight was showing him.

A more modestly clad woman stood alone halfway across the ballroom, her back turned to him, surveying the room as he was doing.

A memory stabbed him, laced with an old shame. He’d once known a lass with hair like this, so abundant, so near to black. The lady tonight had crowned all the loveliness with dark feathers, like a glorious cormorant. His hand itched to pull out those feathers and rake his hands through the tumble of hair, as he’d once done…

He caught a steadying breath. It couldn’t be her. He’d simply been without a woman too long.

And these visions plaguing him of he knew not what? That foolishness grew from naught but fatigue, the wages of war, and the steady company of too much death. Napoleon had been defeated. He must put the memories of battle and that more distant passion aside. The lovely lady with feathers atop her head was only a stranger wondering where her man had got to.

Yet he couldn’t turn away. As he watched, she pivoted one way, and then the other, allowing a glimpse of dangling earbobs and a firm chin.

Drawn to her, he stepped out on his bad leg just as she turned.

Pain shot through his hip. The room threatened to fall away but he held onto the pain, let it shore him up whilst he swore a silent curse.

It was her.

He slid his hands to her back. “I went to that house for information, not for the company. What a happy surprise that I met an interesting woman.”

Her chin lifted. Her gaze pinned him. Her lips parted. “You—” He stopped the words with a press of his lips to hers, gentling the kiss at the sound of the soft sigh that formed from what undoubtedly had started as a scold.