Ivory woke from a fitful sleep as the shadows were starting to get long. She sat up on her bed, rubbing her eyes. Her braid had come loose, and her hair rioted around her shoulders and down her back. She pushed it back from her face impatiently, thinking it rather perfectly represented how she was feeling right now—undone and scattered.
Ivory had returned to a silent house—Elise had not yet returned, presumably out escorting Mary to the coaching station and making sure she was safely on her way out of London. There was no message from Alex, Elise’s brother, indicating he had come across anything helpful within his network of informants, nor was there word yet from any of the men she had employed to watch the homes of Lady Beatrice’s friends. Knowing she needed a few hours of sleep to stay sharp, Ivory had climbed the stairs to her room and lain down on the bed, still wrapped in Alderidge’s coat.
She’d told herself it was because the room was chilled and because she was too tired to rebuild the fire that had died to embers, but she knew better. If anything, her body was flushed and feverish, yearning for things that she had long ago decided she could live without.
Her husband had been thirty years older than she when they’d married, his children from his first marriage already grown. Their physical relationship had been very much secondary to the bond of friendship that had grown between them. In that last year, when Knightley’s health had declined, and then in the first years of widowhood, physical intimacy was something she hadn’t even had time to consider, much less miss. But now…
Now she was acting like a lovesick, besotted schoolgirl. It was humiliating.
What did she even know about the Duke of Alderidge, anyway, besides the sparse facts that had been carefully recorded in the ledgers? She knew Maximus Harcourt loved his sister to a fault. He could be hardheaded and stubborn. He’d placed his trust and his faith in a street urchin because he saw honor beneath the rags. He could be controlling and arrogant.
He was a duke. Sometimes. He was a captain. Sometimes. He was a gentleman.
Sometimes.
She stood, struggling out from the heated cocoon of wool. She was feeling restless and sorry for herself, and if she had learned anything these last years, it was that such indulgences accomplished nothing.
She hurried downstairs, Alderidge’s coat folded over her arms, darkness already painting the windows black. Someone had lit the lanterns in the drawing room, and Ivory ducked in and dumped the coat on the back of the long sofa. She’d intended to repair to her study and review what notes she had on Debarry, but she stopped as her eye fell on the pianoforte that sat silent against the far wall. It had been a long time since she had played. Since she had sung. Collette’s mention of Giulio Cesare earlier had awakened another longing she had long since thought safely buried. Bloody hell, what was wrong with her today?
Yet she found herself powerless to keep from approaching the instrument, unable to stop her fingers from drifting across the keys. She struck a note, finding the right key, and suddenly she was singing, her voice rusty at first from lack of practice, but gaining strength and confidence as she went. She closed her eyes, immersing herself in the music, her memory supplying every word and every note. And as the last of the aria faded away, she realized she was smiling like an idiot, and perilously close to tears.
“Why did you stop?”
Ivory uttered a strangled shriek before whirling.
The Duke of Alderidge stood motionless at the door, a peculiar expression on his face.
“You scared me,” Ivory snapped.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “That was beautiful.”
“How did you get in here?” she demanded, ignoring his compliment. “The door was locked.” And that aria hadn’t been for anyone but herself. Worse, while her identity wasn’t a secret, it certainly wasn’t something she advertised.
“No, it wasn’t. And no one answered when I knocked.”
Ivory frowned. Had she been distracted enough to forget? She shoved that to the side for the moment. “I wasn’t expecting you—”
“Where did you learn to sing like that?”
Ivory relaxed fractionally. There were benefits to having a client who had spent almost no time in London. It was clear the duke was clueless as to who she had been in her former life. Which was just as well.
“Here and there,” Ivory said ambiguously. It wasn’t a lie.
“Why aren’t you performing somewhere with a voice like that?”
Ivory laughed, though it sounded forced even in her own ears. “Why? You have an opening for a soprano on one of your crews? I confess, Your Grace, I will not be swayed by an offer of an elephant.”
Alderidge’s brows drew together. “I’m serious.”
“That might be the understatement of the year,” Ivory muttered.
“What does that mean?” he asked, stepping into the room.
And just like that, the duke was no longer examining her past.
Ivory exhaled a sigh of relief. “It means, Your Grace, that I have yet to see you smile since I met you.”
“Pleasure has been in rather short supply as of late, don’t you agree, Miss Moore? I haven’t had anything to smile about.”
She had all sorts of ideas about how to remedy that, none of them appropriate. All of them wicked.
“No, I suppose not.” Ivory crossed the room and went to stand behind the sofa, putting a safe, physical barrier between the two of them. Self-consciously she tried to smooth her hair back. “What can I do for you, Your Grace?” There, that had come out normally. “Is there something that you require?”
The duke was circling the room now, his hands behind his back, his eyes roving over the papered walls, the painting that hung above the pianoforte, and the narrow bookcase with its collection of titles. He seemed restless.
She waited, allowing the silence to stretch.
“Who are you, exactly, Miss Moore?” he asked, pulling a volume from the shelves and examining the binding.
“I beg your pardon?” Dammit, they were back to this.
“You asked what I required. What I require, Miss Moore, are some answers. As your client, I am quite certain I am entitled to a few basic facts about the person I have hired.”
“What do you wish to know?” She kept her voice pleasant.
“How long have you been working for Mr. Chegarre?” He opened the volume in his hands.
That seemed simple enough. “I have been with Chegarre and Associates for five years now, Your Grace.”
“And what did you do before that?”
This answer was thornier. “I did a number of different things.”
“Like what?”
I sang on some of the grandest stages in England. And France. And Italy. “I traveled.”
“Where?”
“Around Europe.” She always tried to use the truth whenever possible.
“Were you a spy for the Empire?”
Ivory felt her jaw slacken before a tickle of laughter rose. She choked it back. “And if I were a spy? Do you think I would actually tell you?”
The duke scowled.
Ivory took pity on him. “No, Your Grace, I was not a spy.”
“And I’m just supposed to believe that?”
“Bit of a conundrum, isn’t it?” She couldn’t help but tease.
Alderidge sighed and closed the book. “What is your name? Your first name.”
“Why is that important?”
“Because I want to know.” He replaced the book on the shelf and approached the sofa. “You are privy to a secret that has the power to destroy my entire family. You hold everything I hold dear in the palm of your hand, and I know nothing about you. I don’t even know your name.”
“I am privy to a great number of secrets, Your Grace. None of which will ever be shared with anyone. Ever. But I don’t see why—”
The duke’s hands came down on the back of the sofa, making it shudder. His head was bent in frustration. “Please.”
“Ivory,” she whispered.
The duke lifted his head. “Ivory,” he repeated, and the sound of her name on his tongue sent a wave of heat licking through her veins. “Thank you.”
He hadn’t shaved, and his jaw was once again darkened by blond stubble that begged to have her fingers explore the texture of it. His hair was still pulled back into a queue, and it was begging almost as loudly for her fingers to pull the leather thong from it and bury themselves in its thickness. He’d found another coat, this one lighter and more suited to the city, and the breadth of his chest and shoulders strained the seams. His hands, still gripping the back of the sofa, were strong, scarred, and callused.
He pushed away from the sofa then, coming around and advancing on her. She stood her ground, not knowing if it was pride or recklessness that was preventing her from backing away. He stopped in front of her and caught her chin with his fingers, tipping her face up toward his. “Why do your friends call you Duchess?” he asked. “How did you get that nickname?”
Ivory struggled to formulate a plausible answer. But it was impossible to think with the duke’s hand cupping her face, his eyes searching hers. His hand moved from her chin to her hair, pushing the curls back gently, his eyes following the path of his fingers. And when he looked at her again, the desire that she saw reflected there nearly made her whimper with need. It would be so easy, she thought, to tell this man everything. To unburden herself on his strong shoulders and free herself of the layers and layers of half lies and hidden truths that surrounded her. It was an irrational, emotional need, she knew, born of the physical desire that had suddenly been awakened within her.
“Does it matter?” she asked. This man weakened her defenses like no other.
“I haven’t decided,” he said, and she wasn’t sure if he was still talking about her nickname. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and the flutter in her lower belly turned into a steady throb.
“When will you decide?” she whispered.
“After this,” he said, and then he kissed her.
It had been a lifetime since she had been kissed like this. No, she amended, she had never been kissed like this. Not by a man so powerful, his restraint a living, breathing thing, fraying the edges of her own. He pressed into her, deepening the kiss, and Ivory felt her legs go nearly boneless with her sudden need to have this man. She was shaking, for God’s sake, and if she had been able to think, she might have been embarrassed.
Through a haze, she wondered if he would take her on the sofa. Or perhaps on the expensive Aubusson. Or against the wall. Or maybe all three.
“Ivory,” he murmured against the skin at her throat, and there was a question in his voice. As if he were seeking her permission to do everything she wanted him to do.
Something she couldn’t give him.
Ivory drew away from him, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “I can’t do this.”
His forehead came to rest against hers.
“Your sister…” She trailed off, a cohesive string of words eluding her at this moment. “You are a client.”
“You’re right,” he whispered, and regret rang clearly. “I’m sorry. This…I shouldn’t…” He couldn’t seem to find the words either for what had flared between them.
“We shouldn’t,” she repeated.
His fingers tangled in her hair, and he forced her head back, her eyes meeting his. “Not right now,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But when this is over, when my sister is safely at home, I am going to kiss you again, Ivory Moore.” He dragged his thumb gently over her bottom lip. “And then you can tell me why your friends call you Duchess.”
Ivory closed her eyes, knowing that a confidence like that was unlikely. This man was a captain more than he was a duke, and once this was over, he would return to his life at sea. Whatever existed between them might be incredible and passionate, but it would also be temporary and fleeting. And there was little room for secrets in such a relationship.
Alderidge straightened, his hands sliding from her, and he stepped away. Ivory hated the acute feeling of loss that washed over her. He paced to the far side of the room, as if distance would cool the heat that had risen. As if distance might help the conversation return to more mundane matters.
He cleared his throat. “Can you at least tell me how my aunt was able to find you?”
That question was easy. And safe. She took a deep, calming breath. “The same way everyone finds us. She simply sent an anonymous message.”
“Through the Lion’s Paw.”
“Of course.” Her heart was starting to slow somewhat. “Sending a fleet footman to the Lion’s Paw is far less incriminating than sending one to Covent Square. No one will ever admit to hiring Chegarre and Associates. To admit that is to admit that they have something to hide. That a skeleton or two has fallen out of one of their closets. Or more often, their beds. If you were to ask any of my former clients about me or this business, they will tell you that they have no idea what you are talking about. It’s quite…liberating. I simply don’t exist.”
“Oh, Duchess, but you do,” drawled a voice from the doorway.
* * *
Max spun to find a long, lean man just inside the study door. He was propped against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest and his booted feet crossed as though he were casually waiting for a ferry. His hair was dark, curling at the collar of his coat, his eyes the color of dark amber. A long scar started at his upper lip and ran over his right cheekbone, disappearing just over his ear.
“Alex,” Miss Moore said warmly, moving to greet him.
The man pushed himself off the frame to meet her, caught her hands in his, and bent, pressing his lips to her knuckles with a flourish. “It’s been too long, Duchess,” he said.
Max had to look away at the sight of another man’s lips on Ivory Moore’s skin. Skin that only a few minutes ago Max had explored with his own mouth and his hands. He had never, in all his life, wanted a woman the way he wanted this one. She had somehow slipped into his veins, like a particularly potent drug that had the ability to alter his perception of everything around him. He would have taken her on that sofa, had she not stopped him and reminded him that he was here in this room not to satisfy his lust, but to locate his sister.
The part of him that was still clinging to honor told him that he should be ashamed of himself. The rest of him just wanted to kiss her again.
“I saw you three days ago, Alex,” Ivory was saying dryly.
“Like I said, too long.” The man smiled up at her. “What was that? That you were singing? For it has been too long also since I heard your voice the way your voice was meant to be used.”
Max watched Ivory freeze, his own reaction equal to her distress. Bloody hell, had this man been privy to their entire conversation? Had he witnessed their kiss? Heard the impassioned promise Max had made her?
“It was Handel’s Giulio Cesare.” She cleared her throat.
“It was very…provocative.” The man’s odd amber eyes flickered toward Max.
Ivory sniffed. “It was supposed to be. It’s the aria Cleopatra uses to seduce the toga off Caesar.”
“You don’t say?” It was said with a smirk.
“I try to keep my doors locked for a reason, you know,” Ivory said pointedly.
Alex made a sound of amusement, as if a locked door were merely a hiccup. “I was hungry, and didn’t want to wait outside. Busy out there tonight. Your neighbors are rather forward with their attentions.”
“My neighbors run a brothel, Alex. You’re a man with a pulse. And all your teeth. What do you expect?”
“Some distance?” he suggested.
Ivory snorted.
The man straightened, the warmth fading from his eyes as he swung toward Max. “The Duke of Alderidge, I presume.”
Max suddenly found himself the object of intense scrutiny, not for a minute liking the fact that this man knew his identity while Max remained ignorant of his. “You presume correctly.” Everything about the man put Max on edge. He could see the sharp intelligence in his eyes and could sense the ease with which he moved. Had he met this man near a darkened wharf, he’d have already drawn his weapon.
“This is my associate, Mr. Alexander Lavoie,” Ivory offered Max. “He owns a…gentleman’s club.”
The owner of a gentleman’s club? The man looked more like an assassin.
“Why are you here, Your Grace?” Lavoie’s eyes were hard.
“I am not sure what you’re asking.” Max met his challenge coldly.
“Most people who have cause to seek our help avoid unnecessary involvement. They distance themselves. They most certainly don’t seek out this address. Nor do they seek out our…company.”
So Lavoie had witnessed more than he should have. Max had no idea what this man was to Ivory, but the challenge was poorly veiled. Perhaps he really was an assassin. No matter. Max had dealt with more than one. He had the scars to prove it.
“My sister is missing, Mr. Lavoie,” Max said, keeping his voice controlled. “Though it seems you already knew that. Miss Moore has committed to assisting me in my quest to discover her whereabouts.”
Lavoie’s lip curled slightly.
“Alex.” Ivory was frowning, and the provocation in her voice was unmistakable. “There is a reason that you are here. Please be so kind as to share that with us.”
Amber eyes slid to Ivory. “Perhaps His Grace should leave at this juncture.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Max barked.
Lavoie frowned. “I don’t think it’s wise to—”
“He stays.” Ivory’s words rang with finality. Max felt something in his chest squeeze.
Lavoie’s brows disappeared under the shock of hair on his forehead, and he watched Ivory with speculation. Ivory stared back impassively.
“Very well. There is a wager recorded in my betting books,” the man said, his gaze returning to Max. “For five hundred pounds.”
“Go on.”
“It challenges Debarry to…” Lavoie hesitated.
Max stiffened, and his heart lodged in his throat. “To seduce my sister,” he finished for him.
“Yes, though a different term was used. And it was not your sister who was named.”
“Then who?”
“Lady Helen.”
“My aunt?” Max was trying to wrap his mind around the possibility of Debarry in passionate pursuit of Helen. He failed. “But that’s absurd. My aunt barely knew the man. Are you sure?”
From a bag he’d left near the door Lavoie produced a red leather-bound book that looked like an accounting ledger. He held it out to Ivory. “Take a look for yourself. I’ve marked the page.”
Ivory accepted the book and opened it to a page that had been marked with a piece of leather string. “With whom was the wager made?” she asked, and her voice was all business.
“The Viscount Stafford.”
It was no wonder Stafford had fled from Max at the ball. The wager might have been absurd, but it was certainly grounds for Max to call him out.
Ivory was running her finger down the page, stopping when she found the entry. “Was this bet public knowledge?”
Lavoie shrugged. “It’s in my betting books. The use of them must be privately requested, and I do not keep them on display for casual perusal. But I can’t guarantee that someone else besides the viscount and the late earl was not aware.”
“When was the wager made?” Max asked, coming to stand next to Ivory.
“A month ago.”
Ivory was frowning fiercely at the page. “This makes no sense. The earl was known for his love of younger women. In Debarry’s file, I have an entire list of young…” She trailed off, a peculiar expression on her face. “Are there more like this in here, Alex?”
“More what? Wagers?”
“Yes. Wagers between Debarry and Stafford. Wagers like this that name older women as the object of a planned seduction.”
It was Lavoie’s turn to frown. “Perhaps. I can’t say that I study every asinine wager some drunken idiot makes in my books, but I do try to stay informed.” He reached for the ledger and flipped to the front. Pages snapped as he leafed through them. “Here,” he said after a minute. “There is one from October. A wager between Debarry and Stafford that challenges Debarry to, ah, seduce—”
“Lady Marsden.” Ivory said it flatly. “The widow of the late Earl of Marsden.”
Alex started. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“Because in October, I smuggled Lady Marsden’s eldest daughter out of a coaching inn just outside of London before anyone could recognize her. A very inebriated, tearful girl, who kept insisting she was going to be the next Countess of Debarry.”
Max understood immediately, and a black rage was slowly rising and starting to blur his vision. It was just as well the earl was dead. And Stafford would soon be joining him, Max thought hazily.
“They couldn’t name a young woman in these pages. But no one would care about a wager made on a widow or a spinster,” Ivory said.
“The bastards.” Lavoie looked furious. “I didn’t catch it.”
“You had no reason to,” Ivory told him.
Lavoie didn’t look any happier. “Hmph. Well, as I understand it from Elise’s account of the scene, your sister got the upper hand on the earl, Your Grace.”
Max jerked. Ivory’s hand found his arm, preventing Max from reaching for the blade at his hip.
Lavoie missed none of it, and a faint gleam of what looked like approval sparked in his eye as he regarded Max. “Can’t say I’m not glad.”
“Are you trying to be an ass, Alex?” she asked.
“No, I’m trying to make you understand you’re going to have to scrape up the viscount’s remains if you let the good duke leave here alone.”
Alex Lavoie spoke the truth. Max would take the viscount apart piece by piece.
“He will not be alone.”
Max couldn’t look at Ivory, afraid of what he might see.
Lavoie was considering her again. “Has the Lady Beatrice been located yet?” he asked into the silence.
Ivory shook her head. “No.”
“Hmm.” Lavoie ran a hand through his dark hair. “It is possible that Stafford may know something. It is also possible that he knows too much. You may wish to have a word. Or if you prefer, I can do it for you. He’ll be at my club tonight.”
“And you know this how?” Max was pleased with how steady his voice sounded.
Lavoie turned those strange eyes on him. “Because it’s Thursday. And the viscount is nothing if not predictable.”
“You need not speak to him. I am quite capable of having my own conversations.”
“Of course. But I don’t suffer fools gladly, Your Grace. If you plan on killing this man, please be kind enough to make arrangements that don’t involve my establishment. I do not enjoy entertaining the law. And blood is devilishly hard to get out of my upholstery.”
Max was beginning to like this man. “Fair enough.”
“No one is killing anyone,” Ivory snapped. “A dead viscount who made a foolish bet will not help us find your sister, Your Grace.”
“It would make me feel better.”
Ivory scowled.
Lavoie smirked.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Alex?” Ivory asked. “Gentlemen to swindle, fortunes to make?”
“I don’t swindle. I…encourage.”
Ivory rolled her eyes.
“Can I expect you tonight then?” Lavoie asked as he moved to the door.
Ivory opened her mouth to answer.
“Yes.” Max did it for her.
Ivory made a sound of displeasure. “The duke and I will discuss it and come to an accord before we do anything.”
“Hmmm. Well, if you do patronize my establishment tonight, or in the future, Your Grace, remember what I said about the upholstery.”
“Go,” Ivory said rudely.
Lavoie grinned at her and left as silently as he’d arrived.
“Let’s go.” Max was already moving.
“You’re not going anywhere right now.”
“Like hell I’m not.” Max spun.
“Think,” Ivory said, coming to block the doorway. “The wager that the viscount and the earl made was made in a betting book at a gaming club, and was by no means wholly private. Others may know about it. It is even possible that others may know the true nature of the wager.”
Max was trying to concentrate on what she was trying to tell him, but all he heard was the word others. He felt another wave of fury crash through him. If that was true, then there were others who had done nothing. Others who had sat back to watch—
“You returned to London the same night that Debarry died. You tell me what conclusions some might draw.”
Max froze, the anger draining out of him, to be replaced with something else entirely that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “That I found out about the wager and killed him.”
“Yes. You did seem rather enamored of killing his companion a moment ago.”
“Oh, I still am.”
Ivory pursed her lips in disapproval.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. If I had killed Debarry, I wouldn’t have done it in my damn guest room and left him there for the damn butler to discover,” Max said, beginning to pace the confines of the room. “I would have called him out properly and run him through. Or shot him. Either one would have done nicely.”
Ivory sighed. “Regardless, that wager provides motive.”
“And if someone accuses me of killing the earl because of it? Then what?”
Ivory was worrying her bottom lip again with her finger, and Max had to make an effort to concentrate. “I don’t think anyone will if they haven’t already.” She paused. “It is a bit of a double-edged sword, Your Grace. A gentleman cannot openly accuse you of any possible crime without first admitting that he too knew of the wager, and long before you could have possibly become aware. Not only would he dishonor himself by admitting such knowledge, who’s to say that he then might not be accused of exacting retribution from the earl himself? Who’s to say he wasn’t a champion of your sister, determined to defend her honor?” She paused, her brows furrowed in thoughtful concentration. “At the very least, I could definitely portray it that way if it comes to that.”
“Perhaps that is exactly what happened.” Max was trying not to sound hopeful. “Someone discovered Debarry’s diabolical intentions and hurriedly spirited my sister away before she could be innocently caught in a scandal that was not of her making.”
“Mmmm.”
“What does mmmm mean, Miss Moore?”
“Aside from the flower petals and ostrich feathers and empty wine bottles and red ribbons, your sister left her ball gown behind. That is not a garment that is easily removed if one is in a hurry. Why would she have taken the time to change unless she—”
“Are you trying to be an ass, Miss Moore?” He turned Ivory’s words back on her.
“I know you refuse to hear this, Your Grace, but it’s quite likely your sister was complicit in what happened last night, wager or no wager. The evidence suggests—”
“Until I have proof otherwise, Miss Moore, I will continue to believe the best about my sister.”
“Mmmm.”
Max clenched his fists. “Stafford was at that ball last night. I saw him there. He avoided me, in fact, and now I know why. He knows something.”
“I agree.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I think Alex is right, and we need to have a discussion with the viscount. But from here we’re going to need to proceed with a little more flair than the last time a Smithfield bull crashed into a china shop.”
Max stopped. “You said we.”
“I did. There is little point in me believing, even for a second, that you will do the sensible thing and return home and let me handle this.”
“You’re getting smarter, Miss Moore.”
“That wasn’t the word I had in mind,” she grumbled.
“What did you have in mind then? Regarding the viscount.”
“You’re actually asking me?”
“I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps you have certain information and skills that I do not. At least here in London. And I’ve recognized that I need you—them,” he corrected his slip, “if I want to help Bea.”
“You’re getting smarter, Your Grace.” She smiled at him then, a genuine smile that wreathed her face and reached her eyes, and it did terrifying things to his insides. “Wait here.”
She disappeared, only to return a few minutes later with a ledger that looked very much like the one Alex Lavoie had carried.
“What is that?” Max asked. “More wagers?”
“No,” she said. “Just a less messy way to deal with Stafford.”