It had taken a fair amount of blunt to wrangle the name of the caricaturist’s third-party agency from the owner of the printing house, but Heath was finally in the office of a man who knew the scoundrel’s name.

It hadn’t been easy. When Heath had finally met with the publisher, the man had no idea from whence the drawings came. All transactions passed through a confidential intermediary. The printing house had no reason to break their word.

To the publisher, digging deeper wasn’t worth the price of potentially losing their primary attraction. Until the anonymous artist had turned London on its ear, the printing house had been failing financially. Now they were not. Caricatures were lucrative business.

Heath did not care. Camellia should not be part of it.

He was going to put a stop to the caricatures right now.

“How much?” he asked the wiry gentleman behind the boxwood desk. “My client’s pockets are bottomless.”

While the Roundtrees did indeed possess more money than they were likely to spend in generations, Heath’s fee had already been deposited in the donation account for his sister Dahlia’s school.

He was not here today as an agent of his client, the baroness, but rather as the elder brother of a sweet and caring soul, whose exaggerated features were being bandied about town in mockery. He was here for Camellia.

“I told you.” Mr. Ewing gazed back at him in perfect boredom. “My clients expect complete confidentiality, which is what we provide. No sum you mention can cause me to ruin the name I’ve built for this agency.”

Heath ground his jaw.

In his experience, there was always a sum at which even the most pious gentleman broke. A monetary threshold at which loyalty, propriety, and honor simply fell away in favor of the allure of gold.

Mr. Ewing, however, was proving remarkably resolute.

“I shall discover the name with or without your assistance,” Heath informed him coldly. “You might as well confess, and earn a bit of coin for your trouble.”

Mr. Ewing pushed away from his desk. “I’ve another appointment waiting, so this conversation is finished. I’m sorry you have wasted your time, Mr. Grenville. You are not welcome back.”

Heath assented and rose to his feet.

He supposed he could not be surprised at the turn of events. Mr. Ewing was well aware of Heath’s reputation among the ton, and his agency quite correctly had plenty of secrets of its own to keep.

But Heath was not so easily dissuaded.

Mr. Ewing was not the perpetrator of the caricatures. They had clearly been drawn by someone present in each moment, and a man such as this would be well out of place in Heath’s circles. Which meant the caricatures had to arrive at the agency before Mr. Ewing could turn around and forward them on to the printing house.

“Good day, Mr. Ewing.” Heath bowed and retrieved his coat and walking-stick. “I shan’t return.”

He didn’t need to.

Heath need only station a quantity of key, unassuming footmen along all the likely routes. The next time a collection of carefully-bound foolscap was delivered to the agency, his men would intercept the name of the sender, if not the entire package, and deliver the intelligence to him at once.

The method might not be as fast as simply paying for information, but in the end it would prove just as effective.

He returned home only long enough to dispatch his orders to select footmen well-practiced in being both unobtrusive and resourceful, then once again summoned his carriage. He’d spent the past several days with his sister and the rest of their family. None of them had felt ready to attend any soirées where the latest Lord of Pleasure caricature could be a topic of conversation.

Now that he’d returned home, however, Heath recalled that the Cloven Hoof had become more than a hub for gossip. Its unrepentant patrons had strung his sister’s likeness about the gambling den as if the infernal sketches were decorations for a royal parade.

Heath was going to rip them all down.

As soon as he’d handed off the reins to his carriage, he stalked up the dark path to the Cloven Hoof’s front door. His muscles were still tight from the meeting with Mr. Ewing. Heath had hoped to have done with the caricaturist this very afternoon. He would have to content himself with destroying evidence.

He pushed past the doorkeeper and into the dimly lit interior. His first goal was to protect his sister. His second was to avenge her honor. One way or another, he would find the artist responsible and make him pay.

In the meantime, he would rip down every brick of this gambling den if that was what it took to rid the walls of his innocent sister’s countenance.

But the walls and ceiling were empty, save for a few haphazard strings looping from one empty corner to another.

“I did it for you,” came a low voice from behind Heath’s shoulder.

He turned to face Maxwell Gideon, the club’s owner, Heath’s client, and now more than ever—a good friend.

“Thank you,” he forced from his scratchy throat.

Max’s black gaze didn’t stray from his. “I have a sister, too.”

Heath kept the surprise from his face. Although he had known Max for years, the man shrouded himself in mystery. No one had gotten close enough to know much more about him than his name, and whatever details were visible to the naked eye. To think of the dangerous, ruthless owner of an infamous gaming hell as a devoted brother who looked out for his sister…

“Then you understand,” he said gruffly.

Max’s dark gaze was inscrutable. “If it helps, I don’t believe the jest was aimed at your sister, but rather at the gossips who find ‘love’ to be a meaningless pursuit.”

“Perhaps,” Heath said tiredly. Max had not seen his sister’s shocked face at being immortalized against her will. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does not matter,” Max agreed. He gestured to an empty table. “May I invite you to a drink?”

Heath shook his head to the drink, but sank down at the table. He was suddenly exhausted. Perhaps it would soon be over. Perhaps he and everyone else would finally be able to move on.

“Can we talk about something other than my sister?” he asked.

Max leaned back in his chair. “Your mother still hen-picking you to find an heiress?”

The question had undoubtedly been crafted to spark a reaction. To distract Heath from his current troubles by reminding him of something as mindless as the Marriage Mart, of his mother’s singleminded pursuit of her children’s future weddings, of something as cold and clear and straightforward as duty.

But Heath didn’t think about duty anymore when he considered the perfect woman. He thought about a young lady who was the opposite of cold or straightforward. The opposite of what his mother wanted, of what the title needed, the opposite of anything he could hope to have.

Yet whenever he closed his eyes… all he could picture was Miss Winfield.

“My mother cares about blood, not money,” Heath said with a sigh. “As long as the young lady comes from the right stock, Mother won’t complain.”

Max’s gaze was shrewd. “But would you?”

Heath did not respond. His previous thoughts must have already given him away.

He could not help it. The slightest word made him think of Miss Winfield. A snippet of melody, a work of art, a flash of red. She was part of him now. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he went, he imagined her by his side. And now that they had kissed, Heath feared he had lost far more than his good sense. He was in danger of losing his heart.

“Ah.” Max lifted his brows. “So there is a girl.”

“A woman,” Heath corrected. But could she really become a future baroness?

Before he could consider the notion more deeply, his family must first be willing to accept her.

Even if Heath was willing to forgo the good regard of the rest of Society, he was not so callous as to risk ruining his unwed sisters’ reputations. They deserved to find happiness just as much as anyone.

But his siblings weren’t his only family. Mother would not be easy to convince. And if Father emerged from his study long enough to forbid the match…

Heath bit back a groan.

Max’s lips twitched. “My advice?”

“Pray tell.” Heath held out a palm and gestured for him to continue.

Max rose from the table, but lowered his mouth to Heath’s ear before walking away. “Don’t bollocks it up.”

A startled laugh escaped Heath’s throat.

Quite sage advice, indeed. Once he figured out the right path, he would be certain to follow it.

A shaft of sunlight streamed into the shadowy interior of the club. Heath glanced over in time to see Phineas Mapleton enter the Cloven Hoof.

Apparently, so did the rest of the patrons.

Loud neighing came from the Faro tables. Impressive braying came from the whist players. A wild whinny pierced the air from the Loo players in the back.

Heath sent a passing barmaid a startled expression.

“Haven’t seen it?” With a laugh, she tossed a piece of foolscap onto his table. “It just came out a few hours ago. They’re stringing them up now.”

“But, lo!” called a chorus of drunken voices. “’Tis a stallion among pups!”

Mapleton’s pet phrase? Heath had never believed the insufferable dandy would manage to make it catch on. Something must have happened. He picked up the parchment.

The latest caricature was a viciously brilliant work of art.

A white picket fence divided the comic in two panels. To the left were three beautiful maidens, frolicking in a meadow of flowers with a dozen adorable puppies. One of the young ladies cuddled a puppy to her bosom, another nuzzled her nose against the pup’s face, and the third pressed a kiss between a pair of floppy ears.

The other half of the panel featured the rear view of a spindly centaur standing in an ankle-high swamp of his own muck. The legs and back were that of a horse, but the florid waistcoat and piqued expression belonged to none other than Phineas Mapleton.

The caption read: “Stallion among pups… or horse’s arse?”

No wonder it had become an instant classic.

“Stop braying!” Mapleton shrieked. “Donkeys are not stallions!”

All of the neighs and whinnies immediate changed to donkey-like brays.

As much as Heath despised the caricaturist, he couldn’t bring himself to crumple up the paper. Mapleton had tried to talk him into an extortion scheme to blackmail their friends. Now he would know what it felt like to have his own words and deeds become fodder for mockery.

The caricaturist still must be stopped, of course. Although the anonymous cartoons never named names, every member of the ton would know exactly who and what the comical contrast referred to.

Heath pushed to his feet. Before he could reach the door, a red-faced Phineas Mapleton blocked his path.

Mapleton waved a pound note before Heath’s nose. “Represent me!”

“I’m not a barrister,” Heath replied in irritation, trying to dodge the bill flapping in his face.

Mapleton shoved the note inside Heath’s coat pocket. “Now you possess it. It’s done. You represent me.”

Heath tightened his jaw. This was not what he meant when he had let it be known that any person who could scrounge up so much as a ha’penny was more than worthy enough to be his client. Heath preferred free will on both sides. But this was neither the time nor the place to get into a public argument with the dandy who was currently the talk of the town.

He cast Mapleton a flat stare. “What is it you expect me to do?”

“Find him.” Mapleton waved a copy of the cartoon in Heath’s face. “Stop him. I’ll pay you as much as you need. Do you want me to donate a hundred pounds to that stupid charity right now?”

“Two hundred,” Heath said automatically.

Under other circumstances, Phineas Mapleton would be the last person Heath would have accepted as a client. But he was already working toward the same goal. If saying yes meant a few more meals for hungry orphans, Heath couldn’t turn even a horse’s arse away.

“Done.” Mapleton crumpled up the caricature and dropped it into the closest mug of ale. “It will arrive by morning.”

Heath lifted his hand. “Then, if you’ll excuse me?”

Mapleton stepped aside, glaring at dozens of rowdy gamblers who had already forgotten him and returned to their dice and cards.

Heath pushed out of the dark club and back into the sunlight. He was done playing games. Not just with the caricaturist, but with his own life, too.