As Heath handed off the reins to his landau in front of the Roundtree residence, he could not help but wonder if today’s unusual summons was at all related to the Hyde Park encounter with the baroness and her lovely companion earlier in the week.

Try as he might, Heath had been unable to cease thinking about Miss Winfield. How much simpler it would be to put paid to this obsession if he could simply spend more time in her company!

Had the two of them been traversing Hyde Park from the relative privacy of an open carriage, he and Miss Winfield could have conversed without witnesses eagerly spying upon every word. A nice long conversation would instantly clear up the question of whether their personalities actually suited, or if the intense longing to pull her into his arms and kiss her was nothing more than meaningless chemistry.

Heath tried to push such thoughts from his head as he loped up the stone steps. So what if the chemistry between them was electric? He was not going to kiss her. So what if their personalities suited? He was not going to court her. No matter how many sparks sizzled between them, she would remain in her place and he in his.

Although, the summons here today made him wonder what else might be going on.

Because Heath and the Roundtrees resided on the same social plane, he frequently came across the baroness at various Society events. However, this occasion marked the first time he had received an invitation to their home. He frowned in concern. As much as he enjoyed helping others, Heath was fond of the baroness and hoped he had not been summoned to prevent some personal tragedy from becoming a public scandal.

Before he could rap the brass knocker, a stately butler swung open the large door and ushered Heath inside.

Upon presenting his card, Heath was quickly escorted to a sunny salon in the front of the town house, where Lady Roundtree reclined upon a stuffed chaise. A modest blanket covered any fear of exposed stockings due to her splinted leg resting gently on a truly mountainous pile of cushions.

Heath swept a deep bow. “Lady Roundtree.”

“Thank you so much for your prompt attention, Mr. Grenville.” She waved a fretful hand toward the chair opposite. “I hope you are not offended by my lack of curtsey.”

“I shall only be offended if you fail to accompany me in a lively Boulanger the very moment your surgeon pronounces you healed,” he teased, knowing full well the baroness preferred to oversee country dances from the sides, in order to note every detail.

The baroness harrumphed, her eyes twinkling. “We shall see if Lord Roundtree allows me to dance with a pup a decade younger than myself.”

“A pup!” Heath clutched his hands to his chest in mock agony. “Now you have offended me, and grievously. Have I been summoned to this beautiful salon only to bear witness to grave assaults against my character?”

“Quite the opposite.” The humor disappeared from Lady Roundtree’s countenance. “I’d like to discuss details of someone else’s comportment with you.”

At the implication, a cold knot formed in Heath’s stomach. “Miss Winfield?”

“What?” Lady Roundtree stared at him in bafflement before she burst out laughing. “No, my companion pleases everyone but Lady Pettibone, and that is only because the ‘old dragon’ is impossible to please.”

Heath did not join in the laughter. He had never run afoul of Lady Pettibone, nor was he wont to find witticism in cruel nicknames. Yet the emotion in his chest was not outrage on the absent Society dame’s behalf, but rather an intense relief that Miss Winfield was not involved in any scandal.

By the sound of Lady Roundtree’s description, her companion was just as unlikely to find herself in an imbroglio as Heath himself. That spoke highly of her character. Despite their class differences being impossible to overcome, sharing a strong sense of personal ethics only made him like Miss Winfield more.

And doubt very much that anything good would come of his summons here today.

His shoulders tensed.

“I hope you did not invite me here to pry for secrets about my clients,” he said stiffly.

“Pry?” Lady Roundtree flapped her hand excitably. “A baroness would never do such a thing!”

Balderdash. The baroness was infamous for engaging in precisely that sort of behavior, and they both knew it. Yet Heath believed her when she claimed pumping him for information was not her aim.

Lady Roundtree was a known gossip, although not a malignant one like that rotter Phineas Mapleton. The baroness did not use her knowledge in an attempt to ruin others, but she did like to know every possible scrap of gossip. And this wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried and failed to wheedle a secret or two from him.

“How can I be of service?” he asked cautiously.

She pointed at a stack of letters on a silver tray. “I presume you’ve heard of the new caricaturist?”

He could not prevent his lip from curling in distaste. “Who has not?”

“Indeed.” Lady Roundtree sniffed. “I, for one, do not allow such filth into my home. This sanctuary is free of gossip at all times.”

Heath slid a doubtful look in the direction of the silver tray, with its towering pile of caricatures and scandal columns.

Lady Roundtree colored when she saw the direction of his gaze. “All those go straight into the fire before anyone but myself has a chance to see them.”

The tension in Heath’s muscles eased when he realized this would include her companion. Miss Winfield was unlikely to have seen such rubbish firsthand. He was strangely pleased by the idea that being on the outskirts of Society meant Miss Winfield could remain unspoiled by it. Pure.

“What do you know about the artist?” he asked Lady Roundtree without changing expression.

She hesitated before responding. “He is not your client, is he?”

“I should think not!” Heath reared back at the insult.

If anything, he found each caricature more reprehensible than the last. The anonymous coward mocked and taunted the very society he should be striving to uphold, not to break down. Each stroke of ink caused more gossip in a single day than all the scandal sheets put together.

“These caricatures are a scourge,” he said with feeling. “This alleged ‘artist’ should be dethroned. I hope you do not count yourself among his fans, Lady Roundtree.”

“A fan?” She leaned closer. “Exposing ton foibles is uncouth and wrong. I wish to be the one to unmask the blackguard. I shall be famous!”

He cleared his throat before responding. “You want…”

“To employ you, of course. Secretly.” Lady Roundtree frowned. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Keep secrets for people? If I pay you to discover the identity of this villain, you won’t tell anyone how I discovered the man’s identity?”

Heath narrowed his eyes.

He was indeed a secret-keeper, and if he accepted a client, complete and utter confidentiality was immediately understood. But thus far, all his effort had gone toward keeping scandals in the dark, not bringing even bigger ones to light.

Yet truly, what claim to privacy held a smug coward who sold other people’s private humiliations for profit? Putting a stop to it was the only ethical course of action.

Fewer scandals disrupting Society would create a better environment for everyone.

Lady Roundtree’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “I suddenly realize that unmasking this cretin will reduce the amount of gossip about everyone else overnight, thus imperiling your livelihood. Perhaps you condone—”

“I’ll take the case,” he said abruptly. “My ‘livelihood’ does not depend on encouraging gossip. I’ve chosen the path of scandal-fixer out of a passion for helping those in need, not out of some desire to pad my purse. I don’t need the money. My clients need me.”

“Now I’ve offended you,” the baroness said fretfully. “Let us dispense with the formalities and move past all this ugliness. You’ve said you will take the case. I suppose your services operate on retainer, like a barrister. Let’s make it official. Will five hundred be enough to start? Six? Seven?”

Heath blinked.

While he had genuinely meant every word about not pursuing his career out of any need for money, the outrageous sums the wealthy baroness tossed out without a second thought would be enough to sustain a non-aristocratic bachelor for a year.

Or provide a reprieve to his sister’s financially beleaguered school.

“Seven will be a lovely start,” he agreed, and withdrew a slip of paper from his breast pocket. “An anonymous deposit to this account will do splendidly.”

She held a quizzing glass above the parchment. “The St. Giles School for Girls… Why, that’s your sister’s charity! Never say you donate all your earnings to an orphanage?”

“If I answered that question, then you would be keeping secrets for me,” he replied with a tight smile. “Please don’t worry about the state of the Grenville barony. My father has no wish for my assistance to increase the family coffers.”

“Your father is a brilliant man,” Lady Roundtree agreed. She held up a finger as if to scold him. “I haven’t glimpsed a single hair of the baron for years. I hope you rowdy lot allow the poor man out of his study once in a while.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her she likely interacted with the baron just as much as his own family did.

Which was to say, never.

“I shall pass along your concerns,” Heath replied.

“You, on the other hand…” Lady Roundtree smiled benevolently. “You are everywhere in Society. A gathering without Heath Grenville is like tea without biscuits. You do your family proud.”

While Heath doubted his father had any particular knowledge of his whereabouts, much less pride in the matter, he couldn’t help but be flattered by the sweet observation.

Being important because he was Heath had been his dream for as long as he could remember. He couldn’t help his position within his family, couldn’t help being born to riches, couldn’t help someday inheriting the title. What he could help was other people.

And he was not ashamed to admit he preferred making a name for himself for that reason, rather than lounging indolently by whilst awaiting a title some ancestor had earned generations before.

“Shall I send you weekly updates on my progress?” he inquired.

Lady Roundtree wrinkled her nose. “Oh, do come by and let me know in person. I don’t get out as much with these cursed splints on my leg, and sitting about the house can be so lonely.”

Heath frowned in surprise. “I don’t doubt that a broken leg offers nothing to recommend it, but surely you of all people are not lonely. You’ve countless friends, not to mention a companion who—”

Who lived under this very roof.

Who would be present every time Heath dropped by to update his client on their case.

Who might walk into this room at any moment.

Who Heath had daydreamed several times about kissing.

Who was not only a servant, but also now a client’s servant, and therefore utterly and completely forbidden.