The brick against her back was cold, stirring the ache in her wounded heart, soaking the dampness into her soul.

A packet running daily from Portsmouth to Calais. And he’d quoted from the Sonnets. She sighed and rubbed her fists against her cheeks.

She could not leave. She must not cry.

His smell reached her before his footsteps, tobacco and leather, like her papa’s, and some subtle masculine scent unique to this man. She inhaled deeply and squeezed her eyes a moment.

Hold the waterworks, my Gracie.

When she looked, he stood more than an arm’s length away. The blood danced in her veins and her breath tightened. Tall and broad shouldered, she had seen that his hair was a thick tawny brown, and he was handsome as sin.

Everly, his name was. Son of Lord Shaldon, Carvelle had said. She made herself breathe and waited.

As did he, respectful, watchful. Not, she decided, drunk. That had been a feint, and why?

Because he was smart, because he could recognize evil. Which did not mean he was himself to be trusted.

She curtsied. “Lord Everly.”

“I do not wish to disappoint,” he said softly, “but I am only a mister. Mr. Charles Everly.”

The test had produced humor. Perhaps he would help her.

“And I am a simple miss. Miss Maria Graciela Kingsley y Romero.” She held out her hand.

“Señorita.” He bent over her white glove and kissed it.

Warmth bloomed where his lips touched silk, soaked through the thin covering, rippled up her arm, and, even after he'd released her, caused a shiver to tumble through her.

“You are cold.” He started to disrobe.

“No please. You must stay dressed.” We both must.

Or must they? Would a scandal in the garden with a notorious rogue, with this notorious rogue, cause Carvelle to cry off? He had implied that Mr. Everly was having an affair with a Duquesa. He had told Mr. Everly not to touch her, Graciela.

She thought of little Reina. And the witch’s rod, and she hugged herself tighter.

“Por favor, señor. Ayudame.” Please sir, help me.

Charley moved closer and took both of her hands. The thin gloves only amplified the chill of her. Fear had made her slip into Spanish.

He was looking for a Spanish woman, wealthy and beautiful. Not this Spanish woman, who he well knew was not really Spanish, but a product of an Englishman and a creole woman of New Spain.

He moved her into a thread of light and examined her again. A great deal of skin showed above her bosom. She didn’t look like she’d felt the other lady’s rod, not lately anyway.

“I will help you,” he said in Spanish. “Will you leave with me? I will take you directly to my brother and his wife.” His eldest brother, Bink, was in town. He and his wife Paulette would take in the girl and hold their curiosity until a later time.

She shook her head. “No. I thank you.” She had found her English again. “I did not arrive alone and I cannot leave without the others who accompanied me.”

That was news, and surprising, to boot. A villain generally dispensed with his victim’s allies quickly. “He will sack your servants as soon as you are gone.”

Again, that quick head shake. “There is a child. I am her guardian.”

A child. Lady Kingsley was going to the nursery. Children were the best of leverages, if one’s victim cared about them at all.

A window creaked somewhere above them. “Please,” she whispered, “I wish very much to meet your father. Can you kindly arrange it?”

That sent a prickle through him. His father had many friends and many enemies. In truth, his father had never said whether her father, Captain Tristan Kingsley, was either. They’d never talked about the man at all. “You are all politeness,” he said, stalling.

Her mouth firmed. “I am not polite, señor. I am desperate.” She pulled her hands away. “I cannot be seen with you.”

“Wait.” He touched her bare arm, above the buttoned glove. “He’s in Bath. I’ll find a way when he returns.”

“That will be too late.”

“Then I’ll help you.”

She looked up at him. “My father said I could trust your father. I am not so sure about you.”

His reputation had preceded him, as it always did. The feckless, whoring, drunken younger son of one of England’s greatest. Only occasionally did he regret his ill repute. Only occasionally did it work against him. Like now.

“I will help you, and I will not importune you in any way. You can trust me. Have you a plan?”

She straightened. She hesitated, and then tucked her hand around his arm. “Tonight, I will raise the false flag. I will play the coward and faint. You may catch me if you will.” They proceeded up the stairs and at the top she stopped. “Please. No duels. I do not wish any more blood upon my conscience.”

“Me? Duel? With whom? Carvelle?”

She nodded.

He released her hand, took a step back, and smiled. “I prefer to deal with villains in a more expedient way.”

That did not cheer her as he'd hoped. Instead her mouth firmed more. Before she could speak the door opened and Penderbrook walked out with Charley’s sister, Perry.

Charley made the introductions and watched Miss Kingsley attempt polite small talk. She was no better at it than his passionate, opinionated, intelligent sister, who quickly surmised a problem.

“There you are, Grace.” Lady Kingsley barreled through the doors. “We have been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”

Perry moved into her path before she could snatch up Miss Kingsley. “She was with me.” Perry smiled and pushed up her spectacles.

She used them to ward off all the idiots after her grand dowry, but Charley knew she only fiddled with them like this when she was nervous.

“I am most anxious to visit the Caribbean and Mexico someday. And, oh, my dear Miss Kingsley, I heard the news about your father’s ship. I feel certain the report must be mistaken. Why, how many times, Charley, did we receive word that Father was dead? And he wasn’t. And our brother’s wife, Sirena—her brother was reported dead, and it is a marvel how that turned out. You must not lose hope, Miss Kingsley.”

Dear Perry. She was far too feeling for the bloodless ton, even the members who lurked around the fringes of high society.

Miss Kingsley blinked tears that Charley decided were real.

“You are so very kind.” She smiled up at Perry and slid the warm glance to Charley, briefly, briefly before it extinguished.

His nerves tingled. Miss Kingsley might be making her first bows in London, but she’d been out in some kind of society before. At some time in her past, she’d practiced sending gentlemen that sort of look.

And of course, she’d spent considerable time on a privateer’s ship.

“We must go in now, Grace,” Lady Kingsley said through clenched teeth.

Miss Kingsley stared up at Perry. “I shall never forget your kindness.”

“Of course you won’t.” Perry squeezed both of her hands. “I shall remind you of it at every opportunity, when we shop, or go for ices, or to the theater. I cannot wait to meet your father when he returns, and I know my father will be delighted to meet you when he returns from Bath.”

That was laying it on rather thickly. Somehow, his sister had sniffed out Miss Kingsley’s dilemma and was coming to her aid. If Perry had been born male, and if she exercised just a bit more daring, she’d be the true successor of Shaldon, the great manipulator.

Perry sent him a smile. “Do you not agree, brother?”

He leveled a gaze at Miss Kingsley. “I most certainly agree. In fact, I shall send Father a message. He might be able to do some good in searching out information on your father.”

“You must not let them put these ideas into your head, Grace. Your father is dead. You must not hold onto false hope.” Lady Kingsley elbowed Perry aside. “I know you mean well, Lady Perpetua, but it is not kindness to keep our Grace in a state of impossible hope. Now we must go in. The world is waiting.”

She led the girl off.

“Nicely done, Perry,” he whispered, and shuffled off after the damsel in distress.

Lady Kingsley steered her prisoner so quickly through the crowded dance floor she would have eluded a man with less experience chasing women.

Earlier, he’d noted that this crowd of dandified coats and sprigged up muslins was not the smartest of the ton. Country nabobs, rising industrialists, and the sort of nagging noseys who expected a drama—and who were not to be disappointed tonight—populated the room. He saw only a few of Perry’s bluestocking friends, and none from the ranks of the foreign diplomatic corps.

She’d nabbed him and Pender just as they’d been heading out for a round of their usual haunts, insisting she wanted to meet the young lady. Perhaps she really was considering escape from the traps of marriage and a voyage to the new world, in which case, their goals might align.

He held that thought for later. The huntress and her prey had reached Lord Kingsley, and next to him, Carvelle stood in disdainful stillness. He couldn’t see her face, but Miss Kingsley’s back told an eloquent story.

Oh, it was a lovely, creamy, straight back, and one could tell from the mound of hair arranged upon her head that once the pins were removed, an abundance of shiny dark silk would fall at least to her waist.

Carvelle, he decided, would not be allowed to run his fingers through those tresses.

He bowed his way past a clammy matron with a magnificent bosom, moving nearer. Lord Kingsley signaled and the music came to a sudden stop.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” The man’s booming voice could halt a full stampede. No doubt his would be the loudest in the Lords if he bothered to speak up with an idea of his own.

The crowd hushed and leaned closer. Charley jostled his way even nearer.

Lady Kingsley turned her ward to face the crowd, and he could see a pale cheek, the corner of her full lips drawn down, eyelashes fluttering lower.

Kingsley pushed back his wide shoulders and thrust out his ample belly, hands folded behind his back at parade rest. “I have an important announcement to make. No sense delaying. My ward here, my cousin, the late Captain Kingsley’s daughter, and Mr. Gregory Carvelle, are to be married.”

Sharp breaths, murmurs and scattered applause broke out. Even this crowd knew it was wrong. Charley pushed his way through them.

Carvelle reached for the lady. She rounded her shoulders squirming away.

A step closer to Charley. Close enough that when she folded, it was he who caught her.