After several sets, Graciela stepped off the dance floor with Mr. Penderbrook and her gaze followed his.

Charley had just released his sister and was leading the Duquesa onto the floor.

Penderbrook moved quickly to block her view. “It’s only a dance,” he whispered. “Just like ours.”

She sighed. “You would say that, Penderbrook. You’re a man.” Yet, he was right, and she shouldn’t be staring like a jealous wife.

She forced herself to turn away. Across the room she spotted another face, and her nerves prickled. Captain Llewellyn had made a late, unannounced appearance. He started their way.

They had reached the side of the room and Penderbrook leaned close to her ear. “I believe he dallied for reasons of national interest. What reasons, do not ask, because I don’t know. Who is next for you?”

“Mr. Gibson.” Only Mr. Gibson was nowhere in sight, but Captain Llewellyn had almost reached them. “Perhaps I shall beg off.”

“No. Go and dance. Give Everly a kick when you pass him.”

She sent him a rueful smile and turned to greet the Captain, who bowed and greeted her.

“Are you free for this dance?” he asked.

“It is promised.” She spotted Mr. Gibson coming nearer, and the Captain followed her glance.

“Perhaps later.” He bowed. “I must apologize for my behavior yesterday, Grace. I’m returning to my ship earlier than expected, but I stand ready to assist you if ever you should need it.”

Mr. Gibson joined them, and, hearing the last remark, frowned. “Our dance, Graciela?”

She took Mr. Gibson’s arm, made introductions, and said, “Captain, I shall keep that in mind. And you should keep in mind that if you are a friend of my father’s cousin, you are no friend to me.”

A deep frown furrowed his brow. “I am not in league with him.”

She felt the Captain’s eyes on her as Mr. Gibson led her onto the floor.

Mr. Gibson looked grim.

“He was a friend of my father and mother,” she said.

Across the room, Charley and his partner were bowing and curtseying. She tried not to watch.

“I see. I shall step on her Excellency’s toe in passing if you wish,” he murmured. “I’m only a great clod anyway.”

She smiled and blinked away sudden moisture. He was kind, this brother of Charley’s, and anything but a clod.

Several couples away Charley inclined his head to his former lover, listening intently. The Duquesa’s eyes glowed, her full lips pursed in a pouty whisper. A large sapphire nestled in her breasts reflecting the astonishing blue of her eyes and the stones of the tiara that rested in her golden hair. The Duquesa was a glittering diamond to Graciela’s polished quartz.

Her heart began to race, leaving her breathless. Assignment or not, if Charley thought to keep contact with the lady, Graciela would leave him.

Not with Captain Llewellyn. She need not take ship at all. Now that she was married, she was of no value to Lord Kingsley or Carvelle. They would not come after her. She could find some place in England and wait for Papa to return. And if he didn’t come soon, she could hire a ship and go look for him. She had the funds now.

The music started and she tried in vain to turn her attention to the dance. Mr. Gibson blithely rescued her and covered her missteps. As the dancers moved and formed new boxes, she finally met with Charley.

“What did Llewellyn want?” he whispered.

She managed what she hoped was a sweet smile.

“I love you,” he said, without lowering his voice, a frown coloring his words.

He was jealous, and when she looked, the Duquesa’s eyebrow lifted. And what in the name of God did that mean?

When the interminable dance finally ended, Charley came to join her and Bink, the Duquesa dangling her fingers along his arm.

She pointedly removed them and gave him a little nudge. “There you go, Mrs. Everly. I have returned your new husband to you.”

He was never yours to return. Graciela pressed her lips together to hold back the words, her cheeks burning.

“And I wish you every happiness.” The woman was still talking. “Such an enchanting gown you are wearing. I do like it much better than your attire the last time we met.” That came with a warm smile.

Perhaps she did not need to hate the Duquesa. She eased in a breath. “Es verdad.” It is true.

Mr. Gibson groaned. “Gowns, Charley. We are to talk of gowns?”

The Duquesa noticed him for the first time, letting her eyes linger on his wide shoulders and broad chest, and Graciela’s ire rose again. It was good Paulette was not present.

Charley made introductions.

“I spent a few years in your country, Duquesa,” Mr. Gibson said affably. “Ciudad Rodrigu, Badajoz, Vitoria. Madrid was quite interesting.”

“You were with your Duke Wellington?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

Charley took Graciela’s arm. “The quadrille is mine, I believe.”

“Wait.” The Duquesa looked over her shoulder, and the tiniest of shivers went through her. “Do not forget what I have said.”

Graciela followed her line of sight and chilled also. Next to her, Charley tensed. A man approached, parting the huddle of guests, like Francisca’s tlahuelpuchi searching for a source of blood. All eyes followed, greedy for a spectacle.

Her legs twitched with the need to run.

“Steady.” Charley breathed the word into her ear. “Your Excellency.” He bowed, as did his brother, and made introductions.

Doubt churned in her. Charley knew the man, and yet had dallied with the wife, or had led everyone to believe so. This was indeed a dangerous game.

Yet one could see why the Duquesa would prefer Charley. Though, he was handsome enough, this Duque, stuffed into his velvet coat and decorated with many ribbons. Gray streaked his temples and deep wrinkles carved the skin around his silver eyes. A paunch marred the line of his coat, but his shoulders were wide, his bearing haughty. His bold gaze sliced her from head to foot.

He was familiar to her, yet she knew she’d never once met him.

“So, you have taken a bride of your own.” The Duque’s deep voice flowed like honey, but his silvery gaze threatened the sword. “And how lovely she is. Perhaps I should honor you with a dance, my dear.”

Those last words had dripped seductively from lips pulled back in a sneer.

Charley held her more firmly. “I’m afraid the next dance is mine.”

The first bars of the music were starting, and the Duque was blocking their route to the dance floor.

The man chuckled without smiling. “So, you are the daughter of the infamous Captain Kingsley.”

Infamous? Fire ravaged her cheeks and her neck while she sought for a response that would not bring down brimstone.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Lord Kingsley stepping into this blaze, his wife hovering behind in the crowd.

A trembling started in her chest. All that was needed was for Gregory Carvelle to appear.

She smoothed her free hand along the secret pocket and lifted her chin.

Charley’s grip on her hand firmed even more, and she caught his meaning. Do not speak. I will handle this.

She squeezed his hand back and defiantly dropped it. “Lord Kingsley,” she said.

Her tormenter drew closer. “So, you have married.”

“Indeed, we have, today, by special license at Shaldon House.” Her traitorous voice shook.

“Or so you think you have married.” He ignored her, keeping his gaze on Charley.

“Oh, we’re married,” Charley said. “With Graciela’s guardian’s permission.”

“I am her guardian, and you did not have my permission,” Kingsley growled.

“By the terms of the guardianship, only one signature was required.” Shaldon had explained this to her. “Lord Shaldon is one of my guardians.”

Kingsley had heard her, no doubt, because his face all but exploded in purple, but his gaze stayed on Charley, as if Charley were the ventriloquist, and she, his doll.

The Duque raised an eyebrow and smirked at both men. “It will make for a pretty English lawsuit, no? The second guardian kidnapping the ward and signing over her fortune to his own son? She is a dainty one, though, Kingsley. Not wild as you described. Perhaps you employed the wrong sort of rod to control her, eh.”

Graciela gasped, her temper rising. “You are without shame,” she said in Spanish.

“Si, si.” Again came that unsmiling chuckle like a groan in his throat. His arrogant face grew hard. “Cuidado.”

“It is you who should be careful,” Charley said. His eyes had hardened.

Her heart raced. Had she not seen her father stand up to such challenges? Swindling traders, threatening thieves, and rebellious seamen. And a real man must stand up to this devil.

And Charley was a real man.

On her other side, Mr. Gibson moved closer until she was crushed between the brothers. Behind her was the cool wall, in front of her two beasts of the apocalypse, and behind them, the wall of greedy faces.

One of those faces was Captain Llewellyn’s. He had offered his help. He was no friend of Kingsley, he’d said. And now he stood and merely watched like the rest.

As the moment dragged on, a heavy fist circled her lungs and began to squeeze. She stood very still and tried to breathe.

“Lord Kingsley. Duque.” Lord Shaldon elbowed his way in, pointing his cane at the men. “Come to congratulate my son and my new daughter? How kind, but you are causing a spectacle. Disrupting the dancing.”

His words cloaked a pointed message, just as surely as his cane must be sheathing a sword.

“It shall not stand, Shaldon,” Kingsley said.

“But it shall. They were married before dinner, before all of the family. It is done.”

“It is not done. She is not of age. I did not approve.”

“But Kingsley,” the Duque said, “let them stay married.” He glanced at his wife. “Else the girl will be ruined. No one will want Everly’s cast-off.”

Nothing changed in the Duquesa’s face or demeanor. Her marriage must have dealt her many such dishonorable, undignified insults.

No shame. No dignity. No honor. No wonder the lady had looked for love elsewhere.

“She was brought to me ruined, her and her brat.”

“Kingsley.” Charley’s voice held a warning. He took a step forward.

Graciela grabbed his hand and tugged at him. “No.” Let it be said. Let them begin with no lies. “Kingsley is right. The child is mine.”

Charley gazed at her a long moment and smiled. “And now she is mine also.”

“And a grandchild to me,” Lord Shaldon said.

“And a niece to me,” Mr. Gibson said. “Like Graciela, she is family now and under our protection.”

Kingsley’s face purpled.

The Duque’s lip curled. “Pah. You see how these colonial women are? Cuckolded already, Everly. How does it feel?”

Charley opened his mouth, but Kingsley spoke first. “How dare your father foist a half-black bastard on me?”

“Easy now.” Mr. Gibson said. “There’s a fine gentleman. Easy.”

The Duque laughed and bared yellow teeth. “Such an interesting night. Yes, Kingsley, unless you are looking for pistols at dawn with the Earl’s eldest son, do temper your words. In my time in Veracruz I saw that the lack of civilization drives men to make certain compromises with the natives. In any case to be born on the wrong side of a noble bed is no terrible thing.”

His time in Veracruz?

Kingsley huffed. “That was no noble breeding, I’ll warrant.”

“The Kingsley blood is not noble?” Charley asked.

“Enough.” Lord Shaldon’s cane lifted again, this time directed at his son.

“Yes, enough,” the Duque said. “Well, Shaldon, I take it you and your son have finished with my wife. Have you found the spy you were looking for?”

“London is filled with spies,” Shaldon said languidly.

“Yes.” He peered down his nose at Charley. “Are you going to send this one again into someone else’s bed?”

She gasped, and the silver eyes turned on her. Gunmetal grey, as hard as granite, a Duque. In Tampico, people had whispered of a man with those eyes. A silver-eyed Spaniard known for his cruelty. El Tlahuelpuchi some had called him, a monster who had killed even the women and children after he’d let his men rape them.

Dios. If those stories were true, if it was him…he would be a cruel husband. No wonder his wife dallied with others. “Yes, my dear. Your husband searches for information in bedrooms. He has been looking for a spy, who as it turns out, is dead.” Those yellow teeth grew larger. “How clever you are to hold onto him after he was done with you.”

Her mind was reeling. Charley had pursued her for information? That could not be true.

A cold chill went through her, Papa’s last conversation coming back to her. He could not know of that.

Is it true?

Charley turned her to him, and lifted her chin. “No.” He shook his head. “We will talk at home.” He wrapped an arm about her. “Bink, Father, we are leaving.”

“Oh, not yet.” The Duque moved closer, pushed by the crowd perhaps. His scent wafted into the air, warring with Charley’s. “I am not finished. I have not given my felicitations to your match. So perfect an arrangement—a duplicitous spy, and the daughter of a duplicitous traitor.”

The room darkened, her outward vision blurring. Pictures cascaded, her father whispering instructions. The book he had given her to keep safe. The dagger. The instructions to seek out Lord Shaldon in the event of Papa’s death or other dire need.

Charley was tugging her away, but she dug in her heels. “I would rather hear out this Spaniard. Say what you wish to say about my father.”

“Your father. A traitor to England, and then a traitor to Spain, and who knows who he was betraying when he was killed.”

“My father was not a traitor.” Her fingers grasped the hilt of her hidden blade. Before she could jerk the blade out of its sheath, another hand touched that arm. Mr. Gibson’s hand.

The room swam around her, the lights blurring and hazing. Her father was not a traitor, and why did none of these men who defended her not speak up? Why did they not defend Papa?

He wasn’t a traitor. He had taken up Spanish citizenship for love, to marry her mother, and when the Spanish cruelty became too much, he had joined in the cause of independence.

“A traitor. A pirate. A spy. It was he your Mr. Everly was tracking. A pity your quarry, Captain Kingsley, is dead, Everly.”

Her stomach roiled. Charley had been after her father? He had used her? A vise gripped her throat and black dots scattered her field of vision.

She drew in a deep breath and choked on the dense air.

“Easy breaths, Gracie.” Charley’s arms supported her. “Try again.”

“Move back.” Mr. Gibson’s voice created a space around her.

“Deep and easy breaths, my love.”

My love. The words were like hartshorn, making her gulp in air, bringing her around until finally her vision cleared.

Charley’s gaze burned into her, a mask of concern.

Concern he could easily fake. He was a consummate actor. He had used her to go after her father. He had secured access to her money, permanently.

And yet, and yet…how could she believe this Duque over Charley? Charley had never even hinted an interest in her father’s last quiet words.

She didn’t believe that anyone knew what Papa had said to her, or that they would understand. She certainly didn’t.

But she could bluff. She must learn to be as good an actor as Lord Shaldon and his son.

“You betrayed me,” she whispered, and it was not hard to fake heartbreak.

“No. Never.” He glanced at the two villains, his eyes blazing as she had never seen them do.

“No,” she said, and turned his face toward her. “No duel. I beg you, Charley,” she whispered, and then said more loudly, “Everyone can see how little honor is in these men. And,” she returned to a shaky whisper, “I shall kill you myself when we are home.”