“Get your gloomy self up from my sofa and share my toast.” Penderbrook’s voice pierced the fog in Charley’s head.

When he opened his eyes, his friend waved to him from the table. The aroma of coffee wafted to him, and he sat up. Penderbrook’s small, comfortable drawing room was strewn with papers and books, and carelessly discarded clothing.

Some of the clothing was his. He’d shed his coats, and his shirt bloused over his trousers. “Am I drunk?” he asked.

“Not very. Nor was I. You were no fun last night, Everly. That funk you were in was a bore. I’m sure the lady is out of range of your concern now. Whatever scolding she was to have has already taken place. Come and eat.”

Details of the night before came to him. Miss Kingsley had been dead weight in his arms, a very vital, nubile, soul-stirring dead weight. Her guardian’s red face and bulging veins had left no doubt of her fate. Yet, he’d gone along with Perry elbowing him aside to offer her own assistance while Penderbrook pulled him away.

And from a distance, Carvelle’s glare had followed him. Hostile before, he would now be an avowed enemy.

Damn, damn, damn. As sure as Charley was, at least most of the time, a gentleman, Carvelle was not getting that girl.

He hoisted himself up and took a sip of the coffee set out for him, his fog clearing more.

There was something murky about the whole arrangement of Miss Kingsley’s life and impending marriage. His funk after they left the ball had been the result of the great matter of thinking through the facts.

He was a ponderer, not a good trait for a spy—and he had a few scars to prove it—but it would do for a diplomat. Someday, he would sit in a tropical office, an ocean breeze blowing over him from the veranda doors, a domesticated lizard staring down at him from the whitewashed wall, while he sipped a rum-laced beverage and considered some treaty or other.

Perhaps that was what Captain Kingsley was doing now. Miss Kingsley was right—he might be alive. The report of a rich father’s demise at sea could be easily arranged. In Kingsley’s case another privateer had limped into a port with the news of the Captain’s death on his sinking ship. And almost as soon as Lord Kingsley had learned of it, he’d set that great ball and the engagement in motion.

The girl had reason to be angry.

“No need to dress.” Penderbrook waved a hand over his own attire, a dark dressing gown.

Penderbrook’s all-around manservant—valet, butler, and footman—entered, carrying a covered tray. The scent of meat wafted up and drew his thoughts away from the lady.

“You’re a good man, Pender.”

“And perhaps I’ll need a loan next quarter day.” Penderbrook slid a news sheet over to him and pointed to a column of print. “How quickly they get out this drivel.”

Charley squinted at the paper. It was a scandal sheet, and the breathless text told the story of an unnamed and reluctant heiress fainting dead away at her own betrothal ball. The paper noted that the handsome young man who had caught the swooner was not her intended, but a notorious man about town with whom she had been seen entering the ballroom from the garden.

He cursed and tossed the paper aside.

A plate of food slid toward him. “Eat. You'll think more clearly.”

Charley rose and found his shoes and his coats.

“Off your feed, Everly? This girl has struck a chord within you. Are you perhaps smitten?”

He took a deep breath and finished buttoning his waistcoat. This is the want of a rod. Which I have not spared.

He had a very good memory. “They are beating her into this, Pender.”

Penderbrook dropped his fork. “Surely not?” His eyes narrowed. “Or...” His mouth firmed. “Whatever you are planning, count me in.”

Lloyd, the family’s long-time butler, opened the door of the Shaldon townhouse for Charley and wished him a good morning.

He had hoped to slip in unobtrusively, but it was just as well. “I need to send an express to Lord Shaldon,” he said. “I will be but a few minutes.”

“Certainly, sir. But perhaps—Lady Perpetua has already sent Lord Shaldon and Lord Bakeley urgent messages earlier this morning.”

Squeals, like the shrieks of a cat-fight, raced through the hall. The sound had emanated from one of the chambers at the back of the large Shaldon townhouse. He raised an eyebrow at the butler.

“Lady Perpetua is in the morning room, waiting for you.”

With a cat? Before he could ask, the butler disappeared.

Charley strode down the hallway, nodding at bowing footmen and curtseying maids, more servants than were needed to dust, mop, and shine. The hair on his neck prickled.

None of Shaldon House’s servants were simple domestics, and a great many more of them than usual were up and about early.

Another loud shriek quickened his pace. He pushed through the door.

Perry, her skirts rucked up, her hair bedraggled, her spectacles missing, sat on the floor. And he sensed another presence in the corner, but before he could look, a bundle of dark hair rushed him and latched onto his leg, bursting with cackling laughter.

It was a child, less than knee-height. It turned up its chin and stared up at him, brown eyes shining. A grin split its face, revealing a scattering of tiny white teeth.

It was a very pretty child. With flowing dark curls and short skirts over miniature black boots, it could be either a female or an unbreeched male.

It hugged his leg tighter and settled a cheek on his calf. With that affectionate gesture and that wicked, winsome grin, this must be a female.

“Charley.” Perry pushed to her feet. “Oh, Charley, I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Cha,” the child said. “Cha. Cha. Cha.” She unlatched from his leg and reached her arms up.

A thin, foreign-looking woman, the dark wraith from the corner, moved into his vision, beckoning the child. “Reina.”

Queen. A prickling within sent blood accelerating and pounding into his ears. His mind raced through the facts, the possibilities and the actions needed. No wonder Perry had called for Father and their brother Bakeley.

Charley scooped up the little one. “You are very noisy.”

She chortled, stuffed her fist in her mouth, and began to gnaw.

“I take her, my lord,” the thin woman said.

Thin and older. Perhaps fifty. She must be the child’s nanny, a native servant brought along. And whose child was this? No one had said.

“I am not a lord,” Charley said. “I am a simple mister.”

Drool leaked down the chubby wrist and dampened his sleeve. She smiled, tucked her head down on his shoulder, wriggled her bottom, and sighed.

The nanny’s frown tightened.

“Is Miss Kingsley all right?” he asked.

The woman bit down on her thin lip, and a tremble went through her.

“She is not,” Perry said. “I’ve sent for Father. And I intend to call on Miss Kingsley as soon as is decent. With Sirena gone, I could ask Paulette to accompany me, but I had rather not involve her just yet.”

Their eldest brother Bink’s wife, Paulette, was expecting again.

“Will you come along with me?” Perry asked.

“I’m not sure I should allow you into that house.”

“Try to stop me, brother.”

He glanced down at the little girl. Her eyes had closed. She was fair on to napping. He could hand her off to the anxious nanny, but hanging onto her would cure any reticence toward answering questions. Children were excellent leverage.

“Señora,” he began. He spoke to her in the Castilian Spanish he’d learned in his travels, possibly an accent different from her own, but she would surely understand it better than his English. “What is your name?”

The dark eyes lit. “I am Francisca. My husband is Juan. We have served Graciela all of her life.”

Miss Kingsley’s father had not left her entirely friendless. “And where is your husband?”

“He has gone back. He had to go back. He will linger around the mews to see what he may learn.”

“Did Lord Kingsley send you away?”

She shook her head and her eyes shimmered.

In his experience, many women used tears as a tool. These looked authentic.

With a deep frown, she squeezed them back. “She did. Graciela did. To save the child. She said we must take Reina and come to your father. She said he will help her.” She gritted her teeth, her fingers curling into fists. “The Lord came to beat her himself this time. That man, that big fat devil. When the Captain comes he will kill him. Lord or no, cousin or no, he will kill him, or my Juan will.”

Or I will. Blood churning, Charley’s hand firmed around the child’s bottom, and the little one squirmed. He eased in a breath, softening his hold.

The maid’s fierceness collapsed also, and she swayed on her feet. Deep, large eyes were ringed with shadows. She’d likely been up all night and needed some rest. He’d need to convince her the child would be safe in the hands of the Shaldon servants while she slept. But before that, he needed every bit of knowledge she and her husband could provide of the Kingsley home and Graciela’s location therein.

“Let us all sit,” he said.

The woman reached for the baby, but he freed a hand and held it up.

“Let her be for now. I believe she’s asleep.” He took a seat. “Perry, send someone to fetch Juan.”

Perry slipped out the door, and he led the maid to a chair. “Please sit. And tell me everything. Leave nothing out. I must know every aspect of the lady’s day and where they will be keeping her.”