Alistair Merrywether, the Earl of Colefax, was used to getting his way. Money had a lot to do with it—specifically, he had a fortune and everyone knew it, not to mention a title. But today it was neither his wealth nor his title that got him the answers he sought.

It was a simple glare.

To be fair, his sister, Lizzie, had long ago informed him he could freeze hell with that glare, but he had thought it would take a bit more to get the manager of the gaming hell to give him a name. It had not. The elderly gentleman merely sized him up, a flare of recognition on his wrinkled visage, and spat out the name of the young upstart who’d dared to place a wager on his honor.

It was Rodrick Bloomfield, Earl of Braxton. Who the bloody hell was this Braxton fellow and why would he do something so ridiculously daft as to place a bet that he was the father of that harlot actress’s bastard child? He’d never even met the woman.

Why was a question for another day. All that mattered was he put an end to these ludicrous allegations once and for all. He’d never cared much what people thought of him, but this, the thought he would not only be so stupid as to impregnate a mistress, but that he would then leave her penniless to take care of it on her own? His blood pounded in his veins at the mere thought. He might not care what others believed, but he would not have his honor slighted. It was all he truly had in this world.

The Earl of Braxton was easily found. It was nigh on noon and the short, slight gentleman was soused at the gaming tables, playing a hand of cards with two other men who also still wore last night’s evening attire. He stopped beside them, glowering down at the dandy with his prematurely thinning hair and his red, puffy nose. This was the man who thought to impugn his honor?

Finding himself opposite a foe such as this was more of a blow to his pride than the wager itself. It took an absurd amount of time for the three gentlemen to notice his arrival, and Rodrick Braxton was the last to look up at him. When he did, it was with a sleepy blink and nary a glimmer of recognition. “Hullo,” he murmured pleasantly. “Care to join us for a round?”

Alistair continued to glower down at the upstart even as his mind raced to make sense of this. Surely this was not the gentleman who’d placed the bet that he was the bastard’s father. He did not even seem to know who he was. And even if he had…look at him. “A word, if you please,” Alistair said with a growl.

The other two men had the good sense to stir at the anger in his tone, but Braxton gave him another cow-eyed gaze before blinking slowly. “Aaaight,” he said with a slur, making the word nearly impossible to understand.

In the time it took the blonde-haired fool to come to a stand, the other two had fled in a flurry of scraping chairs and muttered excuses. When the short, skinny man gave him an unequivocally benign look while standing face-to-face, Alistair found it nearly impossible to vent his fury. It would have been like shouting at a kitten. The man looked meek, at best, and more than a little like a halfwit.

“Lord Rodrick Bloomfield, the Earl of Braxton, is it?” he asked, his voice still gruff, but losing steam quickly.

The other man nodded. “Tha’s right.” His expression was pleasantly expectant, like a child awaiting a present—or a dullard awaiting an introduction.

Alistair cleared his throat. “Do you know who I am, Lord Braxton?”

The gentleman, whom Alistair knew to be an earl, gave him another blink and then a small smile. “No, sir. Should I?”

Alistair drew in a deep breath, ready to roar. I am the man whose name you tarnished with false accusations. That was what he meant to say, what he ought to say, but once again, his anger faltered in the face of Rodrick Braxton’s sweet simplicity. So instead, all Alistair said was, “I am the Earl of Colefax.”

There was no reaction. Nothing…not even a cow-eyed blink materialized, not at first, at least. The blonde man eventually drew his brows together quizzically and Alistair was certain he could see the gears turning in his skull. Slowly. Good Lord, but they were turning slowly. Then Braxton’s eyes widened as horror replaced his earlier tranquility. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Alistair resumed his glare and felt a smidgen of guilt when the small fellow turned a ghastly shade of green. Alistair took a small step back in case Rodrick became ill.

“I, er…that is…I do not, uh…” Rodrick’s words faded off with a noise that sounded like he was being strangled.

“Now do you know who I am?” Alistair asked quietly and coldly, and with enough venom that the other man shuffled backward until the backs of his knees bumped into the table and rattled it. Rodrick nodded quickly, swallowing visibly.

“Would you care to tell me why you started a bet over me and my…romantic pursuits?” Or lack thereof, rather. He’d never so much as caught sight of the actress he was supposed to have gotten with child. It was a fact he’d made clear to everyone who mattered. Namely, the chit in question who’d affirmed he was the unfeeling father. A word and a small payment were enough to secure her word that she would change her tune. Though whether or not it was too late to fix his reputation remained to be seen.

Rodrick’s mouth flapped open and closed, but he did not answer.

While the actress had been eager to accept his money, she had kept mum when he’d asked why she’d chosen him, of all people, on whom to place the blame. Particularly since she hadn’t come to him with hopes of money. She’d given him a coy smile and a small shrug. “The real father wasn’t about to give me money.”

He had arched his brows. “And you thought I would?”

She had given the stack of banknotes in her hand a meaningful look and he’d let out a humorless huff. “If this was a true case of extortion, you went about it all wrong.”

She had laughed as if that were truly an amusing joke. “No, love, this wasn’t extortion.” She’d waved the money in his face. “This is simply my bonus.”

“Bonus?” he’d repeated stupidly. She’d given him a wink before closing the door.

He’d discovered the bet of his own accord, and had reasoned whoever was behind this wager was the one who had the answers he sought. But here was the man in question, and he couldn’t utter a coherent sentence to save his life. Alistair glowered. “Give me a name.”

The Earl of Braxton shook his head quickly. “There’s been a mistake, I’m afraid. We did not think—that is, I did not believe—”

“We?” Alistair repeated, taking a step closer, risking his shoes to get a straight answer from this man.

Rodrick spoke as if confused and frightened. “Er…pardon?”

Alistair frowned. The man was playing dumb, which was redundant. He had no time for this. “You said we did not think. Who is we?”

The man blinked a few times and Alistair, for a moment, wondered if the man might cry. “I didn’t say that,” he said.

Alistair merely cocked his head to the side and arched a brow.

“Henri thought,” Rodrick said. “That is, I—I meant to say, I thought that perhaps…” He trailed off as he ran a hand over his neck, tugging at his cravat.

“Henry.” Alistair latched onto the name. “Who is this Henry?”

The poor fool blinked rapidly, his gaze flitting every which way as he sought a lie. Alistair’s mind raced as well. He mentally catalogued every Henry he’d ever met, sifting through them in the hopes one might come to mind who would wish him ill. When one had as many enemies as he, it was often difficult to know where to begin when seeking them out. The name Henry, at least, was a start, but it was not much of one. He’d come up empty. The only Henry he could imagine wishing him ill was the notorious spy, Henry Longfellow, but he’d been caught and was currently lost in the bowels of Newgate prison.

One of Braxton’s friends returned, smiling and flushed, and apparently having forgotten he’d been scared off by Alistair in the first place. “Oy, Roddy, are you going to join us or what? If you’re going to cry off—”

“No, no,” Rodrick said with a shake of his head. His relief at being interrupted could not have been more apparent. He backed away from Alistair instantly. “Sorry, my lord, it seems I’m needed. If you’ll just excuse—”

Alistair stopped his movements with a heavy hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, pinching the flesh near his neck hard enough to make him squeak. Alistair turned to the friend. “Your friend here was just going to take me to meet Henry.”

Rodrick squeaked again, but this time his face paled and his eyes flashed with horror. So, he was frightened of this Henry. Poor fool. Alistair almost felt pity at forcing his hand.

Almost.

The friend remained blithely unaware of the tension between the two men as he looked from Alistair to Rodrick. “You’re going home already, Roddy?”

“Er…” Rodrick said.

Alistair arched a brow as he met the other man’s gaze. “Home?” This Henry fellow was at Braxton’s home?

The pieces clicked into place. Of course. Rodrick Braxton was someone’s pawn. Was it a manipulative friend, perhaps, or maybe an uncle or brother? It was with relief when he realized his opponent was not this halfwit. “Yes,” he said for the friend’s benefit. “Roddy here is taking me home to meet Henry.”

Rodrick gurgled something incoherent, but it was Alistair who jerked in surprise when Braxton’s drunken friend came over and slapped a meaty hand on his shoulder in a gesture that was unwelcome and overly friendly. “Going home to meet Henri, eh?” The man’s breath reeked of whiskey when he leaned in. “You lucky bastard.”

Lady Henrietta Bloomfield loved her brother dearly, but that did not mean she was ignorant of his faults, and of those, there were many.

“Malleable,” her young houseguest repeated slowly, as if testing out the word. Mary Beaucraft had been living with Henrietta for six months now, so one would think she’d have grown used to Henrietta’s blunt manner of speaking. Mary frowned.

Henrietta nodded. “Indeed, Rodrick has many fine qualities, but my point was his malleability would be a most charming trait in a husband, do you not agree?”

Mary’s brows drew together in puzzlement, not an uncommon expression when she was conversing with Henrietta. While the two ladies got along splendidly, their personalities could not have been more different. While Mary loved to discuss a good scandal, Henrietta lived to scheme. Henrietta plotted while Mary gossiped. It was an odd sort of friendship she’d formed with her dearest friend Eliza’s younger sister, but it was symbiotic.

Mary had come to stay with her this past winter when Eliza and her new husband faced some threats from their father. She’d stayed while Eliza and Jed toured Europe on their grand wedding trip. Their father had been rendered harmless—he’d no longer force unwanted marriages on either of his daughters, but all thought it best if Mary stayed with Henrietta to avoid the unpleasantness at home.

Henrietta had taken the girl in out of charity, but it had worked out quite well for all involved. Not only was Mary a lovely companion, but her penchant for gossip helped Henrietta considerably with her most lucrative pastime—gambling on the antics of the titled and wealthy. Not exactly a seemly hobby for a genteel lady, but it was how she and her brother afforded their fine townhouse in Mayfair, and how they maintained their estate in Kent.

Mary’s pert nose wrinkled up slightly and Henrietta would wager she was imagining a life with Rodrick as her husband. “I suppose malleability is a trait to consider in a husband,” she said, but she hardly sounded convinced.

Henrietta could not blame her. For while her brother was kind, and gentle, and thoughtful in his own sweet way, he was hardly a match for a romantic like Mary. Oh, her young friend might not believe she was a romantic, but Henrietta knew better. It was an odd skill, that. Knowing others so well, often better than they knew themselves.

Most people were surprisingly easy to understand. Their motives were clear, and their desires most evident. It was not everyone, certainly. There were some who were more complicated than others; some who hid behind walls so thick it kept their inner thoughts and emotions well hidden, like dear Eliza. They added an element of mystery to a world that was entirely too predictable.

Mary was not in this latter category. She was beautifully simple, adorably so. While she was a clever girl, and undoubtedly pretty, she had yet to become self-aware in some critical ways. Henrietta figured it was up to her to help her young charge see herself clearly before the next season began in earnest, which would be when Mary launched her latest crusade to win a husband.

Henrietta sipped her tea as Mary stewed over Henrietta’s suggestion. Finally, Mary lifted her head to meet her gaze, her dark eyes surprisingly alert as she narrowed them over her teacup. “Henri, you are not seriously proposing that I consider your brother as a potential husband.”

Henrietta pursed her lips to hide a smile. Her young friend was a quick study, perhaps sharper than she gave her credit for being. Mary sat back in her seat with a decisive air. “You are not in earnest.”

Henrietta arched a brow. "Why wouldn't I be? I would love to have you as a sister-in-law and Rodrick would be lucky to have you for a wife."

"It's not that, it's the way you speak of him." She shook her head and produced a tsk sound. "Malleable? Really, Henri, is that really the best trait you could think of to describe your brother?"

Henrietta feigned surprise. "Not at all. I could also say he was kind, and tidy, and a great lover of food. But in my opinion, his malleability is his most pleasing attribute." It certainly had proven to be useful in their domestic harmony as brother and sister. She sipped her tea. "I assumed one would find it delightful in a husband as well."

Mary let out a huff of exasperation. “Really, Henri, the way you talk. One of these days someone might think you were serious.”

Henrietta pressed her lips together to keep from saying something even more cynical. She loved to shock her young friend, but she did not want to alienate her entirely. The poor girl might run in fear if Henrietta told her how she really felt about the whole marriage business. Namely, that it was for fools and halfwits. Oh, but not for the men. There was no doubt men stood to benefit from the arrangement. A man acquired a woman to run his home, bear his children, and make life bearable overall. And what did a woman get? Safety, presumably, as long as the man in question was not cruel. And then a woman could gain financial security, one would hope.

That was all fine and good if one wished to live on hopes and good wishes, but there were other ways of acquiring financial security and Henrietta had long ago decided that she would rather be in control of her own destiny, thank you very much.

Mary tilted her head to the side as if considering the option of Rodrick as a husband from every conceivable angle. “He is rather biddable, is he not?” she said, her voice a murmur.

Henrietta sipped her tea once more. Biddable was putting it mildly, as even malleable was an understatement. But to elaborate on the point would be to speak ill of her brother, and she truly did love Rodrick, faults and all. In many ways, Rodrick was a wonderful brother. He was effusive, loyal, and had a heart pure as gold.

None of which could be said for her. Henrietta was certain there were a good number of ways in which Rodrick was her superior. In sport, for example, and in hunting. However, his superiority did not extend to intellect, or common sense—or height.

She even had the advantage of age, but none of that made a bit of difference when their parents died. It had mattered not that she had all the brains in the family, along with the mental and emotional fortitude to carry them through that time. It was he who inherited the title, and he who took over the indebted mess that was their family’s fortune.

However, it was not Rodrick’s fault they lived in a society in which he was made the heir and her protector after their parents’ death, based solely on the fact that he was a man. Indeed, were it up to Rodrick—and it was—he’d have her take the reins in every facet of their lives. And with his blessing, she had.

Mary let out a weary sigh that pulled Henri back to the present. Her lips pressed together in grim resignation as she shook her head. “I am afraid it would not work,” Mary said sadly. “Convenient as a biddable man might be, I do believe I’d need more from a husband.”

Henrietta’s brows knitted, but she did not comment. Of course Mary needed more from a husband. The self-proclaimed social climber might say she wanted nothing more than a title, a fortune, and a father for her hypothetical children, but Henrietta was well aware that there was one requirement Mary was deluding herself into thinking was unnecessary.

Love.

Henrietta did not believe in such nonsense, but much as Mary claimed not to need it nor even want it—Henrietta saw through the self-delusions to the hurt girl beneath. Yes, Mary wanted love, but she did not believe she would find it.

Henrietta sighed as she set her teacup down. She supposed it was up to her to help the girl. At least it would give her something to focus on this season other than scandalous gossip and her brother’s latest drunken foible.

As if on cue, her brother stumbled into the drawing room, out of breath and with eyes wide and anxious. As usual, his panic made her own composure harden. It had always been this way. He was quick to react, with emotions and little intelligence, and it fell on her to be the stable one.

“Come, have a seat, Rodrick,” she said. “And tell us what is wrong.”

He made it as far as the sideboard before stopping to pour himself a drink, which he sloshed on the floor in his haste to down it. “He knows.”

That was the excessively dramatic proclamation that came out of his mouth once he’d swallowed his whiskey. Henrietta stared at him before meeting Mary’s curious gaze. She turned back to Rodrick. “He who, darling? And what, exactly, does he know?”

“The Earl of Colefax,” he said, his eyes wild and flitting about like a spooked pony’s. “You know, Alistair Merrywether.”

She recognized the name despite her brother’s drunken spurt of words, of course, and what he knew was instantly obvious to her. “Ah,” she said.

Rodrick’s eyes widened further. “Ah, you say? What shall we do?”

She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. Rodrick always overreacted. It was best to remain calm for his sake, if for nothing else. However, even with the knowledge the earl knew Rodrick was behind the wager they’d placed on his bastard child, she saw no reason to do anything other than remain unaffected. It was not quite enough to make her worry. She could not work up a proper anxiety over the matter. “I suppose he was displeased?” she asked, her tone politely inquisitive as she avoided Mary’s curious stare.

It was best for Mary if she were left out of the more nefarious goings-on within the household. The girl was an heiress, and she might not understand what Henri needed to do when it came to acquiring money.

“Displeased?” Rodrick shook his head. “He’s here!”

Henri blinked as a shot of alarm made her shift in her seat. “Here?” She looked toward the door.

“He’s on his way,” Rodrick said with a hiss, his panic reaching a drastic, fevered pitch. She wondered if perhaps alcohol had the opposite effect on him than it did on most, because she’d heard it could be used to calm anxiety, not enhance it.

“Relax, dear,” she said in as gentle a voice as she could manage. Really, at a time like this, did she have to play nursemaid as well as handle a no-doubt irate earl?

Rodrick came toward her and fell to his knees. “He knows it’s you,” he said, his drunken tongue stumbling on his words. It seemed he’d just then realized Mary was in the room with him and perhaps he thought it would be less odd if he knelt at her feet and whispered, rather than continue to shout at her from across the room.

Cocking her head to the side, she considered Rodrick and what he’d told her. She could have asked, “How does he know?” but she did not. The answer was obvious. Her brother was loyal, yes, but he was a disgraceful ninny under any form of pressure. She sighed as quietly as possible to hide her disappointment. His ensuing guilt would do no one any good.

“I didn’t mean to,” he started to say.

They were interrupted by their butler’s arrival in the doorway. “Lord Colefax is here to see Lord Braxton.”

Rodrick stared up at her with wide, fearful eyes and she forced a smile. Heavens, but he was prompt. She turned her smile to the butler. “Send him in.”

In the few moments it took for him to be led into the drawing room, she had prepared herself to meet him. It was quickly apparent, however, he had not prepared to meet her. Tall and forbidding, he towered over them all from where he hovered in the doorway. His glower faltered and fell as he took in the sight of her and Mary.

Surprise crossed his rugged, handsome features before he got hold of himself. “I beg your pardon,” he said quickly. “I came to see Lord Braxton and his, er…”

She arched one brow, enjoying his discomfort immensely.

“His…Henry,” he said with hesitation in his voice.

Mary, God bless her, snickered into her hand. Her irrepressible sense of humor was one of many reasons why Henrietta enjoyed having her around. Now, that hint of laughter warmed her and eased some of the tension in the room. Though, she imagined, it only heightened this pompous man’s embarrassment.

It was for the best, really. At first glance, it was clear he was a proud man, almost too proud. She’d seen him before, about town, at parties, and though they had been introduced, that had long been the extent of their acquaintance.

While titled, she and her brother hardly moved in the same circles as this boor of a man with his vast fortunes. To be more precise, she and her brother moved in circles, while Lord Colefax did not.

She and her brother were creatures of society, but Colefax was known to be a stuffed-shirt prig. The general consensus of the ton and her interactions with him had done little to alter that common opinion. He had a way of peering down his nose that made her want to stick her tongue out at him.

Immature, to be sure, but it would be satisfying. Though not nearly as satisfying as this. Finding him in her home, lingering uncomfortably in her doorway, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Though both Rodrick and this man were earls and thus equals in a social setting, the vast wealth of the Earl of Colefax put him head and shoulders above the Braxton household, and everyone knew it.

“Please, do come in,” she said, gesturing toward the settee across from her, which was empty. Mary shifted on the chair beside hers as though preparing to be entertained by a theater performance.

Rodrick…well, Rodrick seemed to be entranced by some document or another lying on the desk in the corner. If she guessed correctly, it was a bit of correspondence from their cousin in Brighton. She knew it was hardly entertaining, and certainly not important enough to ignore the earl in their midst.

“How may we help you, my lord?” she asked politely, after introducing him to Mary.

He sat down and fidgeted on the settee, his gaze moving over each of them, alert and all-seeing. “Again, my apologies. I was under the impression…that is…” He glanced over at the otherwise occupied Rodrick. “Braxton mentioned a Henry at home.” He gave her a smile she assumed was intended to be charming. She found it patronizing. “Is there a Henry about?” he asked, his tone light and inquisitive. He had not forgotten his manners, apparently.

Oh yes, she could see why so many of the unmarried ladies of the ton had set their caps for this one. He was the epitome of the perfect gentleman. Boring, simple, and incapable of seeing what was right in front of his face. “I am afraid Miss Beaucraft, my brother, and I are the only ones at home,” she said politely.

“I see,” he said. While he said the words pleasantly enough, his gaze was fixed on her brother, and it was far from pleasant. There in his eyes appeared a murderous gleam which caught her interest and thoroughly excited her.

Oh, not that she wanted to see Rodrick attacked. She was not much for violence at all, let alone toward her beloved brother. No, it was the discovery that he possessed such an intensity of emotion which had her heart pounding as excitement stirred in her belly. Who knew the great, cold, unflappable earl had such a passion inside him?

But for the better, more pertinent question…why? Certainly it could not have been pleasant for such an upstanding gentleman to find his name linked with an actress and an illegitimate child, but she would have bet—indeed, she had bet—he would never sink so low as to address the rumors. His reputation would not have suffered unduly were he to merely ignore it, or better yet, never learn about the gossip in the first place.

She found herself frowning. How had he learned of the gossip? The type of gambling she partook in via Rodrick was the type stodgy prigs like him never went near. It was the stuff of drunken humor and ridiculous gossip. His gaze shot to her quickly and she forced her smile back in return.

“So no Henry lives here,” he said again, frustration evident in his tone.

She blinked in a distinctly dim manner befitting his patronizing tone. “My father’s name is Henry.”

He straightened, his nostrils flaring and his eyes flashing in a manner that had her belly tightening with an entirely different sort of excitement. “Indeed. And where is your father now?”

“He passed away three years ago, I am afraid.”

The earl’s jaw clenched with irritation and it took every ounce of her willpower not to laugh aloud. The sound that escaped Mary’s lips could have been excused as a sniffle, but Henrietta knew it to be a snort of smothered laughter. Their lovely guest might not know the details of their wagers and their manipulations, but she knew enough. She certainly knew who Henri was in this household.

The earl flicked a glance at Rodrick, then Mary, and when it returned to her his eyes held a glow of suspicion that made her breath catch. It wasn’t a fear of being caught, necessarily, but mere anticipation, or perhaps excitement. She met his gaze evenly. She was definitely intrigued. That intrigue grew by leaps and bounds when he leaned toward her, a spark of intellect in his gaze. “And you, Lady Henrietta? Were you named after your father?”

Henri grinned at the subtle way he stressed the first half of her name. “I was, yes.” She watched the emotions in his eyes. He suspected it, but couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. He’d rather go on thinking poor Rodrick was the mastermind behind this little plan than believe a well-dressed lady such as herself could be the culprit. Lord, but men were so reliably predictable.

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. “I do not suppose you had anything to do with a certain bet?”

Mary gasped at the accusation, but Henrietta smiled. Miracle of miracles, Alistair Merrywether, the Earl of Colefax, had done the unthinkable. He’d surprised her. Her smile grew as she met his wickedly alert gaze.

How very intriguing.